The Blue Executions (2 page)

Galvin couldn’t help but
to think about how happy they’d been the last time that he had seen them—he wanted to hold that image in his mind forever. The image was quickly shattered however, the moment he saw Karen and the children emerge from the limousine. Karen looked devastated. She wore a long overcoat to fight the cold March winds. Karen held her daughter in her arms while John Jr. was firmly clutched around her leg.  Galvin couldn’t believe John Jr. was six and Lindsay was almost three already.  Galvin became slightly sullen that he had never even met Lindsay.  Galvin and Casey had often made plans to get together but they always seemed to fall through.

A sudden gust
of wind blew Karen’s dark hair from the front of her face allowing Galvin to see the dark circles under her reddened eyes. He felt helpless as he watched Karen hug an older couple for support—either her parents or John’s, Galvin figured. He felt guilty for not getting together more with his friend; though he knew it was senseless, it bothered him nonetheless. Even if he had seen his friend more often, there was no way he could have prevented him from interrupting the liquor store robbery. Galvin wondered what the last thing that had gone through Casey’s mind before his life had ended was. Had it been Karen…his children…or both? Or had it just been sheer terror, staring down the wrong end of a twelve gauge shotgun?

The sound of the Pipes and Drum band playing
Amazing Grace
broke Galvin from his unpleasant thoughts. His eyes refocused on his friend’s casket as it was carried into the church. He watched as Karen, who held her now-orphaned daughter in one arm, and held her son’s hand with the other, entered the church behind the casket. Close friends and family filed in next, followed by New York City’s Mayor, and then the top echelon of the NYPD. The doors closed behind them as the funeral service was set to begin.

“
ORDER ARMS!
”

A
ll of the officers simultaneously broke their salute. The next instruction that was given to them was to fall back in formation at 11:45. Galvin looked down at his watch—it was eleven o’clock.  Most of the cops at the funeral would take this opportunity to go to a nearby coffee shop, or look around for old acquaintances they hadn’t seen in a while. Some would even slip into a bar along Fifth Avenue and raise a glass in memory of a fallen brother in blue. It was, of course, strictly against department policy to drink while in uniform, but most of the bosses on the job would not try to stop them after they had just lost a brother officer. Galvin was unsure how he was going to spend the next forty-five minutes. The only thing he knew was that he was sick to his stomach.

As Galvin began to walk aimlessly up Fifth Avenue, he heard a familiar voice call out to him.  “Tommy.”

Galvin immediately recognized the voice and walked over, giving the man a hug.  “Hey Uncle Pat, how are you?”

Pat Dempsey was a thirty-two year veteran of the New York City Police Department and held the prestigious rank of Detective First Grade.  There were less than
two hundred
first graders
in the entire department and Galvin was very proud of his uncle.  Although there was no blood relation, Galvin had referred to Pat Dempsey as his uncle for as long as he could remember.  Dempsey had been his father’s partner and the two of them had been inseparable.  It was a foregone conclusion that when Tommy was born, Pat Dempsey would be named his Godfather.

“Tommy, you’re a detective now. 
Why the hell are you still
bagging up? 
Do you need me to buy you a suit for Christ sake?”

“I like being
in the bag,
Uncle Pat.  I think cops should be proud to wear their uniforms.  I don’t understand why so many guys hate wearing it.” 

Galvin smiled and decided it was his turn to break his Godfather’s chops.  “Uncle Pat, didn’t anyone ever tell you that you get a pension after twenty years?”  He looked him up and down.  “You’re a friggin dinosaur on this job.
  Retire already.”

While Galvin was kidding, he did notice how Dempsey had aged since he had last seen him.  He still had a full head of hair but it was mostly gray
now, matching his mustache.  He was meticulously groomed; never a hair out of place.  In spite of the gray hair, however, Galvin knew that Dempsey was still in decent physical shape for a man in his late fifties and was still as sharp of a cop as there was in the department.  As good as Galvin believed he looked in uniform, he felt Dempsey looked just as good, if not better, out of it.  Dempsey dressed the part of a detective.  He wore a tailor made black suit under his overcoat, which looked good on his six foot, two hundred pound frame.  As the two men spoke, the sun caught Dempsey’s NYPD detective ring, just at the right angle to reflect a glint of sunlight in Galvin’s eyes. 

“Don’t you worry about me
, Tommy.  I’ll retire when I’m damn good and ready.  I’m not going to retire and drop dead after five years like your old man did.”  He put his hand on Galvin’s shoulder.  “How’s your mom doing, Tommy?”

“She’s alright, Uncle Pat.  She moved down to Florida shortly after dad died.”

“You make sure to tell her I said hello.  Is she coming back to New York when they add your dad’s name to the 9-11 memorial?”

Galvin was angry how there were still so many first responders
—like his father—getting sick and dying from various illnesses due to the terrorist attacks from over a decade ago.  “You know she will, Uncle Pat.  They haven’t told us exactly when it’s going to be though.  Probably early September to coincide with the anniversary of the attacks, I bet.”

Dempsey shook his head in agreement.  “That’s a safe bet.”

The two men shook hands and parted ways, making their way back to their respective positions.  There was a bustle among the crowd as they began to fall back into ranks.  The forty-five minutes Galvin had been talking to his godfather made the time go by quickly.  Galvin’s thoughts were now of his father, remembering the less prestigious Inspector’s funeral that he had been given less than a year ago.  He silently prayed to his dad to meet his friend John Casey on the other side.  Galvin lined back up with the thousands of other uniformed officers getting ready for the ceremony to start back up.  He was careful to look to his left and right and to the person in front of him to make sure he was in perfect formation.

*

Standing behind the rank-and-file uniformed officers were the detectives who had opted not to wear their uniforms to the funeral. They instead wore the trench coats that had become the earmark of a detective in the New York City Police Department. Standing behind all members of the police department were the hundreds of civilians who had either come to pay their respect to a fallen hero, or those who had just been passing by and had become engulfed in the excitement.

From where he stood, on the west side of Fifth Avenue, a man in a
tan trench coat listened to the commands. He was almost directly across the street from the church’s entrance, and took note how sharply the officers had broken their salute—their white gloves had fallen to their sides at almost exactly the same moment. He watched as the officers slowly broke the formation and headed in every direction. It was a shame that such a beautiful ceremony was wasted when a young man—a hero—sacrificed his life. Ceremonies such as this should be saved for happier occasions—such as promotions, or giving out medals, the man reasoned.

This was the first time
that he had ever attended a police officer’s funeral, but he had seen footage of all too many of them on the news over the years. To be there in person was much more devastating…unforgettable. The man shifted his weight from one leg to the other—he had remained in the same location since the beginning of the funeral, and he had resolved not to move until he had seen its end.

Through his pale gray eyes, he could cl
early see the entrance of the church from where he was standing. The man removed his right hand from the pocket of his trench coat and patted his waistband, wanting to ascertain that his revolver was exactly where it should be. Pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose, he ran a hand through what was left of his receding brown hair.

He was not very large in stature,
and believed himself profound. He began to wonder what would drive one human being to kill another, and furthermore, what would drive one human being to kill a police officer.  Their very duty was to uphold the law, to protect people—and while not all police officers were honest, he found it hard to fathom the idea of a police officer breaking the law. They swore to uphold it, yet some disregarded their oath and went astray.

Deciding that his research would afford him the answers to those questions, he decided to expel them from his mind, no longer allowing
them to irritate him. Eventually, he would publish his journals, but only after all of his work was complete. Then, he would be recognized—as he well should be—as one of the greatest criminologists of all time.

His thoughts had occupied his time as he noticed the officers
were falling back into formation. The man studied the thousands of police officers walking around. Surprisingly, he hadn’t recognized any officers from his own Brooklyn neighborhood. He saw officers from many jurisdictions, some as far away as Boston. It was a fitting tribute.

The command of attention was once again barked through the megaphone.
Looking down at his watch, the man noted the time—it was exactly 11:49 and thirty-six seconds. The crowd became instantly silent, standing motionless. The front door of Saint Patrick’s opened, and the Mayor of the City of New York led the procession out.

*

Tommy Galvin, standing at attention, watched the doorway of the church. The Mayor was the first to leave, flanked on either side by the Police Commissioner and the Cardinal of New York’s Archdiocese. The other dignitaries followed. Parting to the left and right, they all made way for the family. Galvin could see Karen as she left the church—she was holding a handkerchief to her face, wiping away the tears; her little boy, sobbing.  Lindsay, who was also in tears, was being carried out by one of her grandparents.  The children were frightened and they had every right to be.  He fought the urge to shed his own tears.

“
PRESENT ARMS!
”

Galvin saluted his fallen comrade and friend for the last time as the pipers softly played taps.
He watched as the coffin, draped by the American flag, was carried out by the pallbearers. As the coffin was loaded into the hearse, tears rolled down the face of many an officer who had come to pay their last respects.

It was always at this point of a cop’s funeral that every officer in attendance realized his own mortality—after all, it could have been any one of them lying
there in a casket only because they had been doing their job. In a sense, it was them who lay there. Every time a police officer is slain in the line of duty, there’s a part of each officer who dies inside.

There was a chilling wind—almost as if
on cue—as the back of the hearse was closed. The sea of blue, lined up along Fifth Avenue, held their salute as the family entered the limousines. The dead silence was broken by the starting of the engines. The helicopters could be heard in the distance as they made their approach.

*

The wind sent shivers down the man’s spine. He tightened the strap on his trench coat as he watched the seven helicopters from the New York City Police Department fly overhead, low to the ground. The formation they flew in was reminiscent of birds flying south for winter—an overwhelming sight. He watched the helicopters for as far as the eye could see until finally, they fell from sight behind New York’s many skyscrapers. He then turned his attention back to the front of the church where a dozen marked highway cars began to lead the procession. Their lights were captivating. Directly in front of the hearse, were three police officers on horseback carrying the color guard.  He recognized two of the three flags immediately; the flag of the United States and the flag of the City of New York.  The third one he was unfamiliar with.  It resembled the American flag, except its stripes were green and white and its stars were in a circular pattern.

It annoyed the man that he could not identify it
; he would have to conduct an investigation.  He momentarily thought about taking a picture of it with his cell phone, but then he realized that doing so would be disrespectful to the fallen officer.  He would not dare disrespect the hero officer.  He had earned his admiration.  The hearse traveled slowly along Fifth Avenue with the bagpipers marching alongside.  Before long, the sound of the bagpipes faded into silence, and the procession disappeared from sight. There was a momentary pause.

“On behalf of the family of Police Officer John Casey and the New York City Police Department, I would like to thank you all for your support.”
The officer with the megaphone paused.

“
DETAIL DISMISSED!
”

Not moving from where he had stood for the last couple of hours the man watched as the mourners began to disperse.
It was now exactly 12:13 and fourteen seconds he noted as he watched the police officers walk in every direction. Some of them entered bars, and others got into their cars to return to their homes or their precincts. The man stood patiently waiting. He began to twist an NYPD ring that he wore on his right hand.