The Blue Executions (40 page)

“This is Chief Courtney.  I want you to schedule a six o’clock news conference.  Contact every network, local and national and every newspaper and radio station we have a contact for.  Tell them this will be a huge story that they will not want to miss but do not,
I repeat
,
do not
give them any indication it has to do with the Blue Executioner case.  If they ask, you tell them that you’re unaware what the press conference is about.  Is that understood?”

Once it had been acknowledged, Courtney hung up the telephone. 
He took out a pad and pen from his desk drawer, making a note to promote Tommy Galvin to second grade detective at next month’s promotion ceremony.  He placed the pad back in the drawer and summoned Galvin into his office.

Galvin entered the office moments later.  “Yes Chief.”

Courtney offered a smile.  “Have a seat.”

He did.

“Tommy, that truly was some great police work that you and Dempsey did out there.  I want to congratulate you again.  You’re familiar with Brian McGregor, I understand?”

After Galvin affirmed, Courtney continued.  “I promised him an exclusive on this case. 
He’s on his way over here to interview you.  Obviously don’t give him too much but make the story juicy enough for him to feel satisfied when he leaves.”

“Yes Chief.
  No problem.”

Courtney was a bit uncomfortable.  He leaned forward across the large desk that separated the two men and in his best fatherly voice, “Tommy, here
’s the only problem.  The District Attorney who was killed...”

Courtney could see Galvin’s face begin to grow red. 
Santoro had been right.
  “Nobody knows why Underhill targeted her.  Let’s keep it that way.  It’s better for everyone, you included.”

Galvin agreed without ever speaking a word.  “Tommy, next month if the budget allows, there will promotions.  I plan on bumping you to second grade.”

“Thank you Chief, I’d really appreciate that.”

“Don’t thank me—you earned it.  I also understand
that you are only a few hundred names away on the Sergeant’s list.  Where do you want to go when you get promoted?  Pick any precinct in the city.  Stay there for six months and then I will get you to any detail in the job that you want, from Harbor to the Joint Terrorist Task Force.  You just name it.”

“Wow, I don’t know what to say.  I guess I’d like to go to the 103
rd Precinct when I get promoted.  Can I get back to you at a later date about where I want to go afterwards?”

“Sure you can, take your time and make the decision that’s best for you.  Now go and get ready for that reporter.”

As Galvin left the office, Courtney opened his desk drawer and added
Tommy Galvin to 103 Precinct upon promotion to Sergeant
to his list of things to remember
.

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

Chapter 22

“Now clean it up asshole!”

Michael Underhill hated Riker’s Island; he particularly hated when the day shift started.  Every morning that Captain Tatum was working, he would come into Underhill’s cell and throw the few possessions that Underhill had to the ground.  The ritual had started when Underhill was still in general population.  During a routine cell search, the guards made their usual mess—Underhill hated a mess.  He made sure to complain to the supervisor in charge, Captain Tatum
, regarding the mess the officer’s had made.  He was sure that Tatum sympathized with him.  He had spoken in such a soft, reassuring voice.  Underhill felt so much better after he explained to Tatum that a mess actually pained him.

Underhill continued thinking back to that day as it had been one of the worst
days of his life.  Not only did he find out that the brother of one of his victim’s—Police Officer Christopher Tatum—was a supervisor at the prison, but it was the day he received what was the first of far too many beatings.  When the guards began to make the mess, Underhill tried to stop them.  They beat him about the torso and legs, not leaving many visible marks.  They explained it away as Underhill becoming aggressive during the search.

The beatings at the hands of the other inmates were far less discreet.  Underhill had been in the infirmary
five times since he arrived on the island only a few months back.  Black eyes, a fractured nose and two missing teeth were the price he had paid for telling the other inmates that he worked with the police.  The curious thing to Underhill was how the guards seemed to let it happen.

There was one time when he was sure
that he saw Captain Tatum walking with the two men just before the assault began.  Underhill decided Captain Tatum was as evil as his brother had been;
clearly the malevolence was inherent in his genes
.

Underhill decided when he was released; he would begin an investigation into this Tatum as well. 

Still, Underhill learned to stay clear of Tatum.  He would just clean up the mess this morning as he did every morning when Tatum made his visits.  Underhill looked forward to Sundays and Mondays—Tatum’s days off.  Those days were mess free. 

Underhill crawled on his hands and knees picking up today’s mess.  Just as he reached the toilet paper, Tatum spit on the ground in front of Underhill before walking out of the cell.
  “Back to
gen-pop
for you tomorrow, shithead.”

Underhill knew it was an empty threat.  The first few times Tatum had told him that, Underhill broke down into tears.  Having heard it so often, Underhill now realized it was just another way
that Tatum was trying to torture him.  Underhill retrieved his belongings and put them back in the plastic container.

He placed his hair
brush, magazines, toilet paper, and toothpaste back up on the white ceramic shelf on the wall at the foot of his bed.  The toothpaste seemed ironic to Underhill as he had thrown his toothbrush away months back.  Having been forced to brush his teeth with it after Tatum had thrown it in toilet bowl had repulsed Underhill.  Brushing his teeth by putting toothpaste on his finger was far more appealing.

Underhill’s heart raced every morning until Tatum came and got his daily taunting out of the way.  Since being moved into protective custody at least the beatings had stopped.  Occasionally Tatum would slap or spit on him but it was nothing like the other thrashings he had received
in the beginning.

Underhill remade his bed, making sure the grey blanket was taught.  Kneeling on the bed, Underhill looked through the bar covered window onto the prison yard.  He missed the fresh air.  Being locked in the cell for twenty
-three hours a day was frustrating.  The anti-anxiety medicine did help, but it made him sleep most of the day.  Underhill couldn’t decide which was worse, protective custody or the psych ward.  He looked around the eleven by thirteen cell; the walls and ceiling were white, the shelf an ivory and the toilet and sink, stainless steel.  There was a lack of color.  Underhill missed the vibrant colors in the world. Underhill sat in the corner on his bed—he tucked his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs and closed his eyes thinking of better days. 

*  

“
Detective Second Grade Damien Easton
.”

Tommy Galvin applauded with the rest of those in attendance in the auditorium at One Police Plaza.  His white gloves muffled the sound of the applause. 
Standing on the steps leading up to the stage, Galvin searched the audience seeking out his mother.  The auditorium was much smaller than what Galvin would have expected from the largest police department in the world.  The walls constructed of different shades of red and tan bricks seemed to even make it smaller.  It didn’t take Galvin very long to spot his mother seated in the third row next to his Uncle Pat.

“
Detective Second Grade James Fitzpatrick
.”

As the next
promotee walked across the stage, Galvin gained another stair.  He looked at the backdrop, behind the stage; a picture which had to stand twenty feet tall depicting a bronze statue of a police officer standing upright, a child hugging him on either side.  In the background of the picture; the familiar patch of the New York City Police Department.  Below the statue, the words: A TRADITION OF EXCELLENCE.  Once again Galvin applauded with the crowd.

While he was excited to be getting promoted, Galvin couldn’t help to think of how he got here.  He would gladly give up the promotion—even the
job—if it could bring Laurie back.  But he knew that was not an option.  He thought of how upset Laurie would have been to see that Michael Groff was actually acquitted of all charges last night after a jury had deliberated for six days and somehow came to the conclusion that he was not guilty.  In his heart, Galvin believed that had Laurie still been alive and finished the case, not only would Groff have been convicted, but she would have also been promoted to Bureau Chief.  She would have been here with him to celebrate his promotion as he would have surely been there for hers.

“
Detective Second Grade Elisa Fuentes.
”

Of course, there was no turning back time and Galvin had to accept that.  He had to move forward just as everyone else did. 
He climbed up one more step; almost onto the stage.  Today, he was being promoted.  Monday, he would attend Michael Underhill’s competency hearing—back to police work.  Galvin had made a promise to himself—and Laurie—that he would see Underhill behind bars for the rest of his life.  It was a promise that he had to keep.

“
Detective Second Grade Thomas Galvin.
”

Galvin ascended the final stair; looking down as he did, making sure not to trip.  The black scuff marks from the heels of the paten-leather shoes were evident against the highly polished wooden floors of the stage.  The ovation was clearly louder for
Galvin than it had been for any other promotee.  Every cop, cop’s family, and every other member in the audience, were aware how Detective Tommy Galvin had singlehandedly solved the case of a serial killer targeting their own.  They also knew that he had been shot during the arrest.  Although it had only been a graze wound, it had been built up to sound a lot worse by the Pulitzer Prize winning reporter, Brian McGregor. 

The audience stood on their feet
, as did the esteemed member of the dais.  Galvin proudly walked across the stage as the Chiefs got up from their black and brown chairs to show Galvin the tribute that he deserved.  Once at the podium, Galvin accepted his certificate of promotion with his left hand as he accepted the Police Commissioner’s hand with his right.  It was not your typical obligatory handshake—it was powerful and with purpose.  The Commissioner held the grip slightly longer than normal, catching Galvin’s eyes in the process.  He offered a thankful nod.  Flashes of light, almost celestial, filled the auditorium.  The familiar sound of cell phone cameras and the clicks from the press photographers was instantly identifiable to Galvin.   

Galvin hadn’t attended many promotion ceremonies before
, but he didn’t think it was unusual for the Commissioner to pause to acknowledge an officer who was being promoted that had been involved in a high profile case—and he was correct, it wasn’t unusual.  It was often reserved for officers that had been injured (usually shot) in the line of duty.  What was different this time was that the Police Commissioner went into an entire speech.

Galvin liked this particular Police Commissioner.  As far as Galvin was concerned, the current Commissioner was the best he had worked for in Galvin’s tenure with the NYPD.  Most of the Chiefs and Commissioners were usually not from the street.  They were often the pencil pusher who hid inside to study for tests.  There were, of course, always exceptions and
Police Commissioner Kevin Czartoryski was one of them.  Czartoryski was well spoken and charismatic.  Those in the department who knew him vowed that he had been an active cop throughout his time on the street; he understood the streets and the cops who worked them.  Czartoryski had taken the unprecedented path of becoming the only First Grade Detective to ever become a Police Commissioner in the NYPD’s history. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,
my fellow officers, families and friends, members of the press,” began the Commissioner. 

G
alvin could feel the chills reverberate throughout his body.  He stared up at the imposing figure as he spoke.  Galvin figured him to stand six foot six or better.  Galvin knew the man was not yet fifty years of age but the full head of gray hair might suggest that he was older.  Czartoryski also looked impeccable—his presence embodied what the NYPD wanted their officers to look and act like.

“It is often said th
at adversity
builds
character.  I say it does not…I say it
reveals
character.  Tommy Galvin knew that he was in the cross hairs of a serial killer.  He could have stayed at home under 24 hour protection from our department but he did not.  Instead, not only did he request to work the case, but he also singlehandedly solved it within two days of his transfer to the unit.”