Going Home

On the evening of March 14, 2007, NYPD Auxiliary Police Officer Yevgeniy Marshalik, 19, and Auxiliary Police Officer Nicholas Pekearo, 28, both from the 6th precinct, as well as a bartender, Alfredo Romero, were slain by David R. Garvin. Two full Inspector’s funerals for the Auxiliaries occurred, on the 17th and the 18th of March, and a funeral was arranged to be held in Mexico for Alfredo Romero. The body of Garvin lay unclaimed for over a week before someone anonymously finally did so.


We gather at the station house for the first of two,
It is early, barely dawn now that daylight savings time began in March this year.
It is cold, but not a typical March cold.
Today it is clean-through kind of cold despite what is registering on the thermometer.
We speak in quiet tones, pass out the white gloves, check our brass, dress uniforms of the day, and place the black bands across our shields.
We are ready, but not.
We file past the desk Sergeant who nods.
He is a new transfer from the 6th; he says he will be there in spirit, then hurriedly turns away and wipes his eyes.
We line up outside, then slowly file to the ancient blue bus.
Our driver has a couple more stops: a precinct above us, then down to the one below us. The bus is overflowing; there are as many people standing as sitting.
The tone is muted.
The young man next to me is extra quiet.
I notice his brass says the 28; it is uptown from our unit.
I notice he is crying.
I acknowledge him and he reaches for my eyes with his, so I must listen and maybe even talk, although I don’t know if I can find my voice.
He does, I do.
The rest of his unit missed the bus so they are going by sector car; they catch up to us and beep their siren, but he waves them on and continues talking.
His tears make aimless streaks down his face and he wonders aloud, “Why?”
I am a Lieutenant, an XO of the 24 precinct, a 17 year veteran, a senior training officer, and still I can only say, “I don’t know.”
Then I clear my throat and add, “But personal safety is something we have to remember every second we’re out there. Lapses may be fatal.”
Everyone around us seems to nod in unison as if we were in church waiting for a benediction that doesn’t come.
We arrive in Chelsea, 8th Ave., W.14th St.
There is a sea of uniforms, regular and auxiliary, blending together without seams.
We debark, wait in the church across the street for awhile, then return outside where we are lined up, from 7th to 8th Ave, 8 to 10 deep.
We stand at attention, holding our salute.
The wind snaps at our damp faces as two trumpets play taps, one echoing the other.
We hold our salute; it seems forever.
The trumpets play something else, maybe it was America, I’m not sure because I see the honor guard and the family emerging on the steps, and then the thunderous roar of the helicopters, in formation with one empty spot, rush by barely above our heads.
The hearse begins to move to the slow beat of the drums and the wails of bagpipes.
The limos pass slowly by; in one, the mother and fiancé waves to us and blows us kisses.
It is cold. It is very cold.
I am sweating.

*

It is the next morning.
Same time, same place, same hush as we duplicate our efforts.
This time the ride is longer.
We go to lower Flatbush in Brooklyn.
We are not contained by two Manhattan Avenues; this time we are stretched out and there are no tall buildings to hinder the frigid 40 mph winds.
There is no surcease as we line up, ready ourselves for what we know is to come.
I watch the helicopters in the distance waiting.
We go to attention; we hold our salute, seemingly forever.
I am between an Auxiliary Lt. and a regular Lt.; behind me are two of the six Auxiliaries from Toronto, Canada.
Our 6 to 8 deep line stretches from the corner where the funeral home is, to the Duncan Donut shop a distance of three blocks away.
There are EMTs and their wagons, Community Police in their light blue jackets, and some civilians lined up directly across from us.
We stand at attention, holding our salute.
The wind drives through our garments clear to our hearts as two trumpets play taps, one echoing the other.
We hold our salute; it seems forever.
The trumpets play something else, maybe God Bless America, but I’m not sure as I sense the honor guard and family as well as the friends are emerging from the building, and then the thunderous roar of the helicopters, in formation with one empty spot, rush by.
The friends pass by on the sidewalks in front of us.
The EMTs, the Community Police, and the civilians step back to allow them space.
The friends make an effort not to look at us or at those who are giving them room to pass.
The hearse begins to move to the slow beat of the drums and wail of the bagpipes.
Now the limos and an endless line of cars pass by; in many are the close relatives who stare straight ahead or turn away, shunning the line of blue.
To them we have no faces.
It is cold. It is very cold.
I want to go home.