The Real Chain of Command
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 4: One Conversation Changes Everything
Hey there! This is Chapter 4 of my serialized story, Karam’s Legacy.
If you’re new here, I recommend starting from the beginning:
Read Chapter 1 — where it all begins
Read Chapter 2 — the tension builds
Read Chapter 3 — a murder, a memory, a mission
“As far as I know, the meeting’s still on,” Mason said, answering Amir’s question about the 9 a.m. with the commissioner.
As Amir approached the revolving doors of 1PP at 8:42 AM, the glass reflected his haunted expression. He should be happy and excited. It was supposed to be every cop’s dream to get a commendation from the NYPD commissioner. But the name "Morozov" had rung in his ears since sunrise.
As Amir stepped into One Police Plaza, his neatly pressed uniform felt more like armor than fabric. Since his undercover assignment with the Transit Bureau, he’d rarely worn a full patrol uniform. But today was different. He wore his formal Class B attire: a dark navy shirt, polished badge, nameplate over his right chest pocket, and the gleaming silver shield of a Detective 3rd Grade clipped to his belt. The collar insignia marked his rank—a detail he’d never liked drawing attention to.
The lobby of 1PP crackled with unease. Phones rang longer than usual. Officers moved fast but didn’t speak. Conversations were hushed, clipped, and shot through with sideways glances. Uniforms blurred past civilians and suits under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights—everyone moving like they were half a beat behind something bigger.
Amir stepped in and flashed his badge at the checkpoint. The officer barely looked up, just nodded, and motioned him through. Protocol still demanded the metal detector, but even that felt like an afterthought.
At the reception desk beyond security, Amir gave his name. “Detective Amir Kashyap. I’ve got a 9 a.m. with Commissioner Morales.”
The clerk’s fingers paused over the keyboard, her brow already furrowing. “No, Detective. I don’t see that on the schedule.”
Amir’s heart rate dropped a few decibels. He was about to nod and head back out the building when the clerk said, “But you do have a 9 am with the Chief of Department.” Amir was caught off guard, but thought that the schedule change was made due to the unfortunate news he’d heard this morning.
The clerk picked up the phone. “Detective Amir Kashyap, here for the nine o’clock,” she said before motioning him to wait near the elevators.
A few minutes later, a young officer in a crisp uniform arrived. “Detective Kashyap? Chief of Department’s office—this way.”
As the elevator climbed, Amir glanced at his reflection in the brushed metal doors. He adjusted his collar, took a breath, and braced himself. He was prepared to meet the Commissioner, but the Chief of Department, or Chief of D’s for short, was a different story. Chief Michael Connors was a veteran cop and tough as nails. Word was that he was eyeing the gig of Commissioner. He was also a numbers guy and believed wholeheartedly that the NYPD’s job was to arrest people for smaller crimes to prevent larger crimes, akin to the broken windows theory.
Even though he was nervous about meeting the Chief, Amir found it difficult to drown out the memory of this morning’s headline. Morozov wasn’t a friend, but he was one of them. And every cop in the city was now on edge.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. The young officer led him down a stark hallway lined with frosted windows and framed commendations, representing decades of service etched in metal and glass.
They stopped at a door with a name plate that read: Michael Connors — Chief of Department
The young officer knocked once. A firm voice barked, “Come in.” He opened the door and gave Amir a sharp nod.
Amir stepped in.
Chief Connors didn’t bother looking up right away. He was behind a massive desk, reviewing a folder—Amir’s, presumably. His presence filled the room without saying a word. Gray buzz cut. Square jaw. Uniform crisp enough to cut glass. When he finally looked up, it was like staring into a storm cloud about to burst on all cylinders.
“Detective Kashyap,” Connors said flatly, closing the folder. “Sit.”
Amir obeyed.
“You know why you’re here?”
“I assumed—” Amir began, but Connors cut him off with a sharp wave.
“You assumed you were meeting Commissioner Morales. Well, that all changed because of Officer Morozov’s murder.”
Amir didn’t answer.
Connors leaned back. “I don’t know what fantasy world you think you’re in, Detective, but let me clear it up: you don’t get escorted through this department like some celebrity just because you handled a situation that should’ve never gone viral in the first place.”
Amir tensed, keeping his gaze level.
Connors tapped the folder. “You want to know what I see when I look at your file? Low clearance rate. Below-average arrests. Spotty initiative. A few commendations, yeah—but nothing that justifies this sudden spotlight. You’ve been skating by under Mason’s wing. Since you are a Detective, you think the rules don’t apply to you. Let me ask you, not including last night—when was the last time you filed a proper collar?”
“I save people, I prevent crime. That’s my mandate,” Amir said, more defensively than he meant.
“Oh, you get to decide what matters now? Who gave you that mandate—yourself?” Connors stood, leaning in, voice rough. “You’re a Transit cop, Kashyap. Stopping one guy from throwing hands on a platform doesn’t make you a savior. You want to show off your martial arts, do it at home. This is the NYPD, not an MMA gym. You’re not running the department. You want to play cowboy? Go to Texas. Here, you follow orders, keep your head down, and do the damn job. All this buzz around you? It doesn’t change a thing.”
Amir clenched his jaw. Connors noticed.
“I don’t care what Mason sees in you. And I don’t care what kind of golden boy the Commissioner thinks you are today. Because when this media flash fades—and it will—they won’t be the ones taking heat for your numbers. I will. And I’m done shielding officers who don't carry their weight.”
A long silence filled the room.
Then Connors said, “Dismissed.”
Amir stood, nodded tightly, and walked out.
The elevator ride down was silent. But in his mind, the storm had just begun.
To say Amir was shaken was an understatement. This wasn’t how his morning was supposed to go. First came the gut-punch: Morozov was dead. A fellow officer was murdered. And instead of being looped into the investigation, Amir was summoned upstairs to get chewed out like some rookie who screwed up paperwork. He was expecting a commendation, but instead he was dressed down and dismissed.
Amir was a Detective at the very precinct where Morozov worked. Maybe just Third Grade, but still—he should be in a room with Mason right now, helping sort out what happened. At the very least, he should be kept in the loop.
Instead, he was wasting time in a political circus. Everything he knew about Morozov’s death came from the papers.
Was this whole ambush really about his arrest numbers? Since when did that matter? Mason had never mentioned it. Maybe that’s what Connors meant when he said Amir had been “protected.” But protected from what? From scrutiny? From failure? What was it?
He needed to take a breath, to calm down. Even though he felt like punching a heavy bag, Amir instead opted to walk into a quiet coffee shop just a few blocks north of 1PP. The place had an earthy calm to it, all dark wood, warm lighting, and the faint hum of soft indie music. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a few people hunched over laptops or chatting quietly in pairs.
He spotted an empty booth in the back and made a beeline for it after ordering a black coffee. The barista handed him the cup with a friendly smile, but Amir barely registered it.
He slid into the booth and took a long sip. The bitterness of the coffee helped release some of his anger, but did nothing to prevent a barrage of thoughts from entering his mind.
Low arrest record. Coasting. Protected.
Connors’ words clung to him like subway grime. Amir just didn’t believe in cuffing people over turnstile hops or loitering. Not every infraction deserved a collar. But in Connors’ world, that nuance didn’t matter. Numbers mattered. Optics mattered.
He leaned back and stared out the window, the early morning light catching the rim of his coffee cup.
“Hello, friend.”
Amir snapped out of his thoughts, gaze shifting from the window to the man now seated across from him—a clean-shaven figure in his late 30s, maybe early 40s. Charcoal bomber jacket over a gray hoodie. Jeans. Scuffed Timberlands. He moved like someone who didn’t rush for much, who’d seen enough backroom deals to spot one across a crowded room.
A laminated press pass swung slightly from his neck: The City Ledger. The ink looked like it had seen better days.
“Detective Kashyap,” the man said, his voice rough—like gravel rolled through a slow Bronx drawl. “Alex Romano. I write about cops. Mind if I sit?”
He was already seated.
Amir gave a small nod—more curiosity than consent.
Alex leaned back, as if he had all the time in the world. “One PP empties into the same stretch of concrete, and this joint?” He looked around like he owned the place. “Best spot in the city for catching cops off-duty. Quiet. Predictable.”
He first placed his cup of coffee on the table, followed by a black notebook, but didn’t open it. Just let it sit there like bait.
“You’re press?” Amir asked, voice taut.
Alex smirked. “Fifteen years chasing the NYPD. I don't do puff pieces. No parades, no community BBQs. Just the cracks in the badge. Wrongful deaths. Leaked memos. The stuff that gets whispered in locker rooms and buried in filing cabinets.”
He took a long sip from his coffee and tapped the side of the cup once, almost like a tell.
“You're getting a lot of attention,” he continued. “Can’t help but notice who your father was.”
That hit. Amir's posture stiffened.
“My father was a shopkeeper,” Amir said flatly. A deliberate lie.
Alex chuckled. Not loud—just amused. “Sure. And I’m just a guy who likes diner coffee.”
He let the moment hang, letting the silence pull tension into the space between them.
“Funny thing about Morozov,” Alex said, almost casually. “You hear he was working a lead before he died?”
Amir’s eyes narrowed. He was jealous that this reporter knew more about the murder than he did.
“Cameras were out at 36th Ave. But one backup angle caught the attack.”
“So they do have footage?” Amir asked.
“Not much. Just a guy in a hoodie wailing on Morozov. Poor quality. Can’t see a face. Just… brown skin. Big guy. Good fighter.” Alex responded. “Remind you of anyone?”
Amir looked at Alex’s face. Once he understood what Alex was insinuating, he said. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
“But here you are,” Alex said, leaning forward. “That tells me you already have doubts. About the department. About who’s protecting who. About who they suspect.”
Amir looked away. He knew better than to talk to the press. Every NYPD briefing drilled it in: You don’t speak to reporters. Ever.
“I bet Mason didn’t even brief you on this case. Is that why you’re out here? One PP,” Alex said. “They make you run some errand?”
Amir didn’t answer.
“I used to think Mason was one of the good ones,” Alex went on. “Then I started reading the internal task force reports. The ones that disappeared when your father died. Tell me something, did Mason ever mention how close he was to Karam?”
That landed harder than it should’ve.
Amir stared at the window, watching pedestrians drift by like ghosts. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the emotion he was feeling, but it was getting difficult for him to maintain his stoic expression.
Alex slid the manila folder across the table. “You seem like someone who likes facts. That’s all this is. A few notes. A name.”
“Why are you giving me this?” Amir asked.
“Because you're the only one who might do something with it.”
Amir didn’t reach for the folder. Not yet. But he didn’t push it away either. His hand clenched his coffee cup hard, a mix of emotions dissipating so fast that the urge to go punch a heavy bag was at its peak.
Thanks for reading Chapter 4 of Karam’s Legacy. The stakes are rising—[Chapter 5 is now live →]
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