Legacy and Redemption (2 page)

Four months later

Queens, New York City

--------------------------------------------------

It had been a particularly uncomfortable night. The hot and muggy August air was bad enough, but getting caught in the torrential downpour while waiting at the bus stop along Hillside Avenue had soaked Nazeem al-Haq to the bone. The walk from the bus stop along the Van Wyck Expressway service road to his South Ozone Park apartment hadn’t been much better. The rain continued to pour down on him, causing his long hair to fall in front of his eyes. A hole in the bottom of his work boot had allowed the water to soak into his sock, making his right foot wet and bothered.

Al-Haq stepped out of the shower, washing the night’s sweat and rain from his body. He stared at himself in the mirror. There were hints of gray in his hair and beard which had once been jet black; many years ago…before spending time in an American prison. He had decided that the twenty years which he’d spent in prison had aged him significantly. Al-Haq thought how America was probably the only country in the world where you can be sentenced to life in prison, yet still walk free one day.

Once he toweled himself off, he slipped on a beige
chapan,
which he’d brought back to the states with him from his native Afghanistan. It was so much more comfortable than American clothes, al-Haq felt
.
He sat at the round wooden kitchen table of his small basement apartment. There was no bedroom; a mattress lay on the floor in the corner of the room to allow for sleeping. The tan and brown carpet was stained with dog urine from the previous tenants. The walls—which were probably white at some point in time—were cracking from years of neglect. There were times when al-Haq would turn on a light and the kitchen walls would seem to be moving.

The cockroaches and the cramped quarters didn’t bother him though. These conditions were better than the ones he had endured during the eight months he had lived and trained in the Al-Qaeda training camp in Afghanistan; and certainly better than the years he had spent in prison.

Al-Haq opened the morning newspaper which he’d taken from his job at the gas station. He had quickly gotten used to the midnight shift there. He wasn’t even that tired most days when he got home from work. He would always make himself a light breakfast and read the paper before he would try to get some sleep. He stared at the date, August 16, 2014.

Where did time go?

Upon reflection, he knew where it went. The majority of it was spent inside an American prison cell. He had failed his brothers in Jihad, but they had forgiven him; they promised him redemption. He would still have another chance to fulfill his destiny. There was no reason to doubt them. They had done exactly what they had promised him. They trained him to make a suicide vest. They were able to sneak him back into the United States even though he’d been deported upon his release from prison. They had supplied him with false identification, and set him up with a job and an apartment. He was contacted at the mosque just as they told him that he would be. Now all that he needed to do is wait to see what his orders would be.

The seventy-two virgins will still be waiting for me in the afterlife
.

Al-Haq was half daydreaming as he flipped through the newspaper. Then, when he got to page five, a photo caught his eye snapping him out of the trance. The picture was of someone from his past. A sudden rage engulfed his body. There was no mistaking it. He would never forget the face of the man who had caused him to lose so much. Not only did he spend so much time in prison, but he also never met his only son due to this man’s actions. Al-Haq’s son had been born only six weeks prior to his arrest and died at age seventeen at the hands of a U.S. drone strike while al-Haq was still in prison. His mouth went dry; his dark eyes narrowed.
Keegan!
He looked at the headline of the article.

Hero cop’s son among 1,100 new recruits

Al-Haq scanned the article. It detailed the graduation ceremony at Madison Square Garden for the NYPD’s Police Academy class. Much of the article focused on the reduction of crime, and how and where the Police Commissioner would deploy the new recruits. There was one paragraph, however, that was dedicated to twenty-seven year old Timothy Keegan. Keegan’s father, James Keegan, was a hero cop who had been assassinated by Middle-Eastern terrorists back in 1995. The assassination was in retaliation for breaking a case against them in which they had plotted to bomb the Brooklyn Federal Courthouse. The anger built up inside al-Haq.

I would have been a martyr and living with Allah and my son, if Keegan had not interfered.

The article further went on to say that Timothy Keegan will be assigned to Brooklyn’s 67th Precinct—the same precinct where his father had begun his career. Timothy Keegan would also be wearing the same shield number that his father wore before being promoted to detective.

Al-Haq stood up; his anger consuming him. He paced the floor of his tiny residence, finally settling down at a small table in the kitchen area. He opened the laptop which had been given to him by the Imam—his Al-Qaeda contact here in the states. He was told to make sure that any messages were encoded, but there was nothing in the email that he was about to send that would be of any significance to the Jihad. Al-Haq first went to the newspapers website and copied the article and photo of Timothy Keegan. He opened his email and pasted the link after selecting Murad Zein as the recipient. In the subject line, he simply typed ‘My Ghost.’ In the body of the email, he wrote, ‘This is the son of the man I was telling you about.’

Al-Haq stood up after sending the email and walked over to the window, lifting the blind. The rain, dancing on the pavement just outside the window, had a calming effect on him. He stared blankly as he thought back to the day when he was arrested by Lieutenant James Keegan two decades earlier. According to all of the reports, it was Keegan who singlehandedly broke the case. Al-Haq had a genuine hatred for the man. Keegan’s actions had brought a tremendous amount of shame on al-Haq and his family, not to mention a significant amount of jail time. Al-Haq grabbed the newspaper and sat down on his mattress with it.

Al-Haq had done a great deal of reading while in prison. He read about many different cultures and criminal enterprises. He was particularly fond of the way Columbian drug lords dealt with their enemies. Not only did they kill their enemy, but they also killed their enemy’s children, for fear they could one day retaliate. He looked back at the photos in the paper; Police Officer Timothy Keegan on the left and his father, Lieutenant James Keegan on the right. He stared deep into the eyes of the younger Keegan. He studied his face, memorizing his features.

As Nazeem al-Haq laid his head down the pillow of his roach infested dwelling, he had only one thing on his mind; revenge.

*

Tommy Galvin walked into Brooklyn’s Sixty-Seventh Precinct for the first time. It wasn’t much different from any other station house he’d been inside of during his ten years with the NYPD. The construction was similar to many; a two story, faded red bricked building, green lanterns on either side of the front entrance; the words
CITY OF NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT
in big block letters above the main entrance. Inside, were the familiar dull yellowed tiled walls, filthy floors, and an assortment of people waiting in the reception area to make police reports on any assortment of crimes that one could possibly imagine. Through the doors, separating the reception area from the main part of the precinct was
the desk
.

The desk was the operation center of every precinct. Whoever sat in the chair behind the desk was in charge of the day to day operations of the command for the tour. Newly promoted Sergeant’s were usually apprehensive to be assigned as the
desk officer
when they first get promoted. Having such a major responsibility before you had a solid grasp of your new duties was a less than enviable position; yet it was something all supervisors had to learn. Sometimes, a senior Sergeant or Lieutenant would be with them their first time to guide them; other times they were simply on their own.

The desk, itself, was a highly polished wooden structure, standing close to five feet tall. There was a large silver metal bar serving as a barrier, about a foot in front of it; allowing for some distance from the desk and anyone who stood before it. On either side of the desk, a smaller area with a single officer manning each side. To the left was the telephone switchboard operator. Galvin hated when he was a rookie cop assigned to
T/S duty
, they were probably some of the most boring days of his career. On the opposite end was the
SP9 operator
—the officer who manned the precinct computers for the tour.

While there wasn’t very much different about this precinct from any other, what was different for Tommy Galvin was that he was now a Sergeant; a supervisor in the NYPD. The Sixty-Seventh Precinct was his new home. Galvin reached into his back pocket, removing his identification and offering it to the lieutenant currently serving as the Desk Officer. Galvin walked up the few stairs, which made the desk seem even more ominous to those standing on the other side of it. Galvin introduced himself to the lieutenant as he signed in—
Sgt. Galvin
present for duty
—in the
Command Log
.

Galvin set his gear and uniforms down on the desk as he offered his hand. Galvin read the lieutenant’s nameplate as he did.
Lieutenant Shea—I guess he’s Irish
, thought Galvin. Shea accepted his hand, returning a less than sincere handshake, Galvin felt. Galvin studied the man; he must have been in his late fifties with a round ruddy face and a full head of white hair. His blue eyes seemed more icy than friendly. Shea’s white uniformed shirt was faded and in bad need of pressing. Galvin had dealt with some of the old time bosses on the job over the years. They were the type that made you earn their respect; you didn’t get it for passing a test.

“So, you’re Sergeant Galvin, huh?”

“I am, Lieu. I’m looking forward to working here. I’ve heard you’ve got a great bunch of cops working in this command.”

Shea ignored Galvin’s attempt at small talk. “The boss did a late tour last night, but he said that he wanted to speak to you before he leaves for the day. I suggest that you get
suited up
right away and go to his office. He gets off in twenty minutes…don’t make him wait.”

“Of course, Lieu; where can I find the Sergeant’s locker room?”

Tommy Galvin stared at his reflection in the mirror of the locker room. He liked the way that he looked in uniform; especially now with the Sergeant’s chevrons sewed onto his sleeves. He put a brush through his thick head of black hair and inched closer to the mirror, noticing the redness around his neck from where he had shaved a bit too closely this morning. He looked deep into his own blue eyes and decided he was now ready to meet his new boss. He’d heard good things about Inspector Enton and hoped they were true.

Galvin read the name plate on the door before knocking;

Commanding Officer

Inspector James Enton

“Come in,” answered a voice on the other side of the door.

Galvin took a deep breath; a bit nervous to meet his new commanding officer. He opened the door as Inspector Enton raised to meet him. Enton had already changed out of his uniform and instead wore a light brown suit with a pale blue shirt opened at the collar. From Galvin’s best estimations, Enton would only be about five or six years older than Galvin’s own age of thirty-three. He was a dark skinned male with a charismatic smile, accented by a small mole above his lip. He had a tight haircut and a firm handshake. “Please, Tommy, have a seat.”

Galvin pulled up a blue fabric chair from in front Enton’s desk and sat. Galvin noticed the desk was covered with papers strewn about; in the corner was a large blue binder labeled
COMPSTAT
. Also on the desk, were photographs of Enton, with who was more than likely his family—a wife and two daughters. Enton stepped from around his desk, walking over to a coffee machine set up on a desk on the far wall next to a set of black filing cabinets. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Tommy?”

“No thank you, Inspector.”

Galvin examined the documents on the wall as he waited for Enton to return to his desk. He learned that Enton had graduated with a Masters Degree in Criminal Justice from John Jay College as well as having taken the highly selective FBI training course in Quantico, Virginia.

His credentials are certainly impressive,
Galvin thought to himself.

Enton poured himself a cup of coffee as he stared out of the window onto Snyder Avenue. “I probably shouldn’t be having this right now; I’ll never be able to fall asleep when I get home,” Enton commented. He returned to his desk, pushing the papers aside to make room for his coffee. “I take it that you met Lieutenant Shea already?”

Not wanting to be anything other than polite, “Yeah, he seems pretty nice.”

To that, Enton let out a laugh. “Yeah, he’s all unicorns and rainbows that guy,” he mocked. “He’s really not a bad guy once he gets to know you, but he sure is an old timer, tough son of a bitch; the last of the dying breed of the old Irish desk officers.”