Before Payne had even put in six months on the job, he had already drawn his pistol. It had happened when he was off duty and had come across a van that fit the description of the one used by the criminal the newspapers had labeled the Northwest Serial Rapist. When the driver tried to run him down, Payne shot him in the head. A young woman, trussed up and naked in the back of the vehicle, was saved from becoming the rapist’s next victim. And headlines hailed Matt Payne as a hero.
The next incident happened during an operation that this writer covered.
Matt Payne had been assigned to provide protection for me in an alleyway that was supposed to be a safe distance from where tactical teams were staging to arrest a gang who had committed murder while robbing Goldblatt’s Department Store.
“We thought that in having Matt sit on Mick,” Wohl explained, “we could keep Mick out of our way and at the same time keep Matt far from any gunplay.”
They were wrong.
As this writer reported then, one of the men the cops were trying to arrest came into the alleyway and began shooting. Matt Payne, his forehead grazed by a bullet, returned fire and killed the shooter.
The following day, on the front page of the Bulletin, the photograph I took of a bloodied Matt Payne holding his pistol and standing over the dead shooter appeared with this writer’s firsthand account of Payne’s heroic actions.
The photograph’s headline read: “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
A Shining—but Brief—Career
Promotion followed, but so, too, did more gunfire.
Payne became romantically involved with a young woman named Susan Reynolds and then discovered that a sorority sister of hers had become caught up with a terrorist named Bryan Chenowith, who was the target of a nationwide manhunt by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In an attempt to trap Chenowith, Payne asked Reynolds to lure her friend to a diner in hopes that the fugitive would follow and the FBI’s special agent in charge in Philadelphia could nab him. However, the fugitive brought with him a .30-caliber carbine rifle and shot up the parking lot.
Susan Reynolds took a bullet to the head and died in Payne’s arms.
Later, Matt Payne quietly admitted to a very few that the experience haunted him beyond anything he’d ever known.
Payne dealt with it as best he could, mostly by losing himself in his work. And that he did well.
When he was promoted to sergeant and transferred to the Homicide Unit, Matt Payne was given Badge Number 471, which previously had been worn by Sergeant John “Jack” F. X. Moffitt, his father.
Other dramatic incidents occurred—too many to be included here—but one of the most recent was among the most memorable, when the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line again found himself involved in a foot chase—and a shoot-out—with a murderer.
Payne happened to be at Temple University Hospital when Jesús Jiménez, a nineteen-year-old gang member, snuck into the hospital’s third-floor Burn Unit and executed a patient.
When Jiménez fled the floor, Payne pursued him out onto the streets, ultimately wounding Jiménez in the thigh before he got away.
Jiménez, it turned out, belonged to a group led by Juan Paulo Delgado, a Texican, age twenty-one. And the assassination in the hospital was only a part of Delgado’s reign of terror—one that stretched from the streets of Philadelphia to the dirt trails of the Texas-Mexico border.
When Delgado abducted Dr. Amanda Law for ransom, Payne, Detective Anthony Harris, and Sergeant Jim Byrth of the legendary Texas Rangers law-enforcement agency were already hunting him. Thery were accompanied by a confidential informant.
Acting on a tip from the informant, the group tracked Delgado to a dilapidated row house on Hancock Street in Kensington. The policemen confronted the occupants—Jiménez, Delgado, and their associate Omar Quintanilla—in an exchange that eventually left Delgado and Quintanilla dead. Payne and his associates rescued Dr. Law, who was found in the kitchen, her head covered by a pillowcase, her ankles and wrists bound by duct tape to a chair, and the arrests of the members of Delgado’s gang quickly followed.
And so now we come to today: One final time we declare Matt Payne a hero.
This courageous, dedicated son of Philadelphia gave the city his all in last week’s gun battle and selfless act in which he put down a pair of vicious criminals and saved a fellow officer.
May he rest in peace.
“We know that Matt will always be a hero to the decent and law-abiding citizens of Philadelphia,” said his deeply grieving wife, Dr. Amanda Law Payne, as she held their toddler daughter on her hip and as their twin sons clung to her legs following a memorial service that overflowed with attendees. “But first and foremost, he was our family’s hero. While we must move forward, our children and I shall never ever forget that.”
Matthew Mark Payne is survived by his loving wife of five years, Mrs. Amanda Law Payne; his sons, Brewster Cortland Payne III and John Francis Xavier Moffitt Payne, age four; his daughter, Mandy Law Payne, age two; his sister, Dr. Amelia Payne; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. B. C. Payne II; and numerous other relatives and friends.
The family requests that, in lieu of flowers, memorials be made in Matthew Mark Payne’s name to the Widow & Orphan Fund at the Fraternal Order of Police, Lodge #5, 1336 Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, PA 19123.
Matt remembered slowly folding the sheets of paper, then handing it back to her.
She smiled weakly as tears welled, then trickled down her rosy cheeks.
Softly, she said, “Life is short, baby. Maybe too short.”
II
[ONE]
1834 Callowhill Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 8:27 P.M.
Will Curtis, almost across the street, chuckled at the tune that suddenly played in his head. Then he heard himself start singing it softly: “O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain side, the summer’s gone, and all the losers falling . . .”
As he came closer to the law office, he realized that he hadn’t given a hell of a lot of thought as to how he was going to get inside. He figured if he knocked on the door long enough and loud enough he would get a response.
Hell, then again, all I really have to do is make a lot of noise kicking over the motorcycle.
I’ll bet that bastard Jay-Cee comes flying outside.
When he reached the door and had put the canteen on the sidewalk beside it, he decided, just for the hell of it, to try the doorknob.
With his right hand holding his Glock, he carefully grabbed the knob with his left hand and slowly started to turn it.
It was unlocked.
Why am I not surprised? Jay-Cee’s a dumbass.
The heavy metal door swung outward with a squeak of its hinges.
And then Curtis realized why it had been unlocked: It was a common door for the multiple individual offices within the building.
He now stood in an empty corridor, a short and very narrow one, with the inner door to Gartner’s office immediately to his left, a flight of well-worn wooden stairs leading to the offices on the upper floors a little farther down on the right, and, at the end of the corridor, an exit door to the alleyway.
Curtis decided to press his luck and turn the dirty tin knob on Gartner’s interior door to see if just maybe JC might have left it unlocked, too. As he reached for the knob, he heard someone directly on the other side of the door, then saw the knob turn. He barely had time to flatten himself against the wall by the door hinges before the door flew open toward him, blocking his view.
Then came the sound of feet moving quickly, then the exterior door squeaking open and closed.
Curtis didn’t see who had gone outside. But now he leaned over to peer through the gap between the door edge and the frame into Gartner’s office.
It was mostly dark except for the glow of the television—out of Curtis’s field of view, but he could hear its sound, which seemed to be a lot of heavy breathi
ng with rock music blaring in the background—and a single short lamp on what he guessed to be Gartner’s desk.
There were two other desks, smaller ones, their tops not nearly as messy, though one had the crumpled greasy Chinese takeout bags on it. Against a far wall stood a pair of old six-foot-long folding tables. They sagged at the center under the weight of loose fat file folders and white cardboard storage boxes. Under the tables, and all along the walls, were books and more stacks of file folders and piles of legal-size papers. And there was trash, or what could have been more legal papers, littering the worn, dirty industrial carpeting.
Curtis could see Gartner behind the desk—a big wooden one piled ridiculously high with papers—standing bent over at the waist with his face close to the desktop. He held something to his face and slowly pivoted his head from left to right while inhaling deeply.
Then he suddenly stood erect and, rubbing his nose, looked wide-eyed at the open office door, then spun on his heels and looked at the cracked plate-glass window.
After a second, apparently satisfied, Gartner then bent back over the desk again.
Will Curtis carefully stepped to the left so he could peer around the far edge of the open door. He saw that the heavy metal door to the street was closed. He started to move toward it to lock its deadbolts. But then he thought that might reveal him to Gartner, if only for a second or two, which would ruin the element of surprise.
Fuck it. Get it over with. . . .
Will Curtis quickly moved around the open door and, gun up and ready, entered Danny Gartner’s office. As he scanned the interior—Gartner was alone—he pulled the door closed behind him. This time, he did throw the lock on the door.
Before Curtis could say anything, Gartner, his face still close to the desk, casually said, “You find it?”
When Gartner looked up for a response, his eyes became huge again. He dropped what he had in his hand and staggered two steps backward, almost tripping over his own feet.
“What the hell?” Danny Gartner asked, his voice almost a squeak. “Who—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Will Curtis said calmly but forcefully, aiming at him with the Glock.
“Who—” Gartner repeated.
“I said shut the fuck up!”
Curtis glanced at the desktop. He saw the black nylon bag JC had brought. It was open, and held a plastic sandwich bag, not quite a quarter full, of what looked like ground-up chalk. Beside that on the desktop were two lines—actually, a line and a half left—of the powder, and a stub of a thin plastic straw.
Coke? Maybe meth?
Goddamn drugs.
He glanced around the room. He now had a clear view of the TV, and the pulsing lights were of a very raw pornographic scene. It was hard-core—nothing but writhing naked women and close-up shots of the sex toys probing their genitalia filled the flat screen.
Sick sonsofbitches! he thought as he walked over to the TV.
There’s no end to their depravity!
He hit the ON-OFF switch and the room got darker.
Curtis looked back at Gartner, then motioned quickly with the pistol. “Step out here in front of the desk.”
Gartner didn’t move. Curtis saw his eyes glance out the plate-glass window.
“Where’d JC go?” Curtis asked.
It was clear by Gartner’s expression that he was surprised the intruder knew JC’s name. Then that expression changed to one of found opportunity.
Gartner, his tone more controlled, said, “You’re after JC? I can—”
“Damn it! Just answer the question.” He motioned more aggressively with the pistol. “And get your ass over here, slowly.”
Staring at the Glock, Gartner began moving as told. When he was in the middle of the floor, Curtis motioned again with the gun and said, “Now, on your knees.”
As Gartner complied, Curtis looked around the room quickly. Over on one of the sagging folding tables was a roll of three-inch-wide clear packing tape. He walked over and picked it up, then went back to Gartner.
“Hands behind your back,” Curtis said, and when Gartner had complied, Curtis wrapped his wrists tightly together with the tape. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the tape roll free. Then he pushed Gartner hard between the shoulder blades so that he fell forward and smacked his face on the dirty carpeting.
“Shit!” Gartner said. “What’d you do that for?”
Curtis didn’t reply. He put his right knee in the small of Gartner’s back— and on top of the taped wrists—then quickly wrapped Gartner’s ankles with the tape.
The locked doorknob rattled, followed by a knock.
“Dan!” JC’s muffled voice called. “What’s up?”
Will Curtis put the muzzle of the pistol against Gartner’s left temple. “Don’t say a word.”
He looked at Gartner’s eyes, then decided he didn’t trust him to do as ordered. He ran the tape through Gartner’s open mouth and wrapped it twice around his head.
As Curtis stood and went to the door, JC began banging on it.
“Dan! You okay in there?” JC called.
At the door, Curtis held his pistol at the point where he expected to find JC’s head. Then he reached for the knob and unlocked it.
At the sound of the click, the knob spun and the door was yanked open.
JC stood there, an envelope in his right hand and—surprising Curtis—the green plastic canteen in his left. He froze as he saw he was looking at the muzzle of a big-bore pistol.
And, judging how his facial expression changed, he recognized the angry man who was aiming the weapon between his eyes.
“Ahhh,” JC said, dropping the envelope and canteen, and holding up his hands, palms out.
Curtis then noticed some kind of movement in JC’s midsection. When he glanced down, he saw that the crotch of JC’s blue jeans was darkening and the stain was quickly spreading, moving mostly down the inside of the right leg of his pants.
Curtis snorted.
Not so smug now, huh?
Not so tough and cocky, either.
You chickenshit. You just pissed yourself.
“C’mon,” Curtis said, motioning with the pistol for JC to come in. “Strut in over there. Beside your lawyer buddy. And get on your knees.”
After JC reluctantly moved inside the office, Curtis quickly stepped out and grabbed the envelope and the canteen, then pulled the door shut and relocked it.
The envelope was hefty, and packed with a thick wad of paper. Will Curtis put one end of the envelope in his teeth and tore it open. He blew into the hole, then looked inside—then whistled.
He walked over to the desk and started shaking the envelope to dump out its contents.
A stack of well-worn bills—twenties, fifties, and hundreds, easily totaling at least a couple grand—landed by the zip-top bag of white powder. He shook the envelope once more and out fell a cellophane packet of pills.
He looked at JC, who had gotten on his knees.
Curtis then went to him and said, “Hands behind your back.”
As Curtis wrapped JC’s wrists, he asked, “What’s that bag of powder? Meth?”
JC shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said nervously. “Coke. Take all you want.”
Curtis ignored that. “And those pills in the packet?”
He saw JC and Gartner exchange nervous glances. He pushed JC to the floor and put a knee in his back.
“What the fuck are they?” Curtis said. “Tell me, or I’ll just shoot you now.”
“Roofies,” JC said quietly, closing his eyes.
Curtis said nothing as he considered that while taping together JC’s ankles.
Then, with an amused tone to his voice, he said: “Roofies? Really!”
Curtis then leaned over Gartner and, using the pocketknife, cut the tape that was wrapped around his head and pulled the gag from his mouth.
“I think we all need a drink,” Curtis said. “I know you’ve got to have something here, Danny Boy.”
&nb
sp; Gartner made a forced smile. “Sure. Bourbon. Vodka. Gin. What do you want?”
“Where is it?”
Gartner nodded toward a bookshelf across the room.
Will Curtis grabbed the first bottle he saw on the bookself. It was vodka, Stolichnaya, specifically Stoli Razberi. Beside it was a bottle of Jack Black and one of Bombay Sapphire. And next to those were six somewhat clean highball glasses.
As he walked back to the desk, Curtis didn’t know what pissed him off more about the vodka.
That it’s goddamned Russian, or that it’s candy-ass flavored.
Well, maybe the raspberry will make the pills easier to swallow.
Gartner and JC watched Curtis’s every move as he splashed about an inch of Stoli into each of two glasses. Then he took from the cellophane packet four of the Rohypnol pills and dropped two in each of the glasses of vodka. There was a little fizz as the pills began to dissolve in the alcohol.
He took the bottle of Stoli Razberi back to the bookshelf, picked up another glass, then the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. As he poured, he turned to glance at Gartner and JC.
“If you’re getting the clear stuff,” Curtis said, “then I’m getting the dark stuff. Wouldn’t want to get them confused, no?”
He carried the glass of Jack Black to the desk and set it down. Then he picked up one of the glasses of vodka. He took it over to where Gartner lay on the carpet. Grabbing Gartner by the arm, Curtis got him back up on his knees. Then he held the glass to his lips. Gartner shook his head. Curtis grabbed him by his thinning gray-black hair and yanked back. Gartner’s jaw dropped open and Curtis poured in the vodka, then moved his hand under the jaw and closed Gartner’s mouth. It took a moment, but Gartner finally swallowed most of it.
He repeated the process with JC, though he had to hit JC on the head with his pistol after he spit out the first glass of vodka. Curtis had then mixed two more roofies with another three inches of Stoli Razberi, then grabbed a stunned JC by his blood-soaked thick black hair and poured the drink down his throat.
Then Will Curtis went back to the desk, sat in the chair, and began sipping from the Jack Daniel’s while watching the alcohol-fueled roofies take effect.
The Vigilantes Page 4
