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May 6, 2011 — 6:20am
Frank heard his dad enter the room from behind, shuffling quietly in the still morning aura of the home.
"Morning, Pop."
"You're up early."
"Ah, couldn't sleep."
"You've been up since three o'clock. I heard you banging around." The comment held more concern than agitation, as he poured a cup of fresh coffee from the pot on the maker.
"Well… the mayor's coming in. He's on my case about the budget."
Frank kept fiddling with numbers on the laptop screen—moving things over and then moving them back. Making no progress, only avoiding deeper thoughts. On the docket of things weighing on him today, the budget barely made the cut.
Frank avoided looking up as his father stepped closer, then sank into the chair opposite him.
"You've been thinking about Joe."
Frank met his father's eyes for a moment before looking away to pick up his coffee mug.
"I always think about Joe."
It was true. More than true. Since the day he'd received the worst news any parent could ever hear, he carried the memory and presence of his late son in his heart. Although it was said that time eased the pain—the waves of grief ebbed and changed as the days and weeks turned into months and years—a day never passed without that familiar pang in his heart. Rarely more than an hour had gone by in the last twenty-four months without a memory of that fateful day replaying through his mind.
"It's coming up on two years," Henry continued, drawing him back to the present. "Our kids are supposed to bury us."
Two years. And still the questions, the guilt, plagued him.
"I know I didn't personally order that warrant enforced, but I was his commissioner. And sometimes at night, alone… I find myself left with an inescapable truth: my son was killed on my watch."
(dialogue from Season 1, Episode 21)
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May 15, 2009 — 5:56am
Thump, thump, thump.
Someone knocked at the door, cracking the early morning stillness.
Frank fumbled with his cuff links as he descended the stairs, concern wrinkling his brow. His detail wasn't due to arrive for another hour and a half. Yet he'd recognized Jimmy's unmistakable gait when, from the bedroom window, he saw the man approaching the front of the house seconds earlier.
He swung open the door and saw two members of his detail standing on the stoop, another at the black SUV parked on the curb.
"What the hell, Jimmy? Forget to set your clock ahead a few weeks ago?"
Jimmy didn't answer, only nodded toward the waiting car. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Commissioner, but you need to come with us. Now."
"What's going on?" Frank didn't know whether to be alarmed or annoyed. Why hadn't they called if it was so blasted important?
"We don't know yet, only that it's urgent and requires your immediate attention. At the office."
Frank glanced from the blank expression on the face of his head of security, then over his shoulder into the quiet house. Pop wasn't even up and banging around in the kitchen yet.
"Jimmy, if you can't even tell me—"
"Sir." For probably the first time in his thirty years as an NYPD officer, Jimmy Nuciforo interrupted a voice of authority. "If I knew and could tell you, I would. All I know is that it's important. I was asked to hurry."
He moved to the edge of the steps and motioned to the car. "Now. Please."
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May 15, 2009 — 6:23am
The chaos of voices in the One PP bullpen instantly faltered into silence when Police Commissioner Frank Reagan stepped from the elevator onto the fourteenth floor. Some stood to attention. Others only glanced up and continued their work on desktop screens. Although the sudden silence seemed odd it wasn't unusual for the guarding officers to jump to attention when he entered.
He nodded to the detective standing nearest. "As you were." And proceeded across the room toward his private office. Detective Baker stood from her desk, opening the door, and letting him inside. Instead of remaining at his desk out front, Detective Nuciforo followed them in and took up a silent position near the closed door.
As soon as the office door was closed behind the three of them, Frank turned his attention to Baker and waited for an explanation.
None came.
She stood facing him, hands clasped in front of her, professional as ever. Although the day's schedule was absent from her hands and she hadn't offered to make coffee.
"Perhaps you can tell me what all this is about," Frank prodded, making no move to settle into his desk chair.
When Baker met his gaze, she seemed … uncomfortable. Conflicted. Almost unsure of herself—something he'd rarely if ever seen in her during the three years she'd occupied the first desk outside his door.
"We have an officer down, sir."
Frank drew in a deep breath and moved to stand behind his desk. These made for the worst of days. Even though he'd done it multiple times, visiting with the family of the injured or dying never became any easier.
But even so, such an incident usually didn't demand such clandestine actions among his closest staff.
"Likely?" he asked when half-a-minute had ticked by without a briefing from Baker on the details of the officer's status.
Baker exchanged a discreet glance with Jimmy. Or it was probably meant to be discreet, though Frank immediately caught on.
"Likely?" He repeated when neither of them answered. "What is the officer's name? Which precinct?"
Baker lifted her chin to meet his eyes, almost as if she had to steel herself before she could face him. As if she had not done this multiple times before.
What the hell was going on here?
"No details on the detec-… uh… officer has been released as of yet, sir."
Frank forced himself not to dwell on Baker's slip-up as she'd almost marked the injured cop as a detective, revealing she knew more about the situation than she was saying.
He pressed his palms to the desk, leaning forward across the mahogany surface. "Released? This is not a press conference, Baker, and I'm not the editor of the Times. You're telling me one of my officers has been shot in my city and my own team doesn't even know what the hell happened out there?! Can't even get me the officer's identity? Or status?"
Baker didn't flinch at his questioning, but she did avert her gaze enough that she no longer had to face him. Jimmy awkwardly cleared his throat.
The tension in the room intensified.
Something was wrong.
"I'm sorry, sir. That's all the information they gave me."
Finally, Baker looked up. There was something indecipherable in her eyes. Her air of professionalism and confidentiality that had landed her in the PC's office while still a recently promoted detective was faltering.
She swallowed, glanced at Jimmy, then looked back at Frank. She almost looked…sorry. "And th—they said to let you know that Sergeant Slewinsky from the 12th is on his way up."
12th precinct.
Detective.
The shreds of information began to click into place.
Detective Joseph Reagan worked with the warrants squad out of the 12th precinct. His son. He'd come by Frank's house yesterday evening before heading in to work the 7-to-7 shift last night. Under the command of Sergeant Slewinsky.
Joe…
Hardly aware of his own actions, Frank sank into the desk chair.
Oh God no…
His heart raced. The room spun out of focus.
No… no… no…
But it all fit, each bit falling into place. They'd waited, avoiding telling him that an officer was down until they knew for sure. Even now, they weren't saying Joe's name until they had absolute confirmation.
"Commissioner?"
The voice came as if through a fog. Frank was aware of Abigail to his right, but he couldn't answer her. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
Joe…
Muffled voices. Hurried footsteps.
The door swung open.
Garrett Moore stepped into the room, his hardened face revealing that he knew all. Slewinsky was on his heels, his hat clutched in his hands.
"Frank, I…"
Two more figures emerged from the doorway.
Reality toppled down on top of the last remaining sparks of hope he'd held onto during the last sixty seconds.
Danny.
Blood smeared down the front of his oldest son's blue dress shirt. A detective's shield clutched in his left hand. Between the speckled clothing and red-ringed eyes, Danny's appearance alone told a story. Detective Curatola, Danny's partner, entered just behind him, taking care to close the office door.
Frank pushed to his feet, keeping his balance with a hand to the desk.
"Danny?"
Tell me it isn't true, son… his heart pleaded in silent angst.
Tears welled in his son's eyes as he met his father's gaze. He blinked as he took a step forward, looking down at the shield grasped in his hand, then back into his father's face.
"I'm so sorry, Dad."
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