EpilogueHe didn’t need to hear the mournful tones of the bagpipes to know what today was.
St. Patrick’s Day.
He could have been at the parade, watching as the route traveled north up Fifth Avenue. Watching the proud members of the NYPD march in unison, brothers and sisters one with each another. The sounds of the spectators, their cheers were no doubt filling the streets, a celebration of culture and heritage and honor dating back centuries. For one man, Jimmy McSwain, what he chose to remember today was one man whose memory was linked to the parade. A man who was being returned to the ground, ashes to ashes.
On this unusually cool March morning, a hopeful spring just days away, Jimmy stood before the fresh grave, his leather jacket wrapped tight around him, the wind whipping across the
