You’re Michael Proctor, just another corrupt cone head cop from Canton, and you’re wondering why you and so far only you have been singled out to be the patsy, the fall guy in the failed Karen Read frame up.
Of all the jammed-up Keystone Kops in Norfolk County, how come you’re the only one that’s not getting paid?
You weren’t even at the death house at 34 Fairview Road that morning, you just tried to do your fellow cop thugs a solid by looking the other way, and this is what happens to you.
Suspended… without pay.
You’re Michael Proctor, and your bent bosses in the Norfolk County district attorney’s office are both under investigation by the Internal Affairs unit of the Mass State Police… but they’re still happily slurping at the trough.
The DA they “work” for, Meatball Morrissey, even just got a pay raise, from $191,000 to $223,000.
You’re Michael Proctor, and when you got knee-walking drunk with fat Canton PD detective Kevin Albert and drove around bleep-faced in your MSP cruiser, it wasn’t you who lost his gun and badge – it was Kevin Albert.
So now Kevin Albert is suspended, but he’s still getting paid — $176,388 last year.
In Canton, they don’t even call it a suspension, it’s “paid administrative leave,” key word: paid.
Then there’s Kevin Albert’s brother, thug Boston cop Brian Albert, on whose front lawn the body was found.
Proctor gave Brian Albert a good leaving alone, didn’t even go inside his house, misspelled everybody’s names in the reports, didn’t inquire about their missing vicious dog, refused to interview any witness who might dispute the narrative — all to cover for Albert and all the rest of the “McAlberts.”
Brian was allowed to retire from the BPD, and is now pocketing a kiss in the mail of $101,797.32 a year.
Then there’s Brian Higgins, the drunkard ATF agent – so shady he had to testify at the trial with his criminal lawyer standing beside him.
Like the other Brian, Higgins destroyed his cell phone the day before the court issued a preservation order. Higgins is riding the pine at ATF, but he’s… still… getting… paid.
You’re Michael Proctor, and as a trained sleuth, you begin to notice a pattern here.
You’ve been set up, railroaded, hung out to dry like you’re Karen bleepin’ Read or somebody.
Now you’re sweltering in your crappy little ranch house in Canton.
Your dumpy wife Lizzie is giving you the evil eye because the money’s running out and even Jill Daniels and her elderly boyfriend are still flush enough to be guzzling doubles down in Falmouth, singing their favorite Elton John song, “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.”
You’re Michael Proctor, and it all leaves a bad taste in your mouth, like you’ve just had two slices of mushroom pizza from Jailbird Chris Albert’s D&E Pizza.
You’re wondering if your old boss, Meatball Morrissey, is having his annual summer barbecue at the Adams Inn in North Quincy, and if so, why your invitation has been lost in the mail.
You’re thinking about maybe catching up on your reading, starting with the novel “Pop. 1280” by Jim Thompson, about a crooked sheriff.
You open the book, and you get goose bumps as you lip-read this paragraph:
“I had it made and it looked like I could go on having it made as long as I minded my own business and didn’t arrest no one unless I just couldn’t get out of it and they didn’t amount to nothin’.”
You throw the book down because that’s your life story the guy is writing.
You’re Michael Proctor and you knew the rules in Norfolk County – never, ever arrest anybody with any dough, especially if they come from Marina Bay.
And don’t lug nobody from Wellesley, Brookline, or Milton either – at least not unless they live close to the Dairy Freeze or on the Mattapan line.
Dammit, you miscalculated that Karen Read didn’t amount to nothin’ – that’s why you were measuring her for the frame.
But it turned out Karen Read had… gone to college. And not one of them Trooper Paul GED community colleges like you and everybody else in the State Police.
You’re Michael Proctor, and no wonder you wanted Karen Read to kill herself, her with her weird Fall River accent and no ass.
And why did you ask the McAlberts for that bribe, er gift?
All the great trooper times you’re missing this summer – you didn’t get to go on the fun road trip with Sgt. Yuri to harass women in Walpole and Woburn, as he interrogated them in his broken English about the internet, before heading back to Canton to put on some rubber gloves to dust those little rubber duckies for fingerprints that the McAlberts found outside D&E Pizza with “Colin Did It!” stamped on the bottoms.
No more inverting videos for Michael Proctor.
No more searching Karen Read’s phone for nudes.
Now you’re watching Lizzie fix dinner, and you know it’s going to be the same thing she’s been dishing up to you every night.
Hot tongue and cold shoulder.
You’re Michael Proctor, and maybe you should drive down to O’Reilly Auto Parts on Washington Street and buy some tail lights.
Then take the tail lights into the garage and smash them into 45 or so pieces… at least then you’d feel like you were back doing something constructive again.
You keep asking yourself, why do bad things keep happening to Proctors in Massachusetts.
John Proctor, hung as a witch in Salem in 1692…. Capt. William Proctor of the State Police, outed for lying at the Sacco and Vanzetti trial in 1921 that ended with the Italians’ execution at the state prison in Charlestown….
You’re Michael Proctor, and you’re wondering when your people are finally going to catch a break in Massachusetts.
You think back to all those other troopers he sent obscene text messages to, like David DiCicco, and how he texted back to you, “Bleep her bleep.”
And yet DiCicco’s still getting paid.
You look around for something else to read, and you find what Cadillac Frank Salemme (another former Norfolk County thug) told Mob hangers-on who didn’t pay attention and then ended up in the glue:
“Don’t play off like you’re some kind of abused hero. Sure you got screwed, so has everybody, that’s the life you chose. You want to be a gofer, that’s the price you pay. That’s the life, the proverbial street life….”
You’re Michael Proctor, and you can’t stop asking yourself the recurring question:
Who have I got to trade up to the feds?