The Blue Executions (5 page)

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.

H
e 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, m
ost 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.

“Listen.
Detective Galvin…Tommy. I know you probably feel that I’m out here trying to make you guys look bad. I give you my word Detective, that’s not the case. I just want to do my story on how police do their jobs in minority neighborhoods. I don’t exclusively write negative stories on the police department. As a matter of fact, you and Paul here, you’ll determine the outcome of my story. We really aren’t on opposite sides. All I want is for you two to do your jobs as you normally would.”

“So how come I can’t remember one positive story you’ve ever done concerning the NYPD?” Middlebrook
pointedly interjected. It had been the first time all evening that Paul had spoken to the reporter, recalled Galvin; he found the question blunt, and was curious to see how the reporter would field it.

“Because you ch
oose not to. Many police officers—or people in any profession, for that matter—will only remember the bad we write about their profession. That’s what sticks in their mind because it makes them all look bad. When we praise people, they appreciate it, but they forget about it soon after. They don’t forget what hurts or offends them for a long time.”

“I’ve read your column on numerous occasions,” replied Middlebrook.
“Why don’t you refresh my memory?  What articles have you written that were favorable to cops?”

McGregor was swift in his response:

“How about the fire rescue that rookie cop made last month while walking his foot post? Or how about the story I did on the Auto Crime Unit when they broke up and arrested members of a citywide carjacking ring. Then, there was the cop who walked in on an armed robbery when he was off-duty and had a gun battle with the robbers before he was able to arrest them. And, if you’ll recall, I never mentioned that the location was a known brothel. I’m not anti-cop, but if there is police corruption, you can be sure I’ll write about it. After all, that is my job.”

Middlebrook didn’t seem at all pleased with th
e response. He’d figured McGregor had rehearsed it, possibly expecting the question or some other sort of confrontation.

Galvin,
on the other hand, considered what the reporter had said as he made a right hand turn onto 140
th
Avenue from Springfield Boulevard. He believed McGregor to be truthful.  He studied McGregor’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His light brown eyes seemed honest;
the eyes don’t lie
. He could remember reading the articles that McGregor had mentioned and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I’ll tell you what,”
Galvin offered. “I’ll pretend like you’re not here and I’ll go about doing things the way I normally would. All I want is that you treat us fairly when you write your article and make sure not to print our names, no matter what happens. Fair enough, Brian?” 

He once again looked in the mirror to observe McGregor’s reaction.  McGregor put his pad down on the seat next to him and placed his pen behind his right ear; underneath his tight brown curly hair.  He extended his hand to shake on the deal.
“Fair enough,” agreed the reporter, apparently happy enough that he’d won over the support of at least one of the officers.

Paul Middlebrook was not happy with this agreement
.  He’d only recently transferred to this precinct, and hadn’t even received his detective’s shield yet. He hadn’t been working with Galvin long enough to know him very well and had heard of Galvin’s reputation as a tough street cop.  He hoped Galvin wouldn’t do anything in front of the reporter to jeopardize his eventual promotion.  It didn’t take an awful lot to get in trouble on this job; even if you are just doing your job, reasoned Middlebrook.

Galvin made his way towards Farmers Boulevard and made a right turn
, heading north.  He reached over the visor and retrieved a picture which he handed over to McGregor.  “I’ve been looking for this guy for a couple of weeks now,” Galvin explained.  “He shot a livery cab driver during the commission of a robbery.  The cab was equipped with a camera and we have the whole thing on tape.  He used to
sling weed
on 111 Avenue and Farmers.  If we get lucky maybe he’s out there now.”

*

Middlebrook grew nervous as Galvin pulled the car over to the curb at 112
th
Avenue and Farmers Boulevard. He heard Galvin explain to the reporter that this was one of the worst drug corners in the precinct. Three young men were walking past—men who apparently recognized Galvin. Galvin called one over to the car. As the man approached, Middlebrook prayed that Galvin didn’t intend on randomly searching him. That would be a clear violation of the man’s civil rights, and in Middlebrook’s opinion, would be ill advised to do in front of their guest.

The Police Department has been embattled as of late over stopping and questioning minorities
; and with this precinct being almost entirely black, almost everyone they stopped fit into that category.  The threat of a federal oversight was being battled in the courts right now and Middlebrook had no desire to be hurled into the middle of it by an article written by the reporter.

*

As the young man approached the car, Brian McGregor nervously compared the wanted photo to the man’s features.  McGregor was a bit nervous, yet extremely excited. 
It must be him.  Galvin said he sold drugs on the next corner.  Why else would he be calling him over?

Then something else crossed McGregor’s mind; if it was the man being sought, he’d likely be armed.  “Is that him Tommy
...the guy from the robbery?” McGregor asked in a barely audible voice.

Galvin laughed under his breath at the reporter.  Not only was he
obviously scared but the two men looked nothing alike.  “No, Brian.  That’s not him.”

“What up,
Galv?” asked the man as he walked over to Galvin’s open windows. He was about eighteen; he wore his shoulder length hair in cornrows and had gold caps on his two front teeth.  Galvin watched the other two males walk into a bodega on the corner as he turned to speak to the man he’d called over.

“I don’t think your friends like me too much,
Leshawn.”

“
Naw, man, one of their moms just asked ‘em to go to the store. We all took the walk.”

Galvin studied the young man as he nervously bit his lower lip.
He did so whenever he answered one of Galvin’s questions, Galvin observed.

“I hope you’re not up to your old tricks again,
Leshawn. You know the trial is coming up in a couple of weeks.”

“Word to
God, Galv. I ain’t dealin’ no more. You can search me up if y’want,” he offered, raising his hands over his head.

“No, that won’t be necessary.
But don’t let me see you guys hanging out all night. It wouldn’t look too good if I had to testify in front of a jury and tell them that I saw you hanging right on the same corner where I arrested you for possession of fifty-two baggies of crack and a loaded .380, now would it?”

Leshawn
Dawkins kissed his hand and held it up to the sky.  “I ain’t dealin’ no more, Galv. That’s my word,” Leshawn swore, seeming earnest. He didn’t seem to want to leave—there appeared to be more on his mind.

“
Galv, man, I was wondering.  You think if I give you some info, you might be able to tell the judge I be helping you out wit’ shit?  Maybe I could get a play?”

Galvin nodded to the man. 
“I can, but only if your information pans out and you don’t get locked up between now and your trial. And if you keep hanging out here, it’s only a matter of time before Narcotics bags you.”

“True, but I
ain’t gonna be hangin’.”

“Okay,” Galvin said. “So, what’s your info?”

Leshawn licked his lips before beginning.

“There’s this kid.
His name’s Jamel. He be hangin’ with this group of kids, call themselves the F and M Boyz. They out every night on Farmers and Merrick, near the Western Beef store. Jamel always be wearin’ a black an’ blue jacket and tan work boots. He usually be packin’ a j
oint
. A
two-five
, I hear. But, if
five-oh be clockin ‘em, he gonna jet
.”

“Well, if your info is good, you got my word I’ll mention it to the D.A.’s office.
I can’t promise that they’ll reduce your plea offer, but I’ll give it a shot—but remember that’s only if you stay out of trouble.

Leshawn
nodded.  “You a’ight, Galv. You a’ight.”

“
Stay out of trouble,” said Galvin as he rolled away from the curb. Galvin was waiting for McGregor to ask him to translate what the young drug dealer had told him. He also decided not to make it easy on the reporter by offering up a translation; he would wait until the man asked. Galvin thought that his partner, who didn’t have all that much street experience, might be just as confused as McGregor.

“So you would actually talk to the Assistant District Attorney handling the case on behalf of this kid?” queried the reporter.
Galvin could see through the rearview mirror that he was scribbling feverishly on his pad.

“
Sure.  Why not? Most people don’t understand—you’ve got to build a rapport with these kids out here. Any cop, who deserves his shield, will talk to the people on the streets. There’s a wealth of information out there on the streets,” he explained. “And if I give him my world that I’ll talk to the ADA if his information pans out, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If I lied to him—or anyone else for that matter—they would never give me information again. I’ve known Leshawn for a little over two years now and he’s given me information in the past which has led to arrests. Besides, no matter what I say, the DA’s office has the final say if they’re going to cut the kid slack or not.”