The Witness

by W. E. B Griffin

  A wild hair appeared—Tony Harris was on a spectacular bender; he could have run into a school bus or something—and was immediately discarded. He would have heard of that too, as quickly as he had learned that they had held Tony overnight in the 9th District holding cell.

  He shrugged, and dialed the Special Operations number. He told the lieutenant who answered that he would be in late. He did not say how late or where he would be. Lowenstein had told him to keep the meeting at the DA’s office under his hat.

  He looked at his watch, then shook his head. There was no time to go somewhere for breakfast.

  He returned to the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and got eggs and bread from the refrigerator. He decided he would not make coffee, because that would mean having to clean the pot, technically a brewer his mother had given him for Christmas. It made marvelous coffee, but unless it was cleaned almost immediately, it turned the coffee grounds in its works to concrete and required a major overhaul.

  When the water boiled, he added vinegar, then, with a wooden spoon, swirled the water around until it formed a whirlpool. Then, expertly, he cracked two eggs with one hand and dropped them into the water. By the time they were done, the toaster had popped up. He took the eggs from the water with a slotted spoon, put them onto the toast, and moved to his small kitchen table. Time elapsed, beginning to end: ten minutes.

  “If I only had a cup of coffee,” he announced aloud, “all would be right in my world.”

  Then it occurred to him that if he was to meet with the district attorney, a suit would be in order, not the blazer and slacks he had intended to wear. And if he wore a suit, shoes, not loafers, would be in order.

  The whole goddamn shoe-shining business, including the polish-stained left hand, had been a waste of time and effort.

  He returned to the sink, and washed his hands with a bar of miracle abrasive soap that was guaranteed to remove all kinds of stain. The manufacturers had apparently never dealt with cordovan shoe polish.

  Or, he thought cynically, they knew damned well that very few people would wrap up a fifty-cent bar of soap and mail it off to Dubuque, Iowa, or wherever, for a refund. Particularly since they wouldn’t have the address in Iowa, having thrown the wrapping away when they took the soap out.

  He took his pale blue shirt off, replaced it with a white one, and put on a dark gray, pin-striped suit.

  “Oh, you are a handsome devil, Peter Wohl,” he said as he checked himself in the mirror. “I wonder why you don’t get laid more than you do?”

  He arrived downtown at the district attorney’s office with five minutes to spare, having exceeded the speed limit over almost all of the route.

  As he looked at his watch, he thought the hour was odd. He didn’t think the district attorney was usually about the people’s business at eight A.M. Had Callis summoned Lowenstein at this time? Probably not. If Callis had wanted to see them, somebody would have called him too. The odds were that Lowenstein had called Callis and told him he had to see him as soon as possible, and then when Callis had agreed, Lowenstein had called him.

  Why?

  Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, Detective Joe D’Amata of Homicide, and another man, obviously a detective, were in Callis’s outer office when Peter walked in.

  “I was getting worried about you,” Lowenstein greeted him.

  “Good morning, Chief, I’m not late, am I?”

  “Just barely,” Lowenstein said. “You know Jerry Pelosi, don’t you?”

  “Sure. How are you, Pelosi?”

  They shook hands.

  The mystery is over. Pelosi’s the Central Detectives guy working the Goldblatt job. This is about that.

  There was no chance to ask Chief Lowenstein. A large, silver-haired, ruddy-faced man, the Hon. Thomas J. Callis, district attorney of Philadelphia, swept into his outer office, the door held open for him by Philadelphia County Detective W.H. Mahoney. The district attorney had in effect his own detective bureau. Most of them, like Mahoney, were ex-Philadelphia Police Department officers. A detective bodyguard-driver was one of the perks of being the district attorney.

  “Hello, Matt,” Callis said. “How the hell are you?”

  A real pol, Wohl thought. Wohl did not ordinarily like politicians, but he was of mixed emotions about Callis. He had worked closely with him during his investigation—

  In those happy, happy, days when I was just one more staff inspector—

  —of Judge Findermann and his fellow scumbags, and had concluded that Callis was deeply offended by the very notion of a judge on the take, and interested in the prosecution for that reason alone, not simply because it might look good for him in the newspapers.

  “And Peter,” Callis went on, “looking the fashion plate even at this un-godly hour.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Callis.”

  “Tommy! Tommy! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Tommy,” Wohl said obediently.

  “Detective D’Amata I know, of course, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure—”

  “Detective Jerry Pelosi,” Lowenstein offered, “of Central Detectives.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Jerry,” Callis said, sounding as if he meant it, and pumping his hand.

  Callis turned and faced the others, beaming as if just seeing them gave him great pleasure.

  “Well, let’s get on with this, whatever it is,” he said. “Are we all going in, Matt?”

  “Why not?” Lowenstein said, after a just perceptible pause. “Mahoney knows when to keep his mouth shut, don’t you, Mahoney?”

  “Yes, of course he does,” Callis said. “Well then, come on in. Anybody want some coffee?”

  “I would kill for a cup of coffee,” Wohl said.

  “Figuratively speaking, of course, Peter?”

  “Don’t get between me and the pot,” Wohl replied.

  “Black, Inspector?” Mahoney asked.

  “Please,” Wohl said.

  “My time is your time, Matt, providing this doesn’t last more than thirty minutes,” Callis said.

  “You heard about the Goldblatt job?” Lowenstein asked.

  “You mean the—what was it?—‘Islamic Liberation Army’? It was all over the tube. The Ledger even ran a photo of their press release on the front page of the second section. Who the hell are these nuts, Matt?”

  “Between Pelosi and D’Amata we have a pretty good idea who they are,” Lowenstein said.

  “Good idea or names?”

  “Names. On almost all of them, anyway.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “There were twenty-odd people in Goldblatt’s,” Lowenstein replied.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “We have one good witness,” Lowenstein said carefully. “A Goldblatt employee. Worked like sort of a doorman. Albert J. Monahan. Pelosi showed him pictures and he positively identified all of them.”

  “A moment ago you said there were twenty-odd people in Goldblatt’s.”

  “They don’t want to get involved. In other words, they’re scared. That press release and the way the press swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker, made things worse.”

  “So if you catch these guys, you have one witness?”

  “There’s no question of ‘if’ we catch them, Tommy,” Lowenstein said. “The question is how, and what we do with them.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” the district attorney said.

  “Okay. Two things bug me about this job,” Lowenstein said. “First, something that’s been building up the last couple of years. Witnesses not wanting to get involved. A lot of scumbags are walking around out there because witnesses suddenly have developed trouble with their memories.”

  Callis nodded. “They’re afraid. I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “In a minute, I’ll tell you. The second things is I don’t like the idea of a bunch of schwartzer thugs dressing up like Arabs—”

  “Americans of African des
cent, you mean, of course, Chief?” Callis interrupted softly.

  “—and announcing they’re not really stick-up artists—in this case, murderers—but soldiers in some liberation army.”

  “And blaming the Jews for all their troubles?”

  “Yeah. Blaming us Jews for all their troubles,” Lowenstein said. “That bothers me personally, but I’m here as the chief inspector of Detectives of the City of Philadelphia. Okay?”

  “No offense, Matt.”

  “I called Jason Washington last night—” Lowenstein said, and then interrupted himself. “I tried to call you, Peter, but all I got was your answering machine. Then I called your driver, and all I got there was a smart-ass message on his answering machine. So I gave up and called Washington without checking with you. I hope you’re not sore. I thought it was necessary.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Wohl said. “But if you are referring to Officer Payne, he is my administrative assistant, not my driver. Only full inspectors and better get drivers.”

  “I don’t think it will be too long, Chief,” Callis said, “before Peter is a full inspector, do you?”

  “What about Washington, Chief?” Wohl asked.

  “He has a relationship with Arthur X,” Lowenstein went on. “I asked him to call him.”

  Arthur X, a Negro male, thirty-six years of age, 175 pounds, who shaved his head, and wore flowing robes, had been born Arthur John Thomlinson. He had replaced Thomlinson with X on the basis that Thomlinson was a slave name. Arthur X was head of the Philadelphia Islamic Temple, which was established in a former movie palace on North Broad Street.

  He had converted an estimated three thousand people to his version of Islam. The men wore suits and ties, and the women white robes, including headgear that covered most of their faces.

  “And?” Tommy Callis asked.

  “He told Jason he never heard of the Islamic Liberation Army.”

  “Did Jason believe him? Do you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He and Jason have an understanding. He doesn’t lie to Jason, and Jason doesn’t lie to him. Jason said he had the feeling that Arthur didn’t like their using the term ‘Islamic.’ That’s his word.”

  “He didn’t volunteer who he thought these people might be, by any chance?”

  “Jason didn’t ask. He said if he asked, and Arthur told him—Jason said he didn’t think Arthur knew, but he certainly could find out—then we would owe him one. I told you, Tommy, we already know who they are.”

  “So why did you have Washington call Arthur X?”

  “To make sure that when we go to pick these scumbags up, we wouldn’t be running into the Fruit of Islam screaming religious and/or racial persecution.”

  The Fruit of Islam was a group, estimated to be as many as one hundred, of Arthur X’s followers, all at least six feet tall, who served as Arthur X’s bodyguard.

  “So when are you going to pick these people up?” Tommy Callis asked.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Lowenstein said. “I want to do it like Gangbusters.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Matt,” Callis said carefully.

  “I want warrants issued for all the people that Mr. Monahan has identified from photographs. I want them—this is where Peter and the Highway Patrol come in—picked up all at one time, say tomorrow morning at six. I then want Mr. Monahan to pick them out of a lineup, one at a time, as soon as possible, after the arraignment, before the preliminary hearing. I want them charged with first degree murder and armed robbery. Then I want to run them past a municipal court in the Roundhouse who is not going to release them on their own recognizance or on two-bit bail. I want you to run them past the Grand Jury just as soon as that can be arranged, and then I want them on the docket just as soon as that can be arranged. Unless there is some reason not to, I want them all tried together, and I want one of the best assistant DAs in the Homicide Unit, preferably the head man, to prosecute. I would not be unhappy if you could find the time to prosecute yourself, Tommy.”

  Tommy Callis thought that over a minute.

  “You have one witness.”

  “He’s a good one. Credible.”

  “One,” Callis repeated.

  “You’re suggesting those thugs would get to him?”

  “What have they got to lose? It’s already murder one. And he could get sick, or drop dead or something.”

  “That’s where Peter comes in again. Right now, I’ve got a couple of Northwest Detectives on Mr. Monahan. That’s just to be sure. Just as soon as this thing starts, I want Peter to conspicuously protect Mr. Monahan.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “A Highway car parked around the clock in front of his house. If he insists on going to work, Highway will take him back and forth, and park in front of Goldblatt’s while he’s working.”

  “He could still have a heart attack, or something.”

  “And he could get struck by lightning,” Lowenstein said. “Anything’s possible. I think it’s more possible that we could come up with a couple, maybe six, eight, ten more witnesses.”

  “Explain that to me, Matt.”

  “Peter will also put Highway people on the other witnesses.”

  “What for?” Callis asked, without thinking.

  “To protect them, of course. We are dealing with dangerous people here. While the witnesses, if they are to be believed, can’t identify the doers, the doers don’t know that.”

  “Christ, Matt, I don’t know,” Callis protested.

  “Once they come to understand that they are in some danger whether or not they testify, they may decide that the only way they can really protect their asses is by making sure these scumbags are put away. An assistant DA, with good persuasive skills, might be able to jolt their memories a little. I also thought I would ask Peter to have Washington have a word with the witnesses.”

  “The Afro-American witnesses, you mean?”

  “All of them. Jason is a formidable sonofabitch, in addition to being very persuasive.”

  “You’re suggesting, ‘Here is this big black good guy, who will protect me from the bad black guys’?” Callis asked.

  “Why not?” Lowenstein said. “And I’m going to suggest to Peter that when we make the arrests, it might be a good idea to use black Highway guys. A couple of them, anyway, at each site.”

  “Yeah,” Wohl said thoughtfully. “Good idea.”

  Callis thought about that a moment.

  “I presume Commissioner Czernich thinks this is a good idea?” he asked, finally.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to discuss this with the commissioner,” Lowenstein said.

  “What?” Callis asked disbelievingly.

  “Commissioner Czernich is a very busy man,” Lowenstein said. “And besides, he won’t fart unless The Dago tells him to. Or authorize anything that’s not in the book. If I went to Tad Czernich, he would check with The Dago before he said anything. And I know, and so do you, Tommy, that the mayor would rather not know about this until it was over.”

  Callis looked at his watch.

  “My God, and it’s only quarter after eight!”

  “The early bird gets the worm,” Lowenstein said.

  “You haven’t said much about this, Peter.”

  “I haven’t had anything to say.”

  “Well, what do you think about this?”

  “If Special Operations is called upon by Chief Lowenstein to assist the Detective Division, we would of course do so.”

  Callis picked up his coffee cup and found that it was empty. He held it up impatiently and Sergeant Mahoney quickly went to take it from him.

  He tapped his fingertips together impatiently for a moment, said “Christ!” and then picked up one of the two telephones on his desk.

  “Ask Mr. Stillwell to come in here, please,” he said. “Tell him it’s—just ask him to come in right away, please.”

  Wohl glanced at Lowenstein, wh
ose eyebrows rose in surprise. When he saw Wohl looking at him, he gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  Farnsworth Stillwell was an assistant district attorney. Generally speaking, there were three kinds of assistant district attorneys, young ones fresh from law school, who took the job to pay the rent and gain experience, and left after a few years; the mediocre ones who had just stayed on because the hoped-for good offer had not come; and the ones who stayed on because they liked the job and were willing to work for less than they could make in private practice.

  Farnsworth Stillwell did not fall into any of the three categories. He came from a wealthy, socially prominent family. He had gone from Princeton into the Navy, become a pilot, and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross and some other medals for valor flying off an aircraft carrier off Vietnam. He had been seriously injured when he tried to land his damaged aircraft on returning to his carrier after a mission.

  There had been six months in a hospital to consider what he wanted to do with his future now that a permanently stiff knee had eliminated the Navy and flying. He had decided on public service. He’d gone to law school, found and married a suitable wife, and then decided the quickest way to put himself in the public eye was by becoming an assistant district attorney.

  He was, in Peter Wohl’s judgment, smart—perhaps even brilliant—in addition to being competent. He was tall, thin, getting gray flecks in his hair, superbly tailored, and charming.

  Wohl had come to know him rather well in the latter stages of the Judge Findermann investigation, and during the prosecution. There had been overtures of friendship from Stillwell. Without coming out and saying so, Stillwell had made it clear that he thought that he and Wohl, as they rose in the system, could be useful to each other.

  Obviously, Stillwell was going places, and Wohl was fully aware of the political side of being a cop, particularly in the upper ranks. But he had, as tactfully as he could manage, rejected the offer.

  There was something about the sonofabitch that he just didn’t like. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and vacillated between thinking that he just didn’t like politicians, or archetypical WASPs, (and that consequently he was making a mistake) and a gut feeling that there was a mean, or perhaps corrupt, streak in Stillwell somewhere. Whatever it was, he knew that he did not want to get any closer to Farnsworth Stillwell, professionally or personally, than he had to.