She walked into her living room and slumped into the armchair beside a table, which held the telephone answering device. She snapped it on.
She grunted as she bent to take off her shoes.
There were a number of messages, but none of them were important, or required any action on her part tonight. She had no intention of returning the call of one female patient who announced that she just had to talk to her as soon as possible. Listening to another litany of the faults of the lady’s husband would have to wait until tomorrow.
She reset the machine, turned it off, and, carrying her shoes, walked into her bedroom, turning to the drapes and closing them. Open, they had given her a view of downtown Philadelphia, and, to the right, the headlights moving up and down the Schuylkill Expressway.
Amy decided against taking a shower. No one was going to be around to smell her tonight, and it would be better to use the shower as both cleanser and waker-upper in the morning.
She took off her blouse and pushed her skirt off her hips, and jerked the cover of her bed.
She probably had met more offensive men than Peter Wohl in her life, but she couldn’t call one to mind at the moment. He represented everything she found offensive in men, except, she thought, that he didn’t have either a pencil-line mustache or a pinky ring. But everything else she detested was there, starting with the most advanced (regressive?) case of Male Supremacist Syndrome she had ever encountered.
It was probably his cultural background, she thought. Wohl was certainly German. What was it the Germans said to define their perception of the proper role of females in society, Kinder, Kirche, und Kuche? Children, church, and kitchen. He obviously thought that Moses had carried that down from Mount Sinai with the other Commandments.
And he was a cop, the son of a cop. Had he said the grandson of a cop, too? That, obviously, had had a lot to do with what he was, and how he thought.
It wasn’t, she thought, that he had implied she was stupid. He had been perfectly willing to pick her mind about this seriously ill man who was raping the women in Northwest Philadelphia. He was willing, as he had proved by interrogating her for over three hours after they had gone back to Matt’s apartment, to recognize her expertise, and take advantage of it. Men who couldn’t fry an egg were always perfectly willing to allow themselves to be fed by the Little Woman.
Peter Wohl, Amy knew, had believed, and had been alarmed by, her announcement that the man he was looking for was rapidly losing what control he had left. He had asked her why she had felt that way, and she had explained, and then he had made her explain her explanations. And in the end, she knew he had accepted everything she had told him.
But he had never let her forget for a moment that he was a great big policeman, charged by God and the City of Philadelphia with protecting the weak and not-too-bright, such as she. He admired her skill and knowledge, Amy thought, the way he would have admired a dog who had been trained to walk on its hind legs. Isn’t that amazing!
He had actually insisted on walking her to her car and then telling her “to make sure” to lock the doors from the inside, “there were all sorts of people running loose at night.”
And if he had said “Good Girl” one more time, she would have thrown something at him.
Which, of course, would only have confirmed his devout belief that women were unstable creatures who needed a great big male to protect them from the world, and from themselves.
She pulled her slip over her head, and unfastened her brassiere and took that off, examining the marks it had left on the lower portion of her breasts.
The telephone rang. She reached down to her bedside table and picked it up.
If it’s that hysterical bitch calling again, I’ll scream!
“Yes?”
“Dr. Payne?”
“Yes.”
I’ll be damned, it’s him!
“Peter Wohl, Doctor.”
“How nice of you to call,” Amy said, sarcastically.
“I’m glad I caught you before you got to bed,” he said.
“Just barely,” she said. “What is it, Inspector?”
Was that a Freudian slip? Amy wondered. She had, quite unintentionally, caught her reflection in the triple mirror of her vanity table. She was, except for her underpants, bare. She covered her breasts with her free arm.
“I wanted to say how grateful I am for all the help you gave me, for your time,” Peter Wohl said.
That’s absurd! What am I modestly concealing? From whom? Mr. High and Mighty is on the telephone; he can’t see me.
“You said that earlier,” she said.
She pushed her panties off her hips and stepped out of them, found her reflection again, put her free hand on her hip, and thrust it out.
I have nothing whatever to be embarrassed about.
“And I have one more question,” he said.
“What?”
“What effect on our doer would seeing a naked woman have? I mean, if he saw one through her window?”
She felt herself flushing.
Why the hell did he ask that?
She looked quickly around the room to see that her own blinds were tightly drawn.
“As opposed to a woman…a fully clothed woman,” Wohl went on.
“What did you do, Inspector, just see something like that?” Amy asked, sarcastically.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, unabashed. “Quite inadvertently.”
“I’m sure,” Amy said. “But it had no effect on you, right, but you’re wondering if it would on…a mentally ill man?”
“No,” he said. “Actually, it had quite an effect on me. It was rather embarrassing.”
Most men would deny that, Amy thought. How interesting.
“The nude female, at least a reasonably attractive one,” Amy said seriously, and then saw her reflection and almost giggled as she thought, like me for example, “has a certain effect on the male. The normal male. A mentally ill male? Let me think.” She did, and then went on. “Probably, given a man with mental problems, it would have a more profound effect. I’m not sure what that would be. If he hates women, it might trigger disgust. He might become highly aroused. The disgust might trigger anger, a sense that he thereafter had the right to punish. Innocent nudity, changing clothes, having a bath, might lead him to thinking about the helplessness of the woman.”
He grunted.
“Is this of any help to you?”
“Mary Elizabeth Flannery was wearing only her underpants when this scumbag—sorry—when this guy showed up.”
“I saw that in the file,” Amy said.
“Maybe he drives around looking through windows,” Wohl thought aloud, “and when he finds a naked, or partially naked, woman, that turns him on.”
“That might have been the trigger early on,” Amy said. “I can’t really say. But now that I’m almost certain this man is out of control, I don’t really know what effect, if any, that would have.”
“Ummm,” Peter Wohl said, thoughtfully.
“If that’s all, Inspector, it’s very late.”
“Actually,” Peter Wohl blurted, “I had something else in mind.”
It had, in fact, occurred to him two seconds before.
“Yes?” Amy said, impatiently.
“I really enjoyed our time together,” Wohl plunged on, “and I hoped that you might have dinner with me sometime. On a nonprofessional basis.”
“Oh, I see,” she heard herself saying. “We could run through a long line of gangster-owned restaurants where fellow men of honor get free meals, is that it?”
There was a long pause, long enough for Amy to wonder what’s wrong with me? Why did I say that?
“I beg your pardon, Doctor. I won’t trouble you again.”
Oh, God, he’s going to hang up!
“Peter—”
There was no reply for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m here.”
“I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”
<
br /> He didn’t reply.
“I would love to have dinner with you,” Amy heard herself blurting. “Call me. Tomorrow. I’m glad you called.”
“So’m I,” Peter Wohl said, happily. “Good night, Amy.”
The line went dead.
She looked at herself in the mirror again.
Oh, God, she thought. It was Freudian. Sex is what that was all about!
SIXTEEN
At five minutes to eight, the nineteen police officers assigned to the day shift of the Fourteenth Police District gathered in the Roll Call Room of the district building at Germantown and Haines Streets, and went through the roll call ritual, under the eyes of Captain Charles D. Emerson, the Fourteenth District Commander, a heavyset, gray-haired man of fifty.
The officers formed in ranks, and went through the ritual, obviously based on similar rituals in the armed forces, of inspection in ranks. Trailed by the Sergeant, Captain Emerson marched through the three ranks of men, stopping in front of each to examine his appearance, the length of his hair, whether or not he was closely shaved, and the cleanliness of his weapon, which each officer held up in front of him, with the cylinder open. Several times, perhaps six, Captain Emerson had something to say to an officer: a suggestion that he needed a new shirt, or a shoe shine, or that he was getting a little too fat.
When the Inspection in Ranks was completed, the Sergeant stood before the men and read aloud from several items on a clipboard.
Some of the items he read were purely administrative, and local in nature, dealing with, for example, vacation schedules; and some had come over the police teletype from the Roundhouse with orders that they be read at roll calls. They dealt with such things as the death and funeral arrangements for two retired and one active police officers.
There were some items of a local nature, in particular the report of another burglary of the residence of a Miss Martha Peebles of 606 Glengarry Lane in Chestnut Hill, coupled with instructions that Radio Patrol cars and Emergency Patrol wagons on all shifts were to make a special effort to ride by the Peebles residence as often as possible.
“And we are still looking for Miss Elizabeth Woodham,” the Sergeant concluded. “That’s at the top of the list. You all have her description, and what description we have of the probable doer and his van. We have to get the lady back. Report anything you come across.”
The day shift of the Fourteenth District was then called to attention, and dismissed, and left the Roll Call Room to get in their cars and go on duty.
Captain Charles D. Emerson walked over to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, who had entered the room just as the roll call started.
“How are you, Peter?” he said, putting out his hand. “Or is this an occasion when I should call you Inspector?”
Staff Inspector Wohl had no authority whatever over the Fourteenth Police District, and both of them knew it. But he was a Staff Inspector, and he was the new commander of the new Special Operations Division, and no one, including Captain Emerson, had any idea what kind of clout went with the title.
“I hope I didn’t get in the way, Charley,” Wohl said, shaking Emerson’s hand.
“Don’t be silly. Distinguished visitors are always welcome at my roll calls.”
Wohl chuckled. He knew the roll call ritual had been a bit more formal than usual, because of his presence.
“Bullshit, Charley,” Wohl said, smiling at him.
“What can I do for you, Peter?” Emerson smiled back.
“You want the truth?”
“When all else fails, sometimes that helps.”
“I’m covering my ass, Charley. This Peebles woman has friends in high places.”
“So Commissioner Czernick has led me to believe,” Emerson said, dryly. “He’s been on the phone to me, too.”
“So now both of us can tell him, if he asks, and I think he will, that you and I are coordinating our resources to bring Miss Peebles’s burglar to the bar of justice.”
Emerson chuckled.
“That’s all, Peter?”
“I have the Woodham job. The Northwest rapist. Did you hear?”
“Czernick must like you.”
“Czernick, hell. Carlucci.”
“Ouch.”
“I was hoping…maybe something turned up here?”
“I can’t think of a thing. Peter. But come on in the office, and we’ll call in the watch commander and whoever and kick it around over a cup of coffee.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got another roll call to make. Special Operations’ first roll call. But call me, or better Jason Washington or Tony Harris—use the Highway Commander’s number to get them—if you think of anything, will you?”
“They’re working for you?” Emerson asked, surprised.
“Somewhat reluctantly.”
“You must have some clout to get them transferred to you.”
“I think the word is ‘rope,’ Charley. As in ‘he now has enough rope to hang himself.’”
Captain Emerson’s eyebrows rose thoughtfully. He did not offer even a pro forma disagreement.
“Say hello to your dad for me when you see him, will you, Peter?” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Wohl walked into the Roll Call Room at Bustleton and Bowler. He had arrived just in time for the roll call. Captains Pekach and Sabara, and Detectives Washington and Harris, were already in the room, and ultimately, sixteen other police officers came into the room and formed into two ranks.
The sixteen newcomers were a Sergeant, a Corporal, a Detective, and thirteen Police Officers who had reported for duty to the Special Operations Division that morning, and been directed to the Roll Call Room by Sergeant Frizell when they walked in the door.
“Form in ranks,” Captain Sabara called, unnecessarily, as the last of the newcomers was doing just that. Then he turned to Wohl, and asked, rather formally, “You want to take this, Inspector?”
“You go ahead, Mike,” Wohl said.
Sabara nodded, and moved in front of the formation of policemen.
“Let me have your attention, please,” Sabara said. “You all know me, and you probably know Inspector Wohl and Captain Pekach, too, but in case you don’t, that’s Captain Pekach, the High Commander, and that’s the boss. Special Operations now has Highway, in case that wasn’t clear to everybody.
“Welcome to Special Operations. I think you’ll find it, presuming you can cut the mustard, a good assignment, an interesting job. And we’re going to put you right to work.
“You all have read the papers,” Sabara said, “and know that a woman named Elizabeth J. Woodham was abducted at knifepoint by a doer we think is the man who has been raping women all over Northwest Philadelphia. Let me tell you, we have damned little to go on.
“Getting Miss Woodham back alive from this critter is the first priority of business for Special Operations. For those of you who don’t know them, the two gentlemen standing beside the Inspector are Detectives Washington and Harris. They came to Special Operations from Homicide and the Inspector has put them in charge of the investigation. They report directly to his office, and if they ask you to do something in connection with this investigation, you can take it as if it came from either me or the Inspector himself.
“We have some cars, and we’re getting more. They have the J-Band, of course, and they have—or will have, Sergeant Frizell will talk to you about that—the Highway Band and the Detective Band, and when the Roundhouse gets around to assigning one to us, will have a Special Operations Band. From now until we get this lady back, forget about eight-hour shifts.”
He paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, then gestured toward Washington.
“Detective Washington will now tell you what we’ve got, and what we’re looking for.”
Wohl saw, except on one or two faces, an expression of interest, perhaps even excitement.
There is, he thought, except in the most jaded, cynical cops, an element of little boy playing cops and robbers, a desire to get
involved in something more truly coplike than handing out speeding tickets and settling domestic disputes, in being sent out to catch a bona fide bad guy, to rescue the damsel in distress from the dragon.
And Mike Sabara has just told them that’s what we want them to do, and the proof stands there in the person of Jason Washington. There is still an element of romance in the title “Detective,” and an even greater element of romance in the persona of a homicide detective, and Washington is literally a legend among homicide detectives; sort of real-life Sherlock Holmes. They are in the presence of what they dreamed of being themselves, and maybe still do, and they know it.
Washington spoke for about five minutes, tracing the activities of the serial rapist from the first job, before anyone even thought of that term. He didn’t waste any words, but neither, Wohl thought, did he leave anything even possibly important out.
“And since we have, essentially, nothing to go on,” Washington concluded, “we have to do it the hard way, ringing doorbells, digging in garbage cans, asking the same questions over and over again. Tony Harris has the only idea that may turn something up that I can think of, so I’ll turn this over to him.”
Tony Harris, Wohl thought, does not present anything close to the confident, formidable presence Washington projects. He’s a weasel compared to an elephant. No. That’s too strong. A mangy lion, the kind you see in the cages of a cheap circus, compared to an elephant. Where the hell does he get his clothes? Steal them from a Salvation Army depository? Did the Judge really give his ex-wife everything? Or is Tony trying to support two women, and taking the cost out of his clothing budget?
But almost as soon as Tony started to speak, Wohl saw that the interest of the newcomers—who had almost audibly been wondering Who the hell is this guy? began to perk up. Within a minute or two, they were listening to him with as rapt attention as they had given Washington. Who the hell is this guy? had been replaced with This sonofabitch really knows what he’s talking about!
Tony delivered a concise lecture on sexual deviation and perversity, went from there to the psychology of the flasher, the molester, the voyeur, the patron of prostitutes, and the rapist, and then presented a profile of the man they were looking for that differed from the one Wohl had got from Dr. Amelia Alice Payne only in that he didn’t mention “the slippery slope” or “invincibility.”
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