At 11:45 p.m., Sergeant John Spencer stepped behind the third precinct's massive desk and flipped the pages of the sergeants' clipboard. He glanced down at the desk of Lieutenant Hector White who was making his beginning-of-tour blotter entries and then looked at the clock. It was midnight and time to turn out the first platoon.
Looking down at Lieutenant White, Spencer asked, "Got anything for the boys, Lou?" Lou, was, of course, a nickname of respect for many lieutenants in the army, and this desk lieutenant was no different.
"Tell them not to bring in any skells or transvestites. I'm not in the mood for a bullshit collar today. Tell Sector Charlie to get me the two slices of pizza special with a soda for lunch from Zubareta's Pizza at Utica Avenue."
"10-4, Lou."
Spencer tucked the clipboard under his arm and stepped out from behind the desk.
"All right, fall in," Spencer shouted, walking into the sitting room.
The members of the first platoon reluctantly abandoned their coffee and cigarettes and shambled into two uneven ranks, Sergeant John Spencer faced the platoon. "Attention to Roll Call. The color of the day is green," he said having already glanced at the undercover police officer who was wearing a green wristband that signified "green" as the color of the day.
He announced roll call, assigning each police officer to his post and sector and calling off their meal hour. He then read off post conditions. "Summonses and arrests are down for the month. We need movers and more felony arrests. Pay attention to your accident-prone locations. Sector Adam, watch for gang activity from the Bloods and the Latin Kings. Be especially aware of the Latin Kings because their gang initiation is to take a cop's weapon and shoot the officer. Sector Bravo watches for a male black, six-feet-tall wearing black jeans and a navy-blue Mets jersey with a scar on his left cheek—wanted for a homicide on Eastern Parkway. Sector Charlie, watch out for a male, white, five feet nine inches tall, wearing an army pant and an army T-shirt. He's wanted for rapes in Crown Heights. Sector David, tag the double parkers around the Transit Authority Headquarters. The transit authority big shots complained they couldn't park in their assigned spaces. The 73rd Detective Squad is looking for a 1999 beige Buick Impala in connection with a homicide. The car has Pennsylvania plate number 10092-PA. When the vehicle is located, safeguard for prints. Sector Charlie, the lieutenant wants the special from Subarea's pizza at Utica Avenue for lunch—two slices of pizza with a soda. You all understand your assignments?"
Two files of police officers stood in perfect silence, their eyes staring blankly ahead.
"Okay, let's do a formal uniform and equipment inspection. Everyone at closed intervals; first rank, step forward, and close ranks. Second rank, step forward, and close ranks. Everyone, Open ranks and let's start the inspection," Spencer growled. Sergeant John Spencer had twenty-five years on the job. Next year, he would be retiring.
Every day got harder and harder for Sergeant Spencer to accept the new generation of cops. He missed the spit and polish of the "good old days." While moving down the first row, he glanced with dismay that the temperature was twenty degrees Fahrenheit but with the wind factor, it felt like ten degrees below zero. The first police officers emerged from the precinct, then the cops on the 4 p.m. to 12 a.m. tour, abandoned their RMPs and hurried towards the station house.
Police officer Carlos Medina and his partner Robert Kearns headed for their RMP. Medina moved around to the driver's side. They poked their nightsticks between the rear seats, tossed their memo books into the back, dropped their flashlights onto the front seat, and threw their summons pouches onto the dashboard. Medina started to gather up the early-bird edition of the New York Post, scattered all over the seat. Kearns stretched his arm under the front seat and scooped out the empty Budweiser beer cans that had been squirreled away during the third platoon. Medina looked up at the gas gauge. "You were supposed to gas up on the 4 p.m. to midnight tour, you fucking leprechaun!" he shouted after his hastily departing relief.
They drove over to the seventy-fourth precinct to get gas and then drove to Kevin's diner on the corner of Franklin Avenue and Saint John's were two coffees with milk regular, one extra sweet, and two bagels with butter were waiting in a bag next to the cash register. The R.M.P. slid to a stop in front of the diner. Police Officer Medina and Officer Kearns alighted from the car and ambled into the crowded diner. Kevin was busy behind the counter directing traffic between several busboys, a waiter, and a cook. The store owner eyed the two policemen entering the diner as they started to walk toward him down the long counter near the cash register.
"So how is everything today, officers? Catch any criminals? Kevin asked.
"Not yet, Kevin," Medina said, struggling to pull out his wallet.
Officer Medina and Officer Kearns placed a dollar each on top of the counter. The diner owner handed the policemen their bag, rang up the sale, and gave Medina and Kearns their dollar back.
They parked the R.M.P. inside Evergreen Cemetery on Bergen Street in Brooklyn, away from public view. Kearns opened the glove compartment and rested the bag on the door. His partner Medina took the coffee and a bagel with butter out of the bag and put the coffee in the cup holder. They pried off the tops of the containers and laid them on the dashboard; cops never throw away the tops of containers. They might have to leave fast. The silence and peaceful atmosphere of the cemetery started to sink in; then suddenly a voice coming through in a scratchy mutter on the radio broke the silence.
"Sector Adam, K,"
"Oh shit!" Kearns said, snatching up the radio.
"Sector Adam, K," he answered.
"Sector Adam, respond to 85 Adam Street Apt. 6B Brooklyn N.Y. See the building manager about a rotten smell."
"Sector Adam said, 10-4." Kearns put the mic back into its cradle and glanced at his partner. "We'll finish our coffee later; let's take a slow ride over there; probably a 10-90 x." A 10-90 x meant that whatever concern they were called about was unfounded and everything was fine. When Medina and Kearns arrived at the scene, their first view was tenants loitering around the building. The policemen got out and walked down the steps leading into the complex. The building manager was waiting for them in the corridor. "The sixth floor, officers."
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and they stepped out. Medina appeared nauseous and covered his mouth and nose with his left hand. "I'm all right," he said and then gagged and puked all over the floor.
"My God—this is some skunk-smelling caper," Kearns said. They moved cautiously passing each apartment door in the corridor until they reached apartment 6-B.
The housekeeping lady reluctantly craned her head outside the elevator. Police officer Medina shouted, "We need ammonia." The housekeeping lady took a bottle from her cleaning cart and then ran up to Medina, choking and coughing, and then gave him a bottle of ammonia.
Medina grabbed the bottle and carefully made his way to apartment 6-B. As soon as he entered he began to pour the ammonia in front of the front door. "Kearns, you stay outside."
"No I'm going in with you," he said, still retching from having gagged and thrown up. "We don't know what you are walking into."
In the academy, they train police officers not to separate from their partners.
"I'll call the sergeant and the detective squad," Medina said emptying the last bottle onto the floor.
Both policemen walked through the apartment. The sofa was lying on its side, the cushions slashed and shredded. The kitchen table and the television were broken.
"No sign of a body," Kearns said.
"It's got to be someplace," Medina said scanning his eyes across the disheveled apartment.