The Basket

Twenty-first place, I think, Sergeant Lyon. What do you mean missing? Lost? Well, how old is the little girl? Four and a half, huh? Who is she with, her mother? Yeah. Well, where is that? What's the address?

What then? Yeah? Well, what is that, sir? You are in the mushroom of one? Twenty-first place, I think. The nerve center. The 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, tell her I'm sending the officers right over. No, tell her not to go looking for her to stay right there. The officers will be right there. Okay. 21st precinct. It's just lines on a map of the City of New York.

Most of the 173,000 people, wedged into the 910th of the square mile between Kiss 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 homes, their persons and their property is the job of the men of the 21st Precinct.

The twenty-first. One hundred and sixty patrolmen, eleven sergeants and four loose energy of whom I am the boss. My name is Cronin, Vincent P. Cronin. I am Captain and Command of the twenty-first Precinct. I was doing day duty, 8 AM to 6 PM.

After I turned out the platoon and conferred with Lieutenant Gorman, the best officer about a patrol problem, I went into my office to read by Justin Fine, nearly a hundred reports communications that had accumulated since I was last on the job 24 hours before. At 9.20 I would fill up the paperwork.