The Artery

For the nut, the security of their homes, their persons and their property is the job of the men of the 21st Precise. The 21st, 160 patrolmen, 11 sergeants, and 4 lieutenants of whom I'm the boss.

My name is Connelly, Frank Connelly. I'm captain in command of the 21st. I was working my night to a 4 p.m. to 8 a.m. It was my first day back on the job following my annual vacation.

After I returned from my meal, Patrolman Fallon, the 124-man, brought into me all the reports and communications pertaining to matters which were still open. I began to read them over, and at 10.30 pm while I was still so engaged, 63 men were patrolling the streets of the precinct on foot and in sector drive.

Among them was Patrolman Paul Cochran, whose post consisted of three blocks of tenements between 1st and 2nd Avenue and the 90s. He had just made his hourly ring into the station house from a call box on First Avenue and was headed through the block on another round of his post.

Police, the briefing. Yeah, upstairs in my house. Come on. What's the battle pass? Can you hear me out? He's giving me out of my own house. Oh, who? Give him the big one. George. There is a pop, it's Billy.

Yeah. Well, he's giving me out. He's right out of my own flat, left the door. Oh, right. Oh, my daughter. I got it. Oh, my daughter, right. Go ahead. Come to where I'm in, here's the death and stuff, baby.

You drunk all the time, but you're serious to death. How old is he, daughter? I'll save you, little baby. Just being on all of you. Yeah. What do you live? What's law? Second floor, second floor front.