Special Operations

by W. E. B Griffin

  Deputy Commissioner Wilson was not really sure in his own mind why the mayor behaved this way, whether it was because, as the mayor himself had said, he was unable to dilute his policeman’s blood to the point where he could not respond to an officer needs assistance call, or whether it was calculated, on purpose. The mayor very often got his picture in the newspapers, and his image on the television, at one crime scene or another, often standing with his hands on his hips, pushing back his suit jacket so that the butt of his Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver could be seen.

  Commissioner Wilson was very much aware that one did not become mayor of the nation’s fourth largest city if one was either stupid, childish, or unaware of the importance of public relations and publicity. There were a lot of voters who liked the idea of having their mayor rush to the scene of a crime wearing a gun.

  “I think it probably has to do with the Ledger editorial last Sunday,” Commissioner Czernick said now.

  This produced a chorus of grunts, and several mildly profane expressions. Following a Highway Patrol shooting, in which two North Philadelphia youths, interrupted while they were holding up a convenience store, were killed, one of them having six wounds in his body, the Ledger published an indignant editorial, under the headline, “POLICE FORCE? OR A JACKBOOTED GESTAPO?”

  It was not the first time the Ledger had referred to the highly polished motorcyclist’s black leather boots worn by police officers assigned to Highway Patrol as Gestapo Jackboots.

  “Has he got someone in mind?” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked.

  Coughlin looked not unlike Commissioner Czernick. He was tall, and large boned, and had all his teeth and all his curly hair, now silver. He was one of eleven Chief Inspectors of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia. But it could be argued that he was first among equals. Under his command, among others, were the Narcotics Unit, the Vice Unit, the Internal Affairs Division, the Staff Investigation Unit, and the Organized Crime Intelligence Unit.

  The other ten Chief Inspectors reported to either the Deputy Commissioner (Operations) or the Deputy Commissioner (Administration), who reported to the Commissioner. Denny Coughlin reported directly to the Commissioner, and not unreasonably, believed that what happened anywhere in the Police Department was his business.

  “The mayor has several things in mind,” Commissioner Czernick said, carefully, “thoughts which he has been kind enough to share with me.”

  “Uh oh,” Lowenstein said.

  “He thinks that David Pekach would make a fine commander of Highway,” Commissioner Czernick said.

  Chief Lowenstein considered that for a moment, then said, chuckling, “But he’d have to cut off his pigtail. Do you think David would be willing to do that?”

  There were chuckles from everyone around the conference table except for Deputy Commissioner for Administration Wilson. Newly promoted Captain Pekach wasn’t even on the preliminary list of fourteen captains Commissioner Wilson had drawn up to fill the vacancy of Commanding Officer, Highway Patrol, created when Captain Richard C. Moffitt had been shot to death trying to stop an armed robbery.

  “Mike Sabara was next in line for Highway,” Chief Inspector Coughlin said. “And he’s qualified. I guess the mayor’s thought about that?”

  “The mayor thinks Mike would fit in neatly as Deputy Commander of Special Operations Division,” Commissioner Czernick said, “especially if I went along with his suggestion to take Highway away from Traffic and put it under Special Operations. Then it would be sort of a promotion for Sabara, the mayor says.”

  “I thought that Special Operations Division idea was dead,” Deputy Commissioner for Operations Francis J. Cohan said. It was the first time he’d spoken. “I didn’t like it, said so, and now I’m going to get it anyway?”

  “Denny’s going to get it,” Commissioner Czernick said, nodding his head toward Chief Inspector Coughlin.

  “My God!” Cohan said. “If Highway isn’t Operations, what is?”

  “Everything you have now, except Highway,” Commissioner Czernick said. “Highway is now under Special Operations.”

  “Highway and what else?” Cohan asked.

  “Highway and ACT,” Czernick said.

  “The ACT grant came through?” Deputy Commissioner Wilson asked, both surprised and annoyed.

  ACT was the acronym for Anti-Crime Teams, a federally funded program administered by the Justice Department. It was a test, more or less, to see what effect saturating a high-crime area with extra police, the latest technology, and special assistance from the district attorney in the form of having assistant district attorneys with nothing to do but push ACT-arrested criminals through the criminal justice system would have, short and long term, on crime statistics.

  “When did all this happen?” Cohan asked.

  “The mayor told me he had a call from the senator Friday afternoon about the ACT grant,” Czernick said. “I suppose it’ll be in the papers today, or maybe on the TV tonight. The mayor says we’ll start getting money, some of it right away.”

  “I meant about this Special Operations,” Cohan said.

  “Wait a minute,” Czernick said. “I’m glad this came up.” He shifted in his chair to look at Deputy Commissioner for Administration Wilson. “Harry, I don’t want to be told that, in setting up Special Operations, something can’t be done because there’s no money. You authorize whatever is necessary, using contingency funds, until the federal money comes in. Then reimburse the contingency fund. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Deputy Commissioner Wilson said.

  Czernick turned back to Deputy Commissioner Cohan.

  “To answer your question, it happened yesterday. I don’t know how long he’s been thinking about it, but it happened about half-past ten yesterday morning. When he came home from mass, he called me up and said if I didn’t have anything important going on, I should come by and he’d give me a cup of coffee.”

  “Was that before or after he read the Ledger?” Lowenstein asked.

  “He asked me if I’d seen it the moment I walked in the door,” Czernick said.

  “And when is all this going to happen?” Cohan asked.

  “It’s happening right now, Frank,” Czernick said. “It’s effective today.”

  “Am I going to get to pick a commander for this Special Operations Division?” Coughlin asked.

  “Anybody you want, Denny,” Commissioner Czernick said, “just so long as his name is Peter Wohl.”

  “Jesus,” Coughlin exploded, “why doesn’t he just move in here if he’s going to make every goddamned decision?” He paused, then added, “Not that I have anything against Peter Wohl. But…Jesus!”

  “He doesn’t have to move in here, Denny,” Commissioner Czernick said. “Not as long as he has my phone number.”

  “Did Mayor Carlucci give you his reasons for all this?” Deputy Commissioner Wilson asked. “Or for any of it?”

  “No, but what he did do when he explained everything—there’s a little more I haven’t gotten to yet—was to ask me if I had any objections, if there was something wrong with it that he’d missed.”

  “And you couldn’t think of anything?” Cohan asked, softly.

  “He wants a Special Operations Division,” Czernick said. “He knows you don’t want it. So he gave it to Denny Coughlin. He wants Peter Wohl to run it. What was I supposed to say, ‘Peter isn’t qualified’? He thinks Mike Sabara is bad for Highway’s image. What was I supposed to say, for Christ’s sake, that ‘beauty is only skin deep’?”

  Cohan shrugged. “You said there’s more,” he said.

  “Just as soon as Peter Wohl has a little time to get his feet wet,” Czernick said, “Denny will ask him to recommend, from among Highway Patrol sergeants, someone to take over as the mayor’s driver. Sergeant Lucci, who is driving the mayor now, made it onto the lieutenants’ list. As soon as Peter can find a replacement for him, Lieutenant Lucci will return to ordinary superv
isory duties commensurate with his rank, in Highway.”

  “You don’t happen to think,” Chief Lowenstein said, dryly sarcastic, “that Lieutenant Lucci might have in mind getting some of this ACT money for Highway, do you? Or that he might just happen to bump into the dago every once in a while, say once a week, and just happen to mention in idle conversation that Highway didn’t get as much of it as he thinks they should? Nothing like that could be happening, could it, Tad?”

  “I don’t know,” Czernick said, coldly. “But if he did, that would be Peter Wohl’s problem, wouldn’t you say? Wohl’s and Denny’s?”

  “What’s he really got in mind, long term, for this Special Operations?” Chief Coughlin asked.

  “Long term, I haven’t any idea,” said Czernick. “Short term, yeah, I know what he’s got in mind.”

  There was a pause, and when it didn’t end, Denny Coughlin said, “You going to tell us?”

  “What he said, Denny, was that he thought it would be nice if he could hold a press conference in a couple of weeks, where he could announce that an Anti-Crime Team of the new Special Operations Division, which was a little suggestion of his to the Police Department, had just announced the arrest of the sexual pervert who had been raping and terrorizing the decent women of Northwest Philadelphia.”

  “That scumbag is none of the Anti-Crime Team, or Special Operations, or Highway’s business,” Chief Inspector Lowenstein said, coldly angry. “Rape is the Detective Bureau’s business. It always has been.”

  “It still is, Matt,” Czernick said, evenly, “except for what’s going on in Northwest Philadelphia. That’s now in Peter Wohl’s lap because Jerry Carlucci says it is.”

  “He was at it again last night,” Deputy Commissioner Cohan said. “He broke into the apartment of a woman named Mary Elizabeth Flannery, on Henry Avenue in Roxborough, tied her to her bed, cut her clothes off with a hunting knife, took of his clothes, committed an incomplete act of oral sodomy on her, and when that didn’t get his rocks off, he pissed all over her. Then he tied her hands behind her back, loaded her in a van, and dumped her naked on Forbidden Drive in Fairmount Park.”

  “What do you mean, dumped her naked in the park?” Lowenstein asked.

  “Just that, Matt. He carried her over there in a van, then pushed her out. Hands tied behind her back. Not a stitch on her.”

  “You catch somebody like that,” Lowenstein said, “what you should do is cut the bastard’s balls off and leave him to bleed to death.”

  “Let’s just hope that Peter Wohl can catch him,” Czernick said.

  At five minutes after ten, Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, legal counsel to the Philadelphia Bulletin, presented himself at the door of the Theodore Roosevelt Suite.

  “Mr. Bolinski,” Colonel Mawson said, as he enthusiastically pumped the Bull’s hand, “I’m one of your greatest fans.”

  “And I of yours, Colonel,” the Bull said. Before the sentence was completely out of the Bull’s mouth, Mickey O’Hara realized that the Bull no longer sounded like your typical Polack Catholic product of West Philly. “I can only hope that the presence of the dean of the Philadelphia Criminal Bar does not carry with it any suggestion that larceny is at hand.”

  Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson beamed.

  “Bull,” he said, “—may I call you Bull?”

  “Certainly,” the Bull said. “I do hope we’re going to be friends.”

  “Bull, the truth of the matter is that I pulled a little rank. I’m a senior partner in the firm, and I took advantage of that so that I would have a chance to meet you.”

  “I’m flattered,” the Bull said, “and honored to meet you, Colonel.”

  “The honor is mine,” Mawson said, “to meet the man who is arguably the best tackle football has ever known.”

  “This is my wife, Colonel,” the Bull said, “and I believe you know Mr. O’Hara?”

  “A privilege to meet you, ma’am,” Mawson said.

  “May we offer you some coffee, Colonel? Or perhaps something else?” Antoinette said.

  “Coffee seems like a splendid idea,” Colonel Mawson said. He nodded at Mickey, but said nothing and did not offer his hand.

  This was followed by a ten-minute tour, conducted by Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, down Football Memory Lane. Then came a detour, via Bull’s mentioning that he represented Lenny Moskowitz, lasting another ten minutes, in which the intricacies of premarital agreements were discussed in terms Mickey couldn’t understand at all.

  Finally, the Bull said, “Colonel, I really hate to break this off, but Antoinette and I are on a tight schedule.”

  “Of course,” Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson said, “forgive me.”

  He reached into his alligator attaché case and came up with a manila folder, which he passed to the Bull.

  “I think you’ll find that brings us to a state of agreement,” he said.

  The Bull read the document very carefully, while Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson hung on every word of Mrs. Bolinski’s tour guide of the better restaurants in the Miami/Palm Beach area.

  “With one or two minor caveats,” the Bull said, “this appears to be what I discussed with—what was his name?”

  “Lemuelson,” Colonel Mawson said, “Steve Lemuelson. What seems to trouble you, Bull?”

  “I’d like to add a phrase here,” the Bull said.

  Colonel Mawson scurried to Bull’s armchair and looked over his shoulder, then read aloud what the Bull had written in: “…it being understood between the parties that the annual increase will ordinarily be approximately ten percentum of both compensation and reimbursement of expenses, unless the annual rate of inflation has exceeded four percentum, in which case the annual increase in compensation will ordinarily be ten percentum plus seventy percentum of the rate of inflation, according to the latest then published figures by the U.S. Department of Commerce.”

  Colonel Mawson grunted.

  “You see the problem, of course, Counselor,” the Bull said.

  “I think we can live with that, Bull,” Colonel Mawson said.

  Mickey didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.

  “And then here in fourteen (c) six,” the Bull said, “I think a little specificity would be in order. You can see what I’ve penciled in.”

  And again Colonel Mawson read the modified clause aloud, “A Buick Super, Mercury Monterey, or equivalent automobile, including special radio apparatus, satisfactory to Mr. O’Hara, including installation, maintenance, and all related expenses thereto pertaining.”

  Colonel Mawson paused thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Oh, I see. Well, that certainly seems reasonable enough.”

  “Good,” the Bull said, “and last, I have added a final paragraph, thirty-six.” He flipped through the document and then pointed it out to Mawson. This time he read it aloud: “The terms of this agreement shall be effective as of from 1 June 1973.”

  “But, Bull,” the colonel protested, “he hasn’t been working all that time.”

  “He would have been working, if you had then agreed to the terms agreed to here,” the Bull said.

  The colonel hesitated, then said, “Oh, hell, what the hell, Bull, why not?”

  “I don’t think Mr. O’Hara is being unreasonable,” the Bull said.

  “I’m sorry it got as far as withholding services,” Colonel Mawson said.

  “What I suggest we do now is have Mr. O’Hara sign, and initial all the modified sections,” the Bull said. “And then when I get back to the office I’ll have my girl run off a half dozen copies on the Xerox and pop them in the mail to you.”

  When Mickey O’Hara scrawled his initials in the margin beside Section II-Compensation, he saw that a line had been drawn through what had originally been typed, SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS AND NO CENTS ($750.00), and that his corrected weekly compensation was to be ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS AND NO CENTS ($1,000.00), said sum to be paid weekly by check payable to Heidenheimer & Boli
nski, P.C., who herewith assume responsibility for the payment of all applicable federal, state, and local income taxes and Social Security contributions.

  When he came down from the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, there were two people behind the front desk of the Bellevue-Stratford, neither of them Miss Travis. He was torn between disappointment and relief that somebody had finally shown up to take her place.

  He wondered how she would react if he just happened to come by the Bellevue-Stratford and say hello, and maybe ask her if she wanted to go get something to eat, or go to a movie, or something.

  Then he realized that was foolish. She had given him the same smile she had given the blue-haired broad who had bitched about her room. Maybe the smile was a little more genuine, but even so that would be because he was at the Bellevue-Stratford to see the Bull, who was staying in one of the more expensive suites.

  But maybe not. She had said she was a—what did she say?—an avid reader.

  And then Mickey O’Hara pushed through the revolving door and onto South Broad Street, and there she was, coming up the street headed toward City Hall, carrying a paper sack in each arm. He saw paper towels in one of them.

  “Hi!” she said.

  “I thought you were going to bed.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said.

  “Can I take you?”

  There you go, O’Hara, both fucking feet in your mouth!

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Mickey said. “I mean, I got my car…”

  “I’m probably going nowhere near where you are,” she said, after a just perceptible pause.

  “Where?”

  “Roxborough.”

  “Practically on my way,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  It would be on my way if you were going to Mexico City.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  He pointed to it.

  “You’re sure you’re really going that way?” she asked.

  “Positive.”

  Miss Travers didn’t seem to think anything was wrong with his car, but Mickey managed to drop into their conversation that he was about to get a new one, that he was thinking of either a Mercury or Buick.