Under a blanket of steel-grey clouds, the funeral procession for Officer Cormac Lee trudges through the rain slick streets of South Darkwater.
Dour faced policemen, in their starched full-dress uniforms, struggle to contain their emotion as the Gaelic Column of Pipe and Drum strikes up their martial but melancholy dirge.
“Eternal rest grant unto him, Oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him”, a priest recites, his robes resplendent despite the miserable weather. “May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”
The crack of rifles is heard, cutting through the din of wailing bagpipes as the fallen Officer’s casket is lowered into the earth.
Tears streak the solemn stares of heartbroken family members, who huddle around grief-stricken widows barely able to hold themselves upright; as if physically crushed by the loss.
Yet among the procession, there is a subtle but very tangible sense of anger, as many believe Officer Lee’s death was entirely avoidable.
Of the fifteen-hundred officers serving prior to the Great Wave, less than a third have returned to their posts, and the recent lack of manpower has almost crippled the department.
I’d witnessed the depreciation with my own eyes when I visited the Jamestown precinct during the Mary O’Dwyer investigation, but it appears what I’d seen was merely the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
I’d been given the job of covering Officer Lee’s funeral by my editor, Mr. Ramos, but found myself profoundly stirred by the tale of the departed officer’s sacrifice.
Before I knew it, I was back in Mr. Ramos’ office, asking permission to accompany the department’s officers in their day-to-day activities, in preparation to write a story on their recent troubles.