The Trip

Twenty-first-praising Sergeant Waters. What do you mean he's missing? Missing from where? Yeah. Yeah. Well, how long ago did he leave? Uh-huh. How much money? You are in the muster room at the 21st 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 124 room at the 21st Precinct. Alright, I understand. Just hold a phone. I want to connect it with the detectors. Yeah.

Just hold on. That's right. Twenty-first precinct. It's just lines on a map of the city of New York. Most of the 173,000 people wedged into the nine-tenths of a square mile between Fifth Avenue and the East River wouldn't know if you asked them that they lived or worked in the Twenty-first.

Whether they know it or not, the security of their homes, their persons and their property is the job of the men of the Twenty-first precinct. The 21st, 160 patrolman, 11 sergeants, and four lieutenants of whom I am the boss.

My name is Canelli, Frank Canelli. I am Captain in command of the 21st. I was working my day tour, 8am to 6pm. After I went through the customary routine of turning out the platoon, reading reports and communications, and inspecting the cells and other parts of the station house, I went out on patrol of the precinct in sector car number three.

At 10.30 AM I returned to the station house to keep an appointment with the owner of one of the many nightclubs in the precinct, who asked to see me in regard to the application of several of his new employees for cabaret worker permits, which are under the jurisdiction of the police department.