The Kid

Twenty-first precinct Sergeant Burns. What do you mean, Rob, lady? Held up? Oh, Burglars, when did this happen? Was during the night? Yeah. Yes, ma'am. You are in the muster room at the twenty-first precinct. The nerve center.

A call is coming through. You will follow the action taken pursuant to that call from this minute until the final report is written in the one twenty-four room at the twenty-first precinct. All right, I'll send the officers right over there.

Yeah, they'll be there right away. You just wait for them. What? Oh, yeah, you're welcome. Twenty-first precinct. It's just lines on a map of the city of New York. Most of the 173,000 people who waged into the 9th of the square mile between Fifth Avenue and the East River wouldn't know if you asked them

that they lived or worked in the 21st. Whether they know it or not, the security of their home is the job of the men of the 21st precinct. The 21st, 160-patrolman, 11-sargents, and four lieutenants of whom I am the boss.

My name is Canelli, Frank Canelli. I'm Captain in command of the 21st. I was working my day tour 8am to 6pm. A light rain had fallen early in the morning and the temperature had suddenly dropped, making the streets icy and treacherous.

At 735, after I changed to my uniform, I sat in my office to begin reading and signing the reports and communications that had accumulated since I was last on duty 24 hours earlier. At two minutes to eight, Sergeant Burns on TS rang into my office and told me the eight to four platoon was ready to turn out.