Special Operations

by W. E. B Griffin

  Home was the house in which he had grown up, the fourth row house on the right from the end of the 2100 block of South Shields Street. He had been living here alone now for two and a half years, since Father Delahanty of the Good Shepherd Roman Catholic Church had managed to convince Mrs. O’Hara that moving “temporarily” to the Cobbs Creek Nursing Center was the best thing for her to do until she got her health back.

  She was never going to leave Cobbs Creek, and everybody but Mrs. O’Hara knew that, but she kept talking about when she’d be going home, and Mickey didn’t feel it would be right to go and see her and lie about selling the goddamned house and taking an apartment somewhere.

  He went into the house and put the photo album back on the shelf where it had been kept since he was in short pants. He had carried the damned thing back and forth to Cobbs Creek two dozen times. She would ask him to bring it, and he would take it to her, and a week later, she would tell him to take it home and put it on the shelf; Cobbs Creek was full of thieves who were always stealing anything that wasn’t chained down, and she didn’t want to lose it.

  Then he went into the kitchen and decided that one lousy glass of beer wasn’t going to get him in trouble, and filled a Pabst Blue Ribbon glass from a quart bottle of Ortleib’s, which was a dime less a quart than Pabst, and so far as Mickey was concerned, a better beer to boot. He went into the living room, turned the TV on, and watched a rerun of I Love Lucy until it was time to go downtown.

  Bull Bolinski, who was probably his oldest friend, said his plane would arrive at half-past eight, and that Mickey should give him an hour or so to get to his hotel, and make a couple of phone calls. Mickey had offered to meet Bull at the airport, but Bull said there was no sense doing that, he would catch a cab.

  When it was time to go meet the Bull, Mickey turned the TV off, rinsed out the Pabst Blue Ribbon glass in the sink, then went out and got in the car. He turned on the police-band radio without thinking about it. The “naked lady in Fairmount Park” call from Police Radio came before he had pulled away from the curb.

  He had two reactions to the call: First, that what he had heard was all there was to it, that some broad—drunk, stoned, or crazy—was running around Fairmount Park in her birthday suit. If she was a good-looking broad, there might be a funny piece in it for him, providing she was drunk or stoned or maybe mad at her husband or her boyfriend. Every cop in Northwest Philly would go in on a “naked lady” call; it would look like a meeting of the FOP, the Fraternal Order of Police.

  But not if she was a looney. Mickey had his principles, among them that looney people aren’t funny. Unless, of course, they thought they were the King of Pennsylvania or something. Mickey never wrote about loonies who were pitiful.

  The second thought he had was more of a hunch than anything else. It could have something to do with a real looney, a dangerous one, a white male scumbag who had been running around lately raping women. Not just any women, but nice, young, middle-class white women, and not just raping them, either, but making them do all kinds of dirty things, weird things. Or doing the same to them. Jack Fisher, one of the Northwest detectives, had told Mickey that the looney had tied one girl down on her bed, taken off his own clothes, and then pissed all over her.

  Then Mickey had a third thought: Whatever was going on was not, at the moment, of professional interest to Michael J. O’Hara. There would probably be a story in the Philadelphia Bulletin, either a two-graph piece buried with the girdle ads in section C, or maybe even a bylined piece on the front page, but it would not be written by Michael J. O’Hara.

  Michael J. O’Hara was withholding his professional services from the Bulletin, pending resolution of contractual differences between the parties. Bull Bolinski had told him, “No, you’re not on strike. Bus drivers strike, steelworkers strike. You’re a fucking professional. Get that through your thick head.”

  Mickey O’Hara had been withholding his professional services for three weeks now. He had never been out of work that long in his life, and he was getting more than a little worried. If the Bulletin didn’t give in, he thought it entirely possible that he was through. Not only with the Bulletin, but with the other newspapers in Philadelphia, too. The bastards in management all knew each other, they all had lunch at the Union League together, and there was no question in Mickey’s mind that if the Bulletin management decided to tell him or the Bull to go fuck himself, they wouldn’t stop there, they would spread the word around that Mickey O’Hara, always a troublemaker, had really gone off the deep end this time.

  And it was already past the point where he could tuck his tail between his legs and just show up in the City Room and go back to work. The only thing he could do was put his faith in the Bull. And sweat blood.

  Mickey reached over and turned off the police-bands shortwave radio, then headed downtown, via the Roosevelt Boulevard Extension to North Broad Street, then down Broad toward City Hall.

  Bill Dohner, a wiry, graying, forty-two-year-old cop who had been on the job for exactly half his life, turned off his lights and siren when he was four blocks away from Forbidden Drive, although he didn’t slow down. Sometimes, flashing lights and a howling siren were the wrong way to handle a job.

  He reached over on the front seat and found his flashlight, and had it in his hand as he braked sharply at the entrance to Forbidden Drive. The unpaved road looked deserted to him, so he continued down Bell’s Mill Road and crossed the bridge over Wissahickon Creek. He didn’t see anything there, either, so he turned around, quickly, but without squealing his tires, and returned to Forbidden Drive and turned right into it.

  His headlights illuminated the road for a hundred yards or so, and there was nothing on it. Dohner drove very slowly down it, looking from side to side, down into Wissahickon Creek on his right, and into the woods on his left.

  And then Dohner saw Mary Elizabeth Flannery. She was on her feet, just at the end of the area illuminated by his headlights, on the edge of the road. She had her head down and her hands behind her, as if they were tied, and she was naked.

  Dohner accelerated quickly, reaching for his microphone.

  “Fourteen Twenty-Three. I got a naked woman on Forbidden Drive. Can you send me backup?”

  He braked sharply when he reached Mary Elizabeth Flannery, then reached onto the passenger side floorboard, coming up with a folded blanket. Then he jumped out of the car.

  Dohner saw the blank look in Mary Elizabeth Flannery’s eyes when she saw him, and saw that his guess had been right; her hands were tied behind her.

  “It’s going to be all right, miss,” Bill Dohner said, gently, as he draped the blanket around her shoulders. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  At that moment, every radio in every police car in the city of Philadelphia went beep beep beep, and then they heard Joe Bullock’s voice. “Assist Officer, Forbidden Drive at Bell’s Mill Road. Police by radio. Assist Officer. Forbidden Drive at Bell’s Mill Road. Police by radio.”

  Flashing lights and sirens on all the cars that had previously been headed toward Bell’s Mill Road went on, and feet pressed more heavily on accelerator pedals: flashing lights and sirens went on in cars driven by Bill Dohner’s Sergeant (14A); Bill Dohner’s Lieutenant (14DC); two of Dohner’s peers, patrolling elsewhere in the Fourteenth District (1421 and 1415); on Highway Twenty-Six, D-Dan 209, and others.

  Bill Dohner took a well-worn but very sharp penknife from his pocket and cut the white lamp cord binding Mary Elizabeth Flannery’s hands behind her. He did not attempt to untie the lamp cord. Sometimes a knot could be used as evidence; the critters who did things like this sometimes used unusual knots. He dropped the cord in his trousers pocket, and gently led Mary Elizabeth Flannery to his car.

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?” Bill Dohner asked. “The man who did this to you?”

  “He came in the apartment, and I didn’t hear him, and he had a knife.”

  “Was he a white man?” Dohner opened the rear door of the c
ar.

  “I don’t know…. Yes, he was white. He had a mask.”

  “What kind of a mask?”

  “A kid’s mask, like the Lone Ranger.”

  “And was he a big man, a little man, or what?” Dohner felt Mary Elizabeth Flannery’s back stiffen under his hand. “What’s the matter?” he asked, very gently.

  “I don’t want to get in the back,” she said.

  “Well, then, I’ll put you in the front,” he said. “Miss, what did this man do to you?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Mary Elizabeth Flannery said, sucking in her breath, and then sobbing.

  “Did he do anything to you?”

  “Oh, Jesus!” she wailed.

  “I have to ask, miss, what did he do to you?”

  “He made me—he urinated on me!”

  “Is that all?” Dohner asked softly.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Mary Elizabeth Flannery wailed. “He made me…he put his thing in my mouth. He had a knife—”

  “What kind of a knife?”

  “A knife,” she said. “A butcher knife.”

  “What’s your name, miss? Can you tell me that, please?”

  He installed her in the front seat of the car, then ran around and got in beside her. She did not look at him as he did.

  “What’s your name, miss?” Dohner asked again.

  “Flannery,” she said. “Mary Flannery.”

  “If we’re going to catch this man, you’re going to have to tell me what he looks like,” Bill Dohner said. “What kind of clothes was he wearing? Can you tell me that?”

  “He was naked.”

  “He brought you here from your apartment, right?” Dohner asked, and she nodded.

  “How did he bring you here?”

  “In a van.”

  “Was he naked then?”

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Do you remember what kind of a van? Was it dark or light?”

  She shook her head from side to side.

  “Was it new or old?”

  She kept shaking her head.

  “Was it like a station wagon, with windows, or was it closed in the back?”

  “Closed.”

  “And was he a small man?” There was no response. “A large man? Did you see the color of his hair? Did he have a beard, or scars or anything like that?”

  “He was big,” Mary Elizabeth Flannery said. “And he was hairy.”

  “You mean he had long hair, or there was a lot of hair on his body?”

  “On his body,” she said. “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “We’re going to take care of you,” Dohner said. “Everything’s going to be all right now. But I need you to tell me what this man looked like, what he was wearing, so we can lock him up. Can you tell what he wore when he brought you over here?”

  “Overalls,” she said. “Coveralls. You know?”

  “Do you remember what color they were?”

  “Black,” she said. “They were black. I saw him put them on….”

  “And what color was the van?”

  “I didn’t see. Maybe gray.”

  “And when he left you here, which way did he go? Did he go back out to Bell’s Mill Road, or the other way?”

  “Bell’s Mill Road.”

  “And which way did he turn when he got there?”

  “Right,” she said, with certainty.

  Dohner reached for the microphone.

  “Fourteen Twenty-Three,” he said.

  “Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Police Radio replied.

  “Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Dohner said. “Resume the Assist.”

  “Resume the Assist” was pure police cant, verbal shorthand for “Those police officers who are rushing to this location with their sirens screaming and their warning lights flashing to assist me in dealing with the naked lady may now resume their normal duties. I have things in hand here, am in no danger, and expect my supervisor, a wagon, and probably a District detective to appear here momentarily.”

  As police cars slowed, and sirens and flashing lights died all over the Northwest, Dohner went on: “We have a sexual assault, kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon. Be on the lookout for a white male in a gray van, make unknown. He’s wearing black coveralls and may be in possession of a black mask and a butcher knife. Last seen heading east on Bell’s Mill Road toward Germantown.”

  As he put the microphone down, a police car turned onto Forbidden Drive, lights flashing, siren screaming. It skidded to a stop beside Bill Dohner’s car, and two Highway Patrolmen jumped out of it.

  Joe Bullock’s voice came over the radio: “Flash information on a kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon and rape on Forbidden Drive. Be on the lookout for a white male in black coveralls driving a gray van. Suspect fled east on Bell’s Mill Road toward Germantown. May be in possession of a large knife. May have a black mask.”

  “Mary,” Bill Dohner said, kindly. “I’m going to speak to these officers for a moment and tell them what’s happened, and then I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

  As Dohner opened the door, two more police cars, one of them another Fourteenth District RPC and the other an unmarked Northwest Detectives car, came onto Forbidden Drive, one from Bell’s Mill Road, and the other from Northwestern Avenue, which is the boundary between Philadelphia and Montgomery counties.

  When Bill Dohner got back into the car beside Mary Elizabeth Flannery, she was shaking under the blanket, despite the heat.

  He picked up the microphone: “Fourteen Twenty-Three, I’m en route with the victim to Chestnut Hill Hospital.”

  As he started to drive off, Bill Dohner looked at Mary Elizabeth Flannery again and said, “Shit,” under his breath. She was probably going into shock. Shock can be fatal.

  “You all right, Mary?”

  “Why did he do that to me?” Mary Elizabeth Flannery asked, wonderingly, plaintively.

  TWO

  Mickey O’Hara drove the battered Chevrolet around City Hall, then down South Broad Street, past the dignified Union League Club. When he came to the equally dignified Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, Mickey pulled to the curb at the corner, directly beside a sign reading NO PARKING AT ANY TIME TOW AWAY ZONE.

  He slid across the seat and got out the passenger side door. Then he walked the fifty feet or so to the revolving door of the Bellevue-Stratford and went inside.

  He walked across the lobby to the marble reception desk. There was a line, two very well dressed middle-aged men Mickey pegged to be salesmen, and a middle-aged, white-haired couple Mickey decided were a wife and a husband who, if he had had a choice, would have left her home.

  All the salesmen did was ask the clerk for their messages. The wife had apparently badgered her husband into complaining about their room, which didn’t offer what she considered a satisfactory view, and then when he started complaining, took over from him. She obviously, and correctly, considered herself to be a first-class bitcher.

  The desk clerk apparently had the patience of a saint, Mickey thought; and then—by now having gotten a good look at her—he decided she looked like one, too. An angel, if not a saint. Tall, nicely constructed, with rich brown hair, a healthy complexion, and very nice eyes. And she was wearing, Mickey noticed, no rings, either engagement or wedding, on the third finger on her left hand.

  She gave the big-league bitcher and her consort another room, apologizing for any inconvenience the original room assignment might have caused. Mickey thought the big-league bitcher was a little disappointed, like a bantamweight who sent his opponent to the canvas for the count with a lucky punch in the first round. All keyed up, and nobody around to fight with.

  “Good evening, sir,” the desk clerk said. “How may I help you?”

  Her voice was low and soft, her smile dazzling; and her hazel eyes were fascinating.

  “What room is Bull Bolinski in?” Mickey asked.

  “Mr. Bolinski isn’t here, sir,” she replied immediately.

  “He isn
’t?”

  “Are you Mr. O’Hara, sir? Mr. Michael J. O’Hara?”

  “Guilty.”

  She smiled. Warmly, Mickey thought. Genuinely amused.

  “I thought I recognized you from your pictures,” she said. “I’m one of your…what…avid readers…Mr. O’Hara.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  She nodded confirmation. “Mr. Bolinski called, Mr. O’Hara,” she said. “Just a few moments ago. He’s been delayed.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said you would be here, and he asked me to tell you that he will be getting into Philadelphia very late, and that he hopes you’ll be free to have breakfast with him, somewhere around ten o’clock.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. O’Hara?”

  “No. No, thanks.”

  She smiled at him again, with her mouth and her eyes.

  By the time he got to the revolving door, Mickey realized that opportunity had knocked, and he had as usual, blown it again.

  Well, what the hell was I supposed to say, “Hey, honey, what time do you get off? Let’s you and me go hoist a couple?”

  Mickey got back in the Chevy and drove home, nobly resisting the temptation to stop in at six different taverns en route for just one John Jamison’s. He went into the kitchen, finished the quart bottle of Ortleib’s, and then two more bottles as he considered what he would do if he couldn’t be a police reporter anymore. And, now that the opportunity was gone, thinking of all the clever, charming and witty things he should have said to the desk clerk with the soft and intimate voice and intelligent, hazel eyes.

  George Amay, the Northwest Detectives Division detective, who, using the designator D-Dan 209, had gone in on the naked woman call, stayed at the crime scene just long enough to get a rough idea of what was going down. Then he got back in his car and drove to an outside pay phone in a tavern parking lot on Northwestern Avenue and called it in to the Northwest Detectives desk man, one Mortimer Shapiro.