The Blue Executions Page 3

  There was a full length mirror affixed to the wall next to where the precinct pin maps and wanted posters were displayed. Galvin thumbed through the wanted posters, then he stared at his image in the mirror—it had been a long time since he had been in uniform.

  He studied his thick, black hair which his hat had flattened—something that could be rectified with a quick sweep of his fingers through his hair, he decided. He liked the way his six-foot, one-hundred eighty-five pound frame looked in uniform—in that aspect, he was unlike most other cops. Most cops couldn’t wait to get into a detail that would allow them to wear plainclothes. Galvin, however, never minded being in uniform—he took pride in wearing it. As his light brown eyes stared back at him, he debated whether or not to grow his goatee back or to stay clean shaven.

  “Jesus Christ! Don’t tell me you’re staring at your damn medals again, Tommy.”

  A smile came across Galvin’s face as he recognized the voice of George Lambert. Galvin turned to greet his friend and former Anti-Crime partner. Lambert, who was five years Galvin’s elder, would never pass on an opportunity to tease his friend. Lambert mimicked Galvin by running a hand through his own thinning, blond hair and stroking his mustache while starring into the mirror.

  Knowing that he’d been caught, “Screw you, Georgie,” said Galvin, smiling a bit. “How’s it going?”

  “My interview finally came down. It’s going to be on Friday afternoon at headquarters. Who knows, if I pass, they might even team us up together again? I couldn’t think of a better detective to break me in.”

  “Don’t sweat it, George. I know you’ll pass with flying colors.”

  Admittedly, the idea of working with George Lambert again was one that Galvin liked. He was a great street cop with sharp instincts. It would certainly be a welcome relief from some of the people who he worked with currently. It seemed to Galvin, that most of the guys in his unit didn’t like going out in the streets and making jump collars. The street arrests were the part of the job that Galvin enjoyed most, but he hadn’t been making nearly as many as he used to since his transfer to the Precinct Detective Unit. He was assigned to a unit within the detective squad that focused more on robbery and burglary investigations than street arrests.

  Often, Galvin protested that there was more than enough time to go out and play cop in addition to keeping up with his caseload, but his arguments usually fell on deaf ears. Most of the detectives whom Galvin had worked with were not interested in making street arrests—they were only interested in investigating their cases. Truthfully, Galvin knew that the job was becoming more about covering your ass than it was about getting the bad guy. Every single case had a laundry list of forms and notifications that had to be made. The job was taking detective work out of being a detective; now you followed a checklist instead of following your instincts. Most of the guys were buried in case work, but if they wanted to go out badly enough, they could find the time to do so, Galvin felt.

  Galvin had been through three partners during his two years in the unit. One of them, Galvin had enjoyed working with—together they’d taken many guns off of the street. Unfortunately for Galvin, he’d long since been promoted to sergeant. The last two partners Galvin had, including the present one, didn’t seem as street smart as the first one had been. His present partner had only five years on the job and had been promoted to the detective squad only because his father, a captain, had made a phone call. Galvin knew that the job often worked this way, but it seemed so unfair to people like himself. Galvin had worked very hard and made many noteworthy collars; he earned his spot in the detective bureau. Paul Middlebrook was a nice enough guy Galvin was willing to concede, but he still resented the way Middlebrook had gotten into the detective bureau. If George Lambert gets there as well, no one would be able to question how or why. He will have earned it.

  “I’m going to tell Lieutenant Thompson that you’re going for your interview,” Galvin continued. “I know he’ll want you up the 113 squad, and he knows that you deserve it. Maybe he’ll put in a good word for you.”

  “Thanks pal,” Lambert said with a grin as he offered his hand. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  Galvin accepted his hand, giving it a firm shake.

  “For you George…anything.”

  “What are you doing in uniform tonight anyway?” Galvin was curious since the Anti-Crime team always worked in soft clothes.

  “Most of the four to twelve guys switched tours to go to the funeral. I couldn’t go because I had to stay home with the kids; so I volunteered to backfill patrol. This way as many guys could go to the funeral as possible,” Lambert explained.

  “Well you look damn good in uniform, Georgie!” looking down at Lambert’s midsection.

  “Screw you Tommy,” Lambert remarked through a smile. He pulled his gun belt above his belly, which could stand to lose twenty or so pounds. “Wait until you get married and have kids. Then come see if your uniform doesn’t shrink a size or two when it hides in your locker for months at a time.”

  The two men shared a laugh and parted company, heading in different directions when Lambert called back to Galvin.

  “Hey, Tommy, what time are you gonna be riding around with McGregor tonight?”

  A feeling of trepidation came over Galvin. “Oh, shit, I’d forgotten all about that.”

  He rolled his eyes, shaking his head—he couldn’t figure out why his boss had selected him to serve as a tour guide for such an anti-cop reporter. “I think Lieutenant Thompson told me he’d be here and ready to go by about 6:00.” Galvin looked at his friend and shrugged his shoulders. “It should be lots of fun.”

  Lambert clearly sensed the sarcasm. Shaking his head at Galvin, “Why does this reporter want to go on a ride-along, anyway?”

  Galvin became annoyed just thinking about the night ahead. He wouldn’t have been crazy about the idea at any time, but having just returned from the funeral, he was not in the mood to have some nosy reporter ask him stupid questions and critique his every move. He had to be patient and polite regardless of how he felt, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t be a good idea to piss off anyone whose words are read by millions on a daily basis.

  “The way Thompson explained it to me, this guy is doing a story about the police department’s interaction with the community in minority neighborhoods. They selected me because I have such a high arrest rate, yet I only have four unsubstantiated civilian complaints. I guess they’re hoping that I make them look good. Maybe make a street collar, or at least some favorable interaction with the community.”

  “You just be careful. Don’t be so concerned about making anybody look good,” lectured Lambert. “Remember, that guy is not your friend. He’s written more anti-cop articles than I care to remember. If I were you, I would go out there and drive around without doing a goddamn thing. At least then you know that you won’t get jammed up.”

  Lambert appeared agitated at the situation his friend was being put in. He reached into an open button on his shirt hidden behind his tie, to remove a pack of cigarettes which he kept in the pocket of his bullet proof vest. He banged the cigarettes on the Sergeant’s podium in the front of the muster room, packing the tobacco to one side before continuing. “I’m serious. Fuck Thompson and fuck the C.O. if they’re the ones who are making you go out with McGregor.” Lambert lit his cigarette and took a deep draw.

  Galvin shook his head. “The Commanding Officer had nothing to do with this and Thompson asked me…he didn’t order me. Don’t worry, George. I don’t plan on getting myself involved in anything tonight,” explained Galvin.

  He knew, of course, that he was lying to his friend. If he did see anything tonight, he wouldn’t just look the other way because of some idiot reporter. He had a job to do and would take appropriate police action whenever he felt that it was necessary. Besides, he assured himself, he always does things properly. He didn’t have anything to hide in terms of the way he did his police work, and he’d happily prove th
at to anyone who doubted him.

  Galvin left the muster room and sought out Eddie Dwyer. He spotted Dwyer standing with another officer whom he didn’t recognize. Dwyer stood leaning against the yellow tiled wall with his knee bent, foot against the wall. The other officer had a baby face and his uniform was immaculate…Galvin immediately pegged him as a rookie. The two of them were talking in the long hallway leading to the rear parking lot. The day tour sector which had the car that they were assigned to was on a late job.

  “Eddie, I’m sorry. I just remembered there’s something that I have to do tonight, so I can’t help you with the write-up. I’ll be working four-to-ones for the rest of the week though, if you want to do it another night.”

  Galvin could see out of the corner of his eye—the rookie was straining his eyes to tally up Galvin’s medals. “No problem, Tommy. I’ll try to stop by tomorrow night during my meal hour. Thanks again.”

  “No problem. See you, then, Eddie.”

  As Galvin walked away, he could barely hear the conversation between the two officers. “Wow, so that was the rack!” the rookie exclaimed.

  “That was the rack,” confirmed Dwyer as he nodded, awed.

  Galvin had to suppress a smile as he ascended the stairs, heading for the precinct detective squad where he would sign in, beginning tonight’s tour of duty. No sooner had Galvin scratched his name in the sign-in log then did Lieutenant Thompson call him into his office. Thompson was the type of man that Galvin truly admired—he was a no-nonsense type of boss who really appreciated the detectives that worked for him. He’d taken a liking to Galvin almost immediately after his transfer to the Detective Bureau. Galvin had effected more arrests in his two years in the unit than most of the other detectives in the past five. Thompson, who had been in the department for over twenty-five years, could tell when a cop had the knack for making quality arrests that set him apart from the rest of the department. He knew that Galvin was one such officer.

  Thompson was standing, gazing out of the window of his office onto Baisley Boulevard when Galvin entered. He was a stout, dark-skinned man who fell just shy of six feet tall. His black hair and mustache was peppered with streaks of gray, but it didn’t make him look old or weary—it made him look distinguished. Thompson was an impeccable dresser. He was wearing a gray suit with a maroon shirt and pale yellow tie. The suit jacket was hung up on a coat hook in the corner of the office. Stopping at the entrance of the open door, Galvin knocked.

  “Lieu, I heard you wanted to see me?”

  Thompson turned his attention to Galvin, inviting him inside the office.

  “Pull up a chair, Tommy.”

  Thompson sat down at his desk, pushing aside the various reports and case folders that were awaiting his signature. He took a sip of coffee and set his glasses down on top of the papers in his in-basket. Galvin sat down in the blue fabric chair in front of Thompson’s desk without saying a word. The two men sat in silence as Galvin tried to figure out why he’d been called into his boss’ office.

  Galvin looked at the pictures hanging on the wall behind Thompson. They were of Thompson with three different Police Commissioners at three promotion ceremonies. Just to the right of the pictures, was his degree in Criminal Justice from John Jay College and assorted police department certificates. Galvin strained his eyes to see that Thompson had been promoted to detective in 1994, while Bratton was the P.C. in his first term of office nearly two decades ago.

  Thompson seemed to choose his words carefully. “Tommy, I want you to be careful with that reporter tonight. If you take any police action, just make sure you do it one hundred percent by the book. To be perfectly honest with you, I wasn’t too thrilled when the Chief called to tell me that he’d authorized a reporter to do a ride-along with men in my squad. As you can imagine, I was even more concerned when I learned that the reporter would be Brian McGregor. You know his reputation, Tommy.”

  Thompson paused, looking his detective square in the eyes.

  “I guess what I’m trying to tell you, is to be careful. Don’t be a cowboy…not tonight. Understand?”

  He continued without waiting for a response. “I want you to know the reason that I selected you to ride around with him is because I have the utmost confidence and respect for you. I know that you’ll represent my detective squad in a professional manner.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Lieu. I won’t disappoint you,” was the only thing that Galvin could think to say in response.

  After being dismissed from Thompson’s office, Galvin walked over to the black file cabinet, dinged and dented from years of abuse, and yanked it open. He sorted through his case files, removed a few and took them to his desk. I might as well catch up on some case work while I wait.

  Galvin sat at his desk; the closest one to the detective squad holding cells and noticed the prisoner who had been sick downstairs only a short time ago, was now in their cells. Turns out the man was wanted by one of the detectives for a domestic assault. He stunk of vomit and urine. Galvin couldn’t wait for the reporter to arrive so he could get out of the precinct and away from the offensive odor. He wondered why everyone was so upset over the ride a long; after all, it would probably be an uneventful night anyway.

  *

  The apartment was spotless. All of the walls, as well as the ceiling, were painted a bright white. He liked white walls; they made everything appear so crisp and clean. There was not one picture or mirror anywhere on the walls. After drawing open the vertical blinds, inviting in the late afternoon sun, the man closed the door behind him and removed his trench coat. He walked over to the closet, opened the sliding door and carefully placed the jacket on a hanger. Once he closed the closet, something drew his attention to his chocolate colored leather sectional. Something’s not right. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was a pillow out of place? Then he remembered. He had thrown one of the pillows away this morning. It was a different color than the other two. It didn’t belong.

  He cautiously removed the revolver from his waistband, opened the cylinder, and dumped the .38 caliber bullets into his right hand. After pocketing the rounds, he placed the gun on the oak dining room table, making sure to place it on one of the pale green place mats. He pulled out a matching chair and sat down. He studied the front page of today’s newspaper. A photo on the cover depicted three detectives walking out of a precinct with John Casey’s murderer in handcuffs. If the police could make an arrest in a cop’s murder so quickly, why were there so many unsolved murders every year?

  He decided it was because most of the people who murder police officers are just common street thugs, low-level drug dealers, or stick-up men backed into a corner. If an intelligent man were to commit a murder, he would never be caught, the man thought confidently.

  He opened the scrapbook and diary which he’d left on his dining room table earlier that day. He put the articles which he’d clipped from the newspaper on the next open page of the scrapbook. Next, he looked at the diary which was opened to today’s date. After a moment’s contemplation, he made his entry.

  March 22, 2013---1624 hours and 18 seconds

  Paid my respects to Officer John Casey. He was a hero. He did not deserve to die.

  Ceremony concluded at 1213 hours and 14 seconds

  He drew a single line underneath the entry, making sure to leave enough room for later this evening. The man stood up picking up his revolver as he did and walking into his bedroom where he opened the dresser drawer. Dust, he hated dust. It made the entire bedroom seem so filthy. He would have to get the furniture polish and dust each and every piece of the mahogany bedroom furniture; the dresser, the night tables, even the heard board. At least the walls were crisp and clean.

  He took a box of ammunition from the drawer. Removing five new .38 caliber bullets from the box, he studied them. They might have looked like any other bullets, he thought as he loaded them into the gun’s cylinder—but, of course, they weren’t. These were special bullets. They were
Teflon-coated and therefore able to pierce Kevlar; the material bullet proof vests were made of.

  On the streets, they were known as “cop killers.”

  ############################

  Chapter 3

  The first couple of hours on patrol had gone exactly as Galvin had expected. It was a quiet night on the streets of South Jamaica and Galvin sincerely hoped it would stay that way. He was driving the unmarked department auto, since his partner was new to the precinct and didn’t know his way around the area just yet. Galvin looked up at the rear view mirror seeing Brian McGregor, who was in the back seat. He couldn’t have been too comfortable. The Impalas didn’t allow for a great deal of leg room in the back and Galvin estimated the man to be at least six feet tall. Looking at the man, Galvin believed they were roughly the same age; give or take a few years. The reporter had a pad and pen at the ready, likely in case anything of interest were to happen. Galvin observed McGregor tug the bulletproof vest that the Lieutenant had lent him.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. McGregor, you’ll get used to it by the end of the night,” Galvin reassured the reporter.

  “I sure hope so. It’s really uncomfortable…and please, call me Brian.”

  Up to this point, most of the evening had been spent in almost total silence. Neither Galvin nor his partner wanted to say anything inappropriate in front of the reporter.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick with Mr. McGregor,” said Galvin curtly.