"When you take Lanza, can you take any of the scumbags with him?" Coughlin asked.
"More important, are you sure you can take Lanza?" Lowenstein asked.
"We'll just have to see, Chief," Wohl said.
"You have good people doing the surveillance?" Lowenstein asked.
"Internal Affairs is providing most of it," Wohl replied. "And I loaned them Sergeant O'Dowd, but my priority, of course, is finding this Wheatley screwball before he hurts somebody."
"For all of us," Denny said.
"I want this dirty corporal, Peter," Lowenstein said. "Rather than blow it, I would just as soon let this 'fruit basket' tonight slip through. If there's one, there'll be others."
"I'll keep that in mind, Chief."
"We have a minute, with Larkin and Young gone, to talk about what we do now that we know who this Wheatley nut is, but not where he is," Coughlin said.
"Which means you've been thinking about it," Lowenstein said. "Go on, Denny."
"Worst case scenario," Coughlin said. "Despite one hell of an effort by everybody concerned to find this guy, and the only way I know to do that is by running down any and every lead we come across, ringing every other doorbell in the city, we don't find him. The odds are that Washingtonwill turn up something at the bank, or from his neighbors. But let's say that doesn't happen."
"Worst case scenario, right?" Lowenstein said sarcastically.
Coughlin's face darkened, but he decided to let the sarcasm pass.
"When Peter said we have to catch Wheatley before he hurts somebody," he went on, "he wasn't talking about just the Vice President. This guy has the means, and I think is just crazy enough, to hurt a lot of people. You heard what Charley said his expert said, that he's probably going to set off his bomb,bombs, by radio?"
Both Wohl and Lowenstein nodded.
"That means he could be walking up Market Street with his bomb under his arm andhis radio in Camden, and somebody turns on a shortwave radio, maybe in an RPC, and off the bomb goes."
"I don't know what we can do about that," Lowenstein said.
"Or he could be walking up Market Street with his bomb under one arm, and his radio under the other, and he spots somebody who looks like the Secret Service, or the FBI, and he pushes the button."
"I don't know where you're going, Denny," Lowenstein confessed.
"Well, I said, 'Market Street' but I don't think he's going to try to set his bomb off on Market Street. He may be a nut, but he's smart. And I don't think he plans to commit suicide when he- what did he say,'disintegrates '?-the Vice President. That means he has to put the bomb someplace where he can see it, and the Vice President, from someplace he'll be safe when it goes off."
"Okay," Lowenstein said after a moment.
"There aren't very many places he can do that on Market Street," Coughlin went on. "The only place you could hide a bomb would be, for example, an empty store or a trash can or a mailbox."
"The Post Office will send somebody to open all mailboxes an hour before the Vice President arrives," Wohl replied. "Then they'll chain them shut. Larkin set that up with the postal inspectors. And I, actually Jack Malone, arranged with the City to have every trash basket, et cetera, in which a bomb could be hidden, removed by nine A.M., two hours before the Vice President gets here. And we'll check the stores, empty and otherwise."
"I don't think he's thinking about Market Street anyway," Coughlin said. "He'd have only a second or two to set the bomb off. That's not much margin for error." He paused. "But I damned sure could be wrong. So we're going to have to have Market Street covered from the river to 30^th Street Station."
"Which leaves Independence Square and 30^th Street Station," Wohl said. "I don't think Independence Square. He knows that we're going to have people all over there, and that he will have a hard time getting close to the Vice President, close enough to hurt him with a bomb."
"That presumes Denny's right about him not wanting to commit suicide," Lowenstein said. "Maybe he likes the idea of being a martyr."
"I think we can let the Secret Service handle somebody rushing up to the Vice President," Coughlin said. "They're very good at that. I keep getting back to 30^th Street Station."
"Okay. But tell me why?"
"Well, we can't close it off, for one thing. Trains are going to arrive and depart. They will be carrying people, and many, if not most, of those people will be carrying some kind of luggage, either a briefcase, if they're commuters, or suitcases. Are we going to stop everybody and search their luggage?"
"I don't suppose there's any chance, now that we know this guy is for real, that the Vice President can be talked out of this goddamned motorcade?" Lowenstein asked.
"None," Coughlin said. "I was there when Larkin called Washington."
Lowenstein shrugged and struck a wooden match and relit his cigar.
"We're listening, Denny," he said.
"And there's a lot of places in 30^th Street Station to hide a bomb, half a dozen bombs," Coughlin went on. "Places our guy can see from half a dozen places he'd be hard to spot. You follow?"
"Not only do I follow, but I have been wondering if you think Larkin doesn't know all this."
"Larkin knows. We've talked."
"Ahha! And I'll bet that you're about to tell us what you and the Secret Service have come up with, aren't you?"
"WhatI came up with, Matt," Coughlin said. "And what Larkin is willing to go along with."
"Inspector Wohl," Lowenstein said, "why do you think I think the genial Irishman here has just been sold the toll concession on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge?"
"Goddammit, do you always have to be such a cynical sonofabitch? You can be a real pain in the ass, Matt!" the genial Irishman flared. "Thereare some good feds, and Charley Larkin happens to be one of them. If you're too dumb to see that, I'm sorry."
"If I have in any way offended you, Chief Coughlin, please accept my most profound apologies," Lowenstein said innocently. "Please proceed."
"Goddammit, you won't quit, will you?"
They glared at each other for a moment.
Finally, Lowenstein said, "Okay. Sorry, Denny. Let's hear it."
"We are going to have police officers every twenty feet all along the motorcade route, and every ten feet, every five feet, in 30^th Street Station and at Independence Hall."
Lowenstein looked at him with incredulity on his face, and then in his voice: "That's it? That's the brilliant plan you and the Secret Service came up with?"
"You have a better idea?"
"How many men is it going to take if we saturate that large an area for what, four hours?" Lowenstein asked.
"We figure six hours," Coughlin said.
"Has Charley Larkin offered to come up with the money to pay for all that overtime?" Lowenstein asked. "Or are we going to move cops in from all over the city, and pray that nothing happens elsewhere?"
"We are going to bring in every uniform in Special Operations," Coughlin began, and then stopped. "This is the idea, Peter. Subject, of course, to your approval."
I know, Wohl thought, and he knows I know, that me arguing against this would be like me telling the pope he's wrong about the Virgin Mary.
"Go on, please, Chief," Wohl said.
'That's the whole idea of Special Operations, the federal grants we got for it," Coughlin said. "To have police force available anywhere in the city…"
"There's not that many people in Special Operations to put one every ten feet up and down Market Street," Lowenstein said. "The feds pay the bills, and then they tell us what to do, right?" Lowenstein said. "I was against those goddamn grants from the beginning."
On the other hand, Wohl thought, we have the grants all the time, and they don't ask for our help all the time.
"There will be men available from the districts, and I thought the Detective Bureau would make detectives available."
Lowenstein grunted.
"Plus undercover officers, primarily from Narcotics, but from any
place else we can find them," Coughlin went on.
He looked at Lowenstein for his reply. Lowenstein grunted, and then looked at Wohl.
"Peter?"
"I don't have a better idea," Wohl said.
"Neither do I," Lowenstein said. "Okay. Next question. Do you think the commissioner will go along with this?"
"The commissioner, I think, is going to hide under his desk until this is all over," Coughlin said. "If we catch this guy, or at least keep him from disintegrating the Vice President, he will hold a press conference to modestly announce how pleased he is his plan worked. If the Vice President is disintegrated, it's Peter's fault. He was never in favor of Special Operations in the first place."
"Was that a crack at me, Denny?"
"If the shoe fits, Cinderella."
****
"Gentlemen," Mr. H. Logan Hammersmith of First Philadelphia Bank amp; Trust said, "while I don't mean to appear to be difficult, I'm simply unable to permit you access to our personnel records. The question of confidentiality…"
"Mr. Hammersmith," Jason Washington began softly. "I understand your position. But:"
"Fuck it, Jason," Mr. H. Charles Larkin interrupted. "I've had enough of this bastard's bullshit."
Mr. Hammersmith was obviously not used to being addressed in that tone of voice, or with such vulgarity and obscenity, which is precisely why Mr. Larkin had chosen that tone of voice and vocabulary.
"I want Marion Claude Wheatley's personnel records, all of them, on your desk in three minutes, or I'm going to take you out of here in handcuffs," Mr. Larkin continued.
"You can't do that!" Mr. Hammersmith said, without very much conviction. "I haven't done anything."
"You're interfering with a federal investigation," Mr. Frank F. Young said.
"Now, we can get a search warrant for this," Larkin said. "It'll take us about an hour. But to preclude the possibility that Mr. Hammerhead here…"
"Hammersmith," Hammersmith interjected.
"…who, in my professional judgment, is acting very strangely, does not, in the meantime, conceal, destroy, or otherwise hinder our access to these records, I believe we should take him into custody."
"I agree," Frank F. Young said.
"May I borrow your handcuffs, please, Jason?" Larkin asked politely.
"Yes, sir."
"Would you please stand up, Mr. Hammerhead, and place your hands behind your back?"
"Now just a moment, please," Mr. Hammersmith said. He reached and picked up his telephone.
"Mrs. Berkowitz, will you please go to Personnel and get Mr. Wheatley's entire personnel file? And bring it to me, right away."
"We very much appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Hammersmith," Mr. Larkin said.
The personnel records of Marion Claude Wheatley included a photograph. But either the photographic paper was faulty, or the processing had been, for the photograph stapled to his records was entirely black.
Neither were his records of any help at all in suggesting where he might be found. He listed his parents as next of kin, and Mr. Hammersmith told them he was sure they had passed on.
Mr. Young arranged for FBI agents to go out to the University of Pennsylvania, to examine Wheatley's records there. They found a photograph, but it was stapled to Mr. Wheatley's application for admission, and showed him at age seventeen.
When Mr. Wheatley's records in Kansas City were finally exhumed and examined, the only photograph of Mr. Wheatley they contained, a Secret Service agent reported to Mr. Larkin, had been taken during his Army basic training. It was not a good photograph, and for all practical purposes, Army barbers had turned him bald.
"Wire it anyway," Mr. Larkin replied. "We're desperate."
TWENTY-NINE
Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin, Chief Inspector (retired) Augustus Wohl, and Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin were seated around Coughlin's dining-room table when Inspector Peter Wohl came into the apartment a few minutes before ten P.M.
On the table were two telephones, a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of bourbon, and clear evidence that the ordinance of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that prohibited gaming, such as poker, was being violated.
"Who's winning?"
"Your father, of course," Charley Larkin replied.
"Deal you in, Peter?" Chief Wohl asked.
"Why not?" Wohl said.
"You want a drink, Peter?" Coughlin asked.
"I better not," Wohl said. "I want to go back to the Schoolhouse before I go home. I hate to have whiskey on my breath."
His father ignored him. He made him a drink of Scotch and handed it to him.
"You look like you need this," he said.
"I corrupt easily," Peter said, taking it, and added, "In case anybody's been wondering, we have come up with zilch, zero."
"That include the airport too?" Coughlin asked.
"Yeah. I gave them this number, Chief, in case something does happen."
"What's going on at the airport?" Larkin asked.
Peter Wohl looked at Coughlin.
"I'm afraid we have a dirty cop out there," Coughlin said.
"I'm sorry," Larkin said.
"We're playing seven-card stud," Chief Wohl said. "Put your money on the table, Peter."
Peter had just taken two twenty-dollar bills and four singles from his wallet when one of the telephones rang.
Coughlin grabbed it on the second ring.
"Coughlin," he said. "Yes, just a moment, he's here." He started to hand the telephone to Peter and then changed his mind. "Is this Dickie Lowell? I thought I recognized your voice. This is Denny Coughlin, Dickie. How the hell are you?"
Then he handed the phone to Peter.
"Peter Wohl," he said, and then listened.
"Have you spoken with Captain Olsen?" he asked. There was a brief pause, and then: "Thank you very much. I owe you one."
He hung up.
"Dickie Lowell?" Chief Wohl asked as he dealt cards. "Retired out of Headquarters Division in the Detective Bureau?"
"He got a job running security for Eastern Airlines," Coughlin said. "He's got his people watching our dirty cop. Peter set it up."
"Chief Marchessi set it up," Peter said. "Lowell's people just saw our dirty cop take a suitcase off Eastern Flight 4302. Specifically, remove a suitcase from a baggage trailer after it had been removed from Eastern 4302."
"So what are you going to do, Peter?" Coughlin asked.
Wohl hesitated, and then shrugged.
"Resist the temptation to get on my horse and charge out to the airport," he said. "Where I probably would fuck things up. I sent Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd… you know him?"
His father and Chief Coughlin shook their heads, no.
"He works for Dave Pekach. Good man. He's going to follow our dirty cop when he comes off duty. We already have people watching his house and his girlfriend's apartment."
"Sometimes the smartest thing to do is keep your nose out of the tent," Coughlin said. "I think they call that delegation of authority."
"And I think what we have there is the pot calling the kettle black," Chief Wohl said. "Denny was an inspector before he stopped turning off fire hydrants in the summer."
"Go to hell, Augie!"
"What's in the suitcase?" Larkin asked. "Drugs?"
"What else?" Coughlin said.
"I didn't know you handled drugs, Peter," Larkin said.
"Normally, I don't," Peter replied. "Drugs or dirty cops. Thank God. This was Commissioner Marshall's answer to the feds wanting to send their people out there masquerading as cops. He gave the job to me."
"Because you get along so well with we feds, right?" Larkin asked, chuckling.
"There's an exception to every rule, Charley," Coughlin said. " Just be grateful it's you."
"Are we going to play cards or what?" Chief Wohl asked.
****
Peter Wohl was surprised to find Detective Matthew M. Payne in the Special Investigations office at Special Operations
when he walked in at quarter past midnight. He said nothing, however.
Maybe Jack Malone called him in.
"How are we doing?" he asked.
"Well," Lieutenant Malone said tiredly, "Mr. Wheatley is not registered in any of Philadelphia's many hotels, motels, or flop houses," Malone said. "Nor did anybody in the aforementioned remember seeing anyone who looked like either of the two artists' representations of Mr. Wheatley."
The Philadelphia Police Department had an artist whose ability to make a sketch of an individual from a description was uncanny. The Secret Service had an artist who Mr. H. Charles Larkin announced was the best he had ever seen. In the interest of getting a picture of Mr. Wheatley out on the street as quickly as possible, the Department artist had made a sketch of Wheatley based on his neighbor's, Mr. Crowne's, description of him, while the Secret Service artist had drawn a sketch of Mr. Wheatley based on Mr. Wheatley's boss, Mr. H. Logan Hammersmith's, description of him.
There was only a very vague similarity between the two sketches. Rather than try to come up with a third sketch that would be a compromise, Wohl had ordered that both sketches be distributed.
"Too bad," Wohl said.
"The sonofabitch apparently doesn't have any friends," Malone said. "The neighbor, two houses down, lived there fifteen years, couldn't ever remember seeing him."
"He's got to be somewhere, Jack," Wohl said.
"I sent Tony Harris to Vice," Malone said. "They went to all the fag bars with the pictures."
"We don't know he's homosexual."
"I thought maybe he's a closet queen, who has an apartment somewhere," Malone said.
"Good thought, Jack, I didn't think about that."
'They struck out too," Malone said.
"And how's your batting record, Detective Payne?"
It was intended as a joke. Payne looked very uncomfortable.
"I just thought maybe I could make myself useful, so I came in," Payne said.
That's bullshit.
The telephone rang. Malone grabbed it and handed it to Wohl.
"Jerry O'Dowd, Inspector," his caller said. "I'm calling from the tavern down the corner from our friend's house. He drove straight here, with the suitcase, and took it into the house."
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