The Blue Executions (30 page)

As Courtney and Pantangelo continued to argue
the merits as to whether or not the story should be put in the papers, Santoro reached over and gently tapped McGregor on the shoulder.  He whispered, not to disturb the argument, “Brian is that what I think it is?”

*

McGregor was uncomfortable with the entire situation.  He realized that had he gone to his editor immediately upon receiving the first letter, it was possible Officers Tatum and Garret may still be alive.  He put his trust in Courtney for the promise of an exclusive story, rather than go to his editor.  Needless to say, Pantangelo had given him a pretty stern lecture when he finally came clean less than an hour ago.

McGregor, as did the rest of the reporters at the newspaper, had a great deal of respect for Pantangelo—not just for his near thirty years in the business—but also because he carried the reputation as a tough, yet fair supervisor.  Having been the recipient of two Pulitzer Prizes didn’t hurt the admirations his peers held for him either.

“It’s a weird one Chief.”  McGregor extended his hand, offering the letter over to Santoro.

“I don’t have any gloves in here
; why don’t you just open it?”

McGregor complied.  “It just makes no sense to me.  He seems to be trying to tell me something.  I think it may be a threat against me for not printing his letters.”  McGregor was nervous. 
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.  Reporting the news was one thing; becoming the news, another.  The last thing that he wanted was for a sociopath to be after him.

McGregor opened the letter and placed it flat against the desk for Santoro to examine.  Courtney and
Pantangelo’s verbal debate became louder.  No more than a second after Santoro looked down at the letter, Santoro smacked an open hand against the conference table.  “Holy shit!”

Santoro picked up the telephone in front of him and made what was clearly an urgent phone call.  There was silence.  The eyes of every man in the room were on Santoro—each man more confused than the next.  “This is Chief Santoro.  Get me our best DNA tech in the department to the 14th floor conference room at
One Police Plaza forthwith.” 

Santoro
hung up the phone and stared down at the letter; his face inching closer.  McGregor swallowed hard.  “Am I right Chief?  Is he threatening
me
now?”

Santoro continued looking down at the letter momentarily before answering.  “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. McGregor.  I don’t know.  I’m afraid I didn’t read what he wrote.”

*

Probably no other man in the room would have seen what Chief of Detectives Raymond Santoro
had noticed.  His years in the Detective Bureau gave him the trained eye that few others had.  On the bottom right of the page there was a perfectly round blemish on the page; no more than half a centimeter in diameter.  Being in the middle of a July heat wave, Santoro was nearly certain it was a drop of sweat.

He inched closer to get a better look. 
I got you, you son of a bitch!

Santoro was momentarily in his own world until McGregor’s query had broken his trance.  After explaining his findings to the rest of the room, he was asked by Courtney to read the letter aloud which he did.

Mr. McGregor,

I do not understand why you have chosen not to publish my letters.  I am afraid
that
I will not be able to share my journals with you one day as I had hoped.  No worries though; the Blue Executions shall continue.  For my job is of the utmost importance.  New York City must be rid of all those who take an oath to serve its people but instead choose to murder them either directly or by aiding and abetting.   

Acting in Concert

When one person engages in conduct which constitutes an offense, another person who was not an actual participant is criminally is liable for such conduct when, acting with the mental culpability required for the commission thereof, he solicits, requests, commands, importunes, or intentionally aids such person to engage in such conduct.  Under acting-in-concert liability, the most minor participant in a crime will be considered criminally liable to the same extent of an accomplice who committed the most serious acts.

You shall hear from me soon…very soon,

                                                              The Blue Executioner.

There was silence.  Chief Courtney looked around the room.  “Does anybody have a clue what this nut job is
talking about?”

*

Detective First Grade Patrick Dempsey sat at his desk at the Applicant Investigation Unit.  Has just finishing the arrest supplement which he had prepared for one of the Police Officer Candidates who was wanted on a misdemeanor charge in Brooklyn.  Dempsey was amazed at the stupidity of some of the people that applied to be police officers. 
How the hell do you come to a police department facility when you know you are wanted for a crime?
  Dempsey couldn’t make sense of it, yet it was not all that uncommon.

He finished the arrest paperwork and closed out the case on the candidate recommending he no longer be considered for the position of Probationary
Police Officer.  He signed his name at the bottom, closed the folder and pushed it aside.  He looked at the picture on his desk; it bore the image of himself, his radio car partner and best friend Jimmy Galvin and Jimmy’s son, Tommy, on Tommy’s graduation day from the Police Academy.  Dempsey was concerned about Tommy Galvin after recent events and had been unable to reach him all weekend.  He picked up his cell phone from his desk.

*

Tommy Galvin left Laurie Bando’s office at 2:15 that Monday afternoon.  He was glad he had been able to take her out for lunch—with jury selection underway, he realized that he would not be seeing very much of her over the next few weeks.  If all went according to plan, a jury would be seated by Wednesday and opening arguments would begin in the State of New York vs. Peter Groff on Thursday morning. Laurie had explained to him that she expected the trial to last until the end of the month at the earliest.

As soon as Galvin left the air conditioned building the heat was overbearing. 
It has to be close to 100 degrees again today.

He hoped
that Lieutenant Thompson would be okay with the fact that he was not wearing a suit jacket today; rather just a mustard colored short sleeve dress shirt—his Glock 9mm exposed on his right hip.  He loosened his navy and maroon striped tie and undid the top button.  It was just too hot.  Galvin stepped inside a deli to grab a cold bottle of water for the ride back to his precinct.

Galvin walked up the block to the multi-meter parking lot, waving hello to some uniformed officers he knew from the command.  The street in front of the courthouse was crowded, as it was on most days at this time.  There were many police officers coming and going into the courthouse as well as many white-shirted court officers; not to mention the assistant district attorneys, defense attorneys and the hundreds of criminal defendants who had their day in court on a given day.  The sun caught the windshield of a double parked police van on the street
, drawing Galvin’s attention to it.  One of the side windows in the rear had been broken out and the van had numerous dents. 
Guess it was part of the riot I keep hearing so much about.

The cold water felt good against his throat as he took a long drink from the water. 
Galvin heard the familiar Irish march, the Garryowen, sounding from his belt.  He retrieved his cell phone to see his Godfather’s name.  He put the bottle cap back on the water and answered the phone.  “Hey Uncle Pat, how’s everything going?”

Galvin spent the majority of the twenty minute ride to the precinct trying to put his uncle’s mind at ease.  He promised his uncle
that he’d be extra careful—a promise that he seemed to have made to an endless number of fellow cops that have called him to make sure he was okay.  After parking in the lot adjacent to the precinct, he went inside.  He noticed that the entire third platoon, even the guys on their regular day off, were in the muster room, almost a full half hour before roll call was scheduled.

Weird?

He decided to go see why.  He walked in and quietly closed the door behind him.  Many of the cops who saw him enter nodded, acknowledging his presence.  He nodded back but remained quiet as he listened to the union delegate explain the gravity of the situation.  The Patrolman’s Benevolent Association, the largest police union in the NYPD, said that not only was there a serial cop killer on the loose, but there was also the reemergence of the cop hating Black Panther Party.

The delegate was passing around a schedule; asking every officer
to take turns coming in to the precinct on their days off.  The off-duty officers would work in pairs of two, in plain clothes and in their private vehicles.  They would each be armed with shotguns and be assigned to a sector.  Every job that the sector in which they were assigned to went on, they would also go to, acting as back up.  Each platoon would be responsible to organize protection for their own officers.  It was a dangerous time to be a cop in New York City. 

The officers from this particular precinct were a very tight knit group.  There was no shortage of volunteers to give up their days off to watch over one and other.  Galvin, who had worked the four to twelve shifts while he was still on patrol, was one of the first
in line to sign up.  He realized that while he was now a detective, these were his brothers and sisters in blue and anything that he could do to ensure they safety, he would do without hesitation.

After leaving the muster room Galvin waved to the Sergeant on the desk as he passed. 
He checked in the complaint room to see if any robberies or shootings had occurred during the day tour and then made his way up the staircase to go to the Detective Squad, where he was ready to sign in for the day’s work.

No sooner than did Galvin sign in
, than was he summoned to Lt. Thompson’s office. Thompson had an annoyed look on his face and Galvin sensed it was not good news.  “Tommy, what the hell are you doing here?  Downtown has been trying to track you down all day.  Don’t you answer your cell phone?”  Galvin reached down to his belt to retrieve it.  A quick study revealed seven unopened voicemails.  “Oh shit, sorry Lieu, I was in court all day and never checked the messages when I turned the volume back on.”

*

Galvin had mixed emotions as he got back into his Jeep to head home.  He turned on the department radio that Lieutenant Thompson had given him to take home.  He wasn’t happy to have been ordered to take a department radio with him everywhere that he went and was unhappier still to be sent home from work.  He was also a bit frightened.  The confirmation of a serial cop killer sent a chill down his spine—being informed that the Threat Assessment Unit considered him a serious target of the mad man, was completely unnerving.  There would likely be some near sleepless nights in his future, figured Galvin.

*

The steel brush was methodically run through each of the five chambers of the .38 caliber revolver’s cylinder.  He counted exactly twelve strokes for each chamber.  He studied the gun.  Having sawed the barrel off the gun made it look weird, he thought.  Nevertheless, he knew that if there was no barrel, there would be no rifling. If there were no rifling, there would be no ballistic fingerprints.  He was sure this would stump even the best of the ballistics experts that the police department had to offer.  One day when he is in a top position in the police department, he’ll share his findings with the rest of the department to make them almost as knowledgeable as he was…almost.

He placed a .38 caliber gun mop on the end of the steel rod and cleaned every chamber carefully.  He held it up to the light; examining if it met his high standards. 
The tools of the trade must be in top working order.
  He picked up the five .38 caliber cop killer bullets which he had neatly lined up on his dining room table and one by one inserted them into the gun.  He closed the cylinder and wiped down the gun with a silicone cloth. 

He turned his attention back to his scrapbook.  There had certainly been an enormous amount of articles he had cut out about
Detective Tom Galvin.  He flipped page after page, reading various articles and looking at the many pictures taken during the day of civil unrest last weekend; all of it Galvin’s fault.  He closed the scrapbook and opened his journal.  He pondered momentarily and then made his entry.  He looked around his apartment, making sure everything was in its proper place and decided to go to sleep for the night. 

Underhill undressed in his bedroom.  He carefully laid his newly cleaned .38 caliber revolver on the nightstand next to his bed.  He brushed his teeth and donned a pair of light blue pajamas.  He put the television on to the local news station, though he merely seemed to stare straight through it.  He took another glance at the handgun atop his nightstand.  He decided that the television was a distraction—he needed his sleep.  He turned off the television and set the remote control down, closing his eyes. 
Tomorrow will be a very interesting day
.