The Beard

Twenty-first briefing, patrolman Jacoby. No, sir, the captain's not in. Yes, he's working today. He's on his way to court with a prisoner. Up down the Red Court. Well, I don't think he's that time to get there yet.

Patrol wagons, just left here by send me. You are by transcription 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 after 21st Precinct.

All right Inspector, I'll tell him. I'll leave a message on his desk to call as soon as he gets back in the house. Twenty-first Precinct is just lined on a map of the City of New York.

Most of the 173,000 people wedged into the 9th tenths 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 homes, their persons and their property is the job of the men of the 21st Precinct.

The 21st, 160 patrolmen, 11th Sergeant, and four lieutenants, of whom I'm the boss. My name is Cronin, Vincent P. Cronin. I'm Captain and Commander of the 21st Precinct. I was doing day duty, 8 AM to 6 PM, with a little before 7 30 when I entered the station house and walked behind the desk to find the blotter.

I conferred with the desk officer for the 12th awake tour, Lieutenant Snyder, who gave me a quick summary of occurrences in the precinct since I was last on duty. He also informed me that he had been notified by the Communications Bureau, that Sergeant Waters, scheduled for desk duty on the 8-4, had gone sick at his home.