The Blue Executions (7 page)

“I got a
rob 1, CPW
and bribery.  I’m meeting A.D.A. Bando.”

Nelson, living in Galvin’s precinct, would always pick his brains regarding robbery patterns, burglary patterns and shootings in the area.  “First degree robbery…gunpoint I’m guessing
; where from?”

Galvin didn’t want to seem rude but the truth was he couldn’t wait to seek Laurie out and he knew
that Nelson would talk with him for hours if he let him.  “Nowhere near your house boss, don’t worry about that,” replied Galvin as he made his way out of the office.        

When he
had first walked into the office, he had seen Laurie talking to another ADA. Laurie looked good, he decided. Her long brown hair was held in place by an emerald green beret, which was the same shade as her skirt and shoes. She wore a loosely fit white blouse which hid her shapely figure.  He wanted her to turn around to see if her eyes were as blue as he had remembered them.

Galvin scanned the waiting area searching
her out.  There were less than a dozen cops waiting for their cases to be
drawn up
; most were watching the Tonight Show on the television which was mounted on the wall in the corner, directly above the water cooler.  Galvin decided the Intake Bureau was only a step or two above a police precinct as far as cleanliness.  Cheap gray carpeting, a large wooden coffee table that looked like it had been there for decades and an assortment of mismatched chairs for the cops to sit on.  There was also a small beige couch with too many coffee stains to count.  The office was relatively small so finding Laurie wouldn’t be too hard.  He was quick to spot her sitting at a nearby computer terminal in one of the offices. Galvin walked up to her from behind, tapping her shoulder.

“Hey, Laurie,” he said, smiling. “How’ve you been?”

Laurie Bando stood up. As she turned to greet him, Galvin noticed how stunning her blue eyes looked against her olive complexion. 
Just as I remembered.

“Great, and you?” She asked as she extended her hand.

Galvin accepted her hand and shook it, holding it slightly longer than was necessary. He was glad to note that Laurie didn’t pull it away. He’d always felt that there’d been some chemistry between them, but he also knew that he had to respect her wishes if she was seeing someone. Galvin didn’t even attempt to hide it as he glanced down at her left hand.

“I’m doing great, thanks,” he said, pausing momentarily.
“So, how come I don’t see a ring on that finger yet?”

“Mark and I broke up about six months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Galvin lied. “So, why’d you dump him?”

“What makes you
so sure that I dumped him and not the other way around?”

Galvin methodically looked the lawyer up and down, shaking his head with approval.
“Because, no guy in his right mind would ever dump you.”

Laurie could feel her face flush; regardless, she grinned and thanked Galvin for his compliment.
Since Galvin’s arrest would be drawn up by an A.D.A. not assigned to the Intake Bureau, he didn’t have to wait for an available A.D.A. He looked at the cops in the waiting room.  He doubted any of them minded that his case was being drawn up ahead of theirs. He figured that most of them were on overtime already.

It took almost two hours for Laurie Bando to draw up the complaint which charged the arrested with
armed robbery, gun possession, bribery, attempted assault on a police officer, and resisting arrest. Once the affidavit was complete, she handed it to Galvin. He swore to it by signing it in front of Sergeant Nelson while she prepared the required paperwork to indicate a felony arrest and put the yellow case folder together.

As Sgt. Nelson reviewed the affidavit, Galvin beg
an to think about what a satisfying night it had been. He had actually forgotten momentarily that it was just this morning he had attended his friend’s funeral. He was pleased about the collar and how well everything had gone with the reporter during the
ride along
. But—most of all—he was elated about his impending Saturday night date with A.D.A. Laurie Bando. He was surprised at how eager she had seemed to give him her phone number.

The Sergeant approved the affidavit and handed the signed copy back to Galvin.
He walked over to the copy machine across from the water cooler.  He began to make copies of the affidavit for Laurie when he saw the words on the television screen; the two words that never failed to make a cop’s skin crawl:

COP SHOT

All of the officers who had been waiting to be interviewed by an A.D.A. gathered around the television; Galvin abandoned the copy machine and joined them, wanting to know what had happened. Galvin grabbed the remote, turning up the volume.  They all watched and listened in silence, their prayers instantly going out to their brother officer. The late breaking story reported that an officer had been shot in the head, execution style, in a Manhattan precinct. The details were sketchy at this time, and the officer’s name was being withheld, pending notification to his family. The newscaster appeared solemn as he added that the officer’s condition, while not known at this time, was believed to be extremely critical.

*

After opening the front door of his apartment, the man withdrew the revolver from his waistband.  He opened the cylinder and dumped the two live rounds out, along with the three spent shells. The sound of the bullets falling onto the wooden floor echoed eerily throughout the apartment.  After nonchalantly throwing his gun onto the couch, he went into the bathroom and turned on the water.  He twisted the left knob, making the water as hot as he could bear, and scrubbed each hand with a bar of soap.  He rubbed forcefully for almost five minutes until the soap had begun to disintegrate.  His hands were raw and chafed when he withdrew them—and that’s when he had realized that he’d yet to take off his trench coat.  He took off the coat, and didn’t bother to get undressed.  He loosened his tie before falling asleep on his couch.  He would rest easy, for it had been a job well done.

###########################

C
hapter 4

Tommy Galvin woke up the next morning
and kicked the black comforter from his queen sized bed onto the light blue carpeting.  He sat down at the computer station set up in the corner of his bedroom, even before relieving himself after the night’s slumber.  He turned on the table lamp at the end of the beige computer desk and his fingers urgently banged away at the keyboard, logging into his on-line account.  He immediately checked out the morning newspaper; a chill came over his body as he read the headlines:

COP SHOT

He scanned the article before thoroughly reading it; looking for the slain officer’s name. The article detailed that the officer had been pronounced dead on arrival at the scene. The officer had been walking a foot post by himself on Amsterdam Avenue when he was gunned down for unknown reasons.  At this time, it did not appear as if he had been taking any police action at the time of the shooting.  Daniel Long was a seven-year veteran of the NYPD, who left behind a wife and two young children.

Galvin shook his head in disbelief.
Two cops murdered in one week was a lot…even for New York City
. The article further detailed that the officer had been shot in the head three times at close range, and that no eyewitnesses had yet to come forward. A phone number was supplied and urged anybody with information to call. Galvin was so disturbed by the death of a brother officer that he never even looked at the article written by Brian McGregor detailing the ride along.

Galvin then logged into another site; it was a blog by New York City cops that he often posted on.  He hoped there
would be more detailed information on that site than what the newspapers had to offer.  Much to his disappointment, it did not.  After logging out, Galvin turned on the television which sat on his beige dresser opposite the bed.  He retrieved clothes for the day and decided to take a shower.  He’d learn more details about the homicide once he got to his precinct.

*

The sunlight crept through a partially open blind, waking the man on the couch from his deep sleep. He felt exuberant. He wasn’t sure if it had been from the excitement of last night’s mission, or if he had just needed a good night’s sleep. After relieving himself, he washed his hands; they were still extremely raw from their vigorous scrubbing the night before. He looked around his apartment, picking up the bullets he’d left on the floor and placing them in his pocket; finding it hard to believe that he had dumped them on the floor in the first place. He spread yesterday’s mutilated newspaper down on the table. After retrieving the gun from the couch, he brought it over to the table and carefully cleaned it. Once the gun was spotless, he cradled it in his arms and mentally thanked it for a job well done.

It was before seven a.m.; he hoped that his morning newspaper had arrived.
He was excited, wondering if he had made the front page—he must have, he figured. He opened the front door of his apartment, and sure enough, there was the paper—with the sports page up. While he wasn’t interested in the slightest in the Knick’s narrow overtime victory the night before, he hesitated before turning the paper over to see the headlines, like a child who didn’t want to open his Christmas present and end the surprise. He picked up the newspaper without turning it over, and brought it—along with his scrapbook—to the table. Slowly, he turned over the paper and was pleased to read the headline…his headline.

COP SHOT

He was, however, enraged that his accomplishment was sharing the front page with a photo of thousands of police officers saluting the casket of P.O. John Casey. Why would the papers do that to him? How dare they share the headlines with old news such as Casey’s funeral? In his rage, he never saw the connection. As far as he was concerned, there was no similarity between the two incidents.

Carefully, he cut out each article concerning the slain officers.
They were both worthy of the scrapbook. He skimmed through the paper, looking for any articles that might be suitable, when he came across an article written by Brian McGregor. The man had read McGregor’s articles in the past and found him to be fair. The article detailed how McGregor had ridden along with two plainclothes officers from a South Jamaica precinct. The article praised the officers as compassionate and fair to everyone they came in contact with, even those who had been previously arrested. It further depicted how they had been street smart and observant during the events of the McDonald’s robbery, which was detailed in such a dramatic fashion, that it felt like a novel as opposed to an article. After reading the article, the man cut that article out as well. It was a shame that McGregor had never mentioned the officers’ names, though. Now the man would never know the identities of those heroes.

The man then opened his scrapbook.
The type of memorabilia it featured was not exactly what he’d thought it would be during his career as a police officer. It consisted almost exclusively of newspaper articles once you got past the first couple of pages. The man had once envisioned that his scrapbook would contain all of his letters of Commendation, details about his medals, some newspaper articles, and—of course—photos of him shaking hands with various mayors and police commissioners at numerous promotion ceremonies. However, it did not. Due to another’s incompetence, he had to find a new way to fight crime—but nonetheless, he would fight crime; his own way.

He read the letter on the first page, the letter that he’d read hundreds of times.
It was dated October 17
th
, 2012.

Dear Police Officer Candidate Michael Un
derhill,

Congratulations on your selection of choosing a career with the New York City Police Department.
You have passed the first step by passing the written examination. You are hereby directed to report to one Lefrak Plaza on November 10
th
, 2012 for a mini-medical examination. Good luck.

The letter was signed by the commanding officer of the recruitment section.

Michael Underhill’s hands were throbbing from the scalding he’d inflicted on them the previous night. He removed his NYPD ring, which had become a fixture on his right hand, in an attempted to relieve the irritation the ring was causing. He studied the gold ring—it was in the shape of a miniature police officer’s shield, but the spot where an officer’s shield number would be affixed was blank.  He bought it the day of his written examination. It had been ridiculously easy; it was no surprise to him when he found out that he’d scored a perfect one hundred percent. He’d decided to have his shield number affixed to the ring the day that he would be sworn in.

He grew angry, as
he always did, when he thought of how he’d passed the written examination and the medical exams—but had been disqualified from becoming a New York City Police Officer, all the same. They’d told him that he’d failed the psychological examination, both the written and the oral. He knew this to be false, so how could they have lied to him like that? Either the psychologist had been faulty in her work, or she’d recognized his superior intellect and been jealous enough to sabotage his scores. Her incompetence was a definite possibility; after all, she’d asked him the most nonsensical questions during the interview. However, he felt that the most likely scenario was that the police department recognized his superiority and greatness, and worrying that they would appear worthless in comparison, disqualified him.