Quaire thought that over before replying.
“If it happens, Matt, it happens. You know how I feel about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to get some help from Special Operations?” Matt asked.
McGuire nodded.
“Sure.”
“Do we know who?”
“Somebody special you wanted?”
“Detectives McFadden and Martinez,” Matt said.
“Mutt and Jeff?” Quaire asked. “Dignitary Protection isn’t quite their specialty, is it?”
Detective Jesus Martinez, who was of Puerto Rican ancestry, and who was five feet eight inches tall and weighed just over one hundred thirty pounds, and Detective Charles T. McFadden, who was six feet two and outweighed Martinez by a hundred pounds, had been partners since they had graduated from the Police Academy.
The first assignment for nearly all academy graduates was to a district, and almost always to a district wagon, where for their first year or so on the job, they learned the nuts and bolts of being a police officer on the street by responding with the wagon to assist other officers in everything from hauling Aunt Alice to the hospital after she’d fallen in her bathtub, to hauling drunks and other violators of the peace and dignity of the City of Brotherly Love to the district lockup.
Almost routinely, however, two brand-new police officers were assigned to work undercover in the Narcotics Division. McFadden and Martinez were chosen for the assignment in the hope that few drug dealers would suspect either the small, intense Latino or the large, open-faced South Philadelphia Irishman of being police officers when they tried to make a buy of controlled substances.
McFadden and Martinez quickly proved themselves to be very adept at what they were assigned to do. But their superiors realized it was only going to be a matter of time until they became known to the drug trade generally-in other words, their appearance in court to testify against the drug dealers- and would lose their usefulness.
At this point, it was expected the young officers would be assigned to a district and start driving the district wagon.
Something else happened: McFadden and Martinez had- on their own, off-duty-joined the citywide search for the junkie who had shot Captain Dutch Moffitt, of Highway Patrol, to death. In the belief that Gerald Vincent Gallagher would be somewhere in the area, they staked out the Bridge and Pratt Street terminal of the subway.
When Gallagher had finally shown up, he refused to obey their order to halt and had run off down the subway tracks. McFadden and Martinez-already known as “Mutt and Jeff,” after the cartoon characters-had chased him, ignoring the danger, down the tracks until Gallagher fell against the third rail and then got himself run over by a subway train.
In the movies, or in cops-and-robbers programs on TV, with the mayor and assorted big shots beaming in the background, the commissioner would have handed them detective badges and congratulations for a job well done. But this was real life, and promotions to detective in the Philadelphia police department came only after you had taken, and passed, the civil service examination. Martinez and McFadden hadn’t been on the job long enough even to be eligible to take the examination.
And their sudden celebrity-their faces had been on the front pages of every newspaper in Philadelphia, and on every TV screen-had of course completely destroyed their usefulness as undercover Narcotics officers.
It had looked as if their reward for catching the junkie who’d shot Captain Dutch Moffitt-something the rest of the police department hadn’t been able to do for an embarrassingly long period-was going to be reassignment to driving a wagon in a district.
It didn’t seem fair, but who said a cop’s life was fair? Life’s a bitch, and then you die.
At the same time, Cadet Matthew M. Payne, Captain Moffitt’s nephew, had been about to graduate from the Police Academy. In the opinion of then-Chief of Patrol Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, the chances that Matt Payne would last six months on the job-much less that the police department would be his career-ranged from zero to zilch.
Coughlin believed that Matt-whom he had known from the day of his birth-had reacted to (a) the death of his uncle and (b) his failure of the U.S. Marine Corps’ Pre-Commissioning Physical Examination by applying for the police department to (a) avenge his uncle and (b) prove his manhood.
It was understandable, of course, but the bottom line was that a summa cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, who had been raised not only in wealth but as the adopted son of a Philadelphia Brahmin, was very unlikely to find happiness walking a police beat. Worse, he was liable to get hurt.
Sergeant Dennis V. Coughlin had knocked at the door of his best friend’s pregnant wife to tell her that Sergeant Jack Moffitt had been killed responding to a silent alarm at a gas station in West Philadelphia.
Chief Inspector Coughlin had no intention of knocking at the door of Mrs. Patricia Moffitt Payne to tell her that her son-Jack’s son, his godson-Matt, had been killed in the line of duty.
And all of this had coincided with the formation, at the “suggestion” of the then-mayor of the City of Philadelphia, the Hon. Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, of the Special Operations Division of the police department.
Mayor Carlucci, who boasted that he had held every rank in the Philadelphia police department except for policewoman, had not been at all bashful about making suggestions about the department to then-Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich.
Mayor Carlucci had also “suggested” to Commissioner Czernich that he consider Staff Inspector Peter F. Wohl, then assigned to Internal Affairs, to be the commanding officer of the new Special Operations Division. Commissioner Czernich had immediately seen the wisdom of the suggestions, and issued the appropriate orders.
Peter Wohl was then the youngest staff inspector-ever- in the department. It was well-known that his father, Chief Inspector (Retired) August Wohl, had been Jerry Carlucci’s rabbi as the mayor had risen through the ranks. But it was also well-known that Peter Wohl was a hell of a good cop, an absolutely straight arrow, and smarter than hell, so the cries of nepotism were not as loud as they might have been.
Coughlin, the then-chief inspector, had solved the problem of what to do with Officers Martinez, McFadden, and Payne by ordering their assignment to Special Operations.
In a private chat with then-Staff Inspector Wohl, he suggested that in his new command Wohl would probably be able to find places where Officers Martinez and McFadden could be useful in plainclothes, and that Officer Payne could probably make himself useful as Wohl’s administrative assistant, until he realized the mistake he had made by coming on the job, and quit and got on with his life.
Wohl had accepted Coughlin’s suggestions with as much alacrity as the commissioner had accepted the mayor’s suggestions. He was wise enough to know that he had very little choice in the matter. His rabbi had spoken.
Finding useful employment for Martinez and McFadden had posed no problem. Wohl had been pleasantly surprised how well they had performed in interviews with suspects. Between them, they had seemed to know when they were not being told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then one or the other of them had been able to get it.
When they played Good Cop/Bad Cop, Martinez had been very effective as the frightening arm of the law, and McFadden, despite his size, as the kindly young Irishman who understood what had happened and wanted only to help.
Officer Payne had, not surprising Wohl, been an efficient administrative assistant-sort of a male secretary-from the first day. Wohl, who agreed with Chief Coughlin that Payne would leave the job just as soon as he realized that he really belonged in law school, as the next step on the ladder to an eventual partnership in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, arguably Philadelphia’s most prestigious law firm, was surprised to realize that he was actually going to miss him when he was gone.
When a serial rapist began to operate in the Northwest, and Northwest Detectives had
difficulty finding him-and this difficulty was gleefully reported daily in the press-Mayor Carlucci had been very unhappy. When the rapist killed one of his victims, triggering even more scornful journalistic comment, Mayor Carlucci called a press conference and announced that henceforth the investigation would be handled by the newly formed Special Operations Division.
It was good press, but the reality was that Wohl’s Special Operations Division was less qualified to conduct the investigation than Homicide was, and Wohl, who had been a homicide detective, knew it.
Homicide had assigned the two best Homicide detectives, Jason Washington and his partner, Tony Harris, to the job. Wohl, with the assistance of Chief Coughlin, arranged-over their bitter objections-the transfer of Washington and Harris to Special Operations. Once they had reported for duty, Wohl assigned Officer Payne to the job. Payne was told that his duties were to relieve Washington and Harris of as many administrative details as possible, and to report to Wohl at least once a day-more often if necessary-of how the investigation was proceeding.
It was, Wohl thought, a really useful thing for Payne to be doing before he left the job.
It never occurred to Wohl, Washington, or Harris that Payne would do anything but run errands. Everyone understood that despite the badge on his belt and the. 38 “Detective’s Special” snub-nosed revolver in his shoulder holster, he wasn’t really on the job.
He was a really nice college boy, and Denny Coughlin’s god-son, and Coughlin had given him to Peter Wohl to sit on, out of harm’s way, until he realized he wasn’t cut out to be a cop.
When Wohl told Coughlin that he had given Payne to Washington and Harris as a gofer, Coughlin had smiled.
“Twenty years from now, he will fondly remember his days as a Homicide officer,” Coughlin said.
Four days after Officer Payne went to work as Washington’s and Harris’s gofer, the following story appeared on page one of the Philadelphia Bulletin:
NORTHWEST SERIAL RAPIST-MURDERER KILLED BY “HANDSOME” SPECIAL OPERATIONS COP AS HE RESCUES KIDNAPPED WOMAN BY MICHAEL J. O’HARA BULLETIN STAFF WRITER
Officer Matthew Payne, 22, in what Mayor Jerry Carlucci described as an act of “great personal heroism,” rescued Mrs. Naomi Schneider, 34, of the 8800 block of Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill, minutes after she had been abducted at knifepoint from her home by a man the mayor said he is positive is the man dubbed the Northwest Serial Rapist.
The man, tentatively identified as Warren K. Fletcher, 31, of Germantown, had, according to Mrs. Schneider, broken into her luxury apartment as she was preparing for bed. Mrs. Schneider said he was masked and armed with a large butcher knife. She said he forced her to disrobe, then draped her in a blanket and forced her into the rear of his Ford van and covered her with a tarpaulin.
“The next thing I knew,” Mrs. Schneider said, “there was shots, and then breaking glass, and then the van crashed. Then this handsome young cop was looking down at me and smiling and telling me everything was all right, he was a police officer.”
Moments before Officer Payne shot the kidnapper and believed rapist-murderer, according to Mayor Carlucci, the man had attempted to run Payne down with the van, slightly injuring Payne and doing several thousand dollars’ worth of damage to Payne’s personal automobile.
“Payne then, reluctantly,” Mayor Carlucci said, “concluded there was no choice but for him to use deadly force, and he proceeded to do so. Mrs. Schneider’s life was in grave danger and he knew it. I’m proud of him.”
Mayor Carlucci, whose limousine is equipped with police short-wave radios, was en route to his Chestnut Hill home from a Sons of Italy dinner in South Philadelphia when the rescue occurred.
“We were the first car to respond to the ‘shots fired’ call,” the mayor said. “Officer Payne was still helping Mrs. Schneider out of the wrecked van when we got there.”
Payne, who is special assistant to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, commanding officer of the newly formed Special Operations Division, had spent most of the day in Bucks County, where the mutilated body of Miss Elizabeth Woodham, 33, of 300 East Mermaid Lane, Roxborough, had been discovered by State Police in a summer country cottage.
Miss Woodham was abducted from her apartment three days ago by a masked, knife-wielding man. A Bucks County mail carrier had described a man meeting Mr. Warren K. Fletcher’s description and driving a maroon Ford van, identical to the one in which Mrs. Schneider was abducted, as being at the cottage where her body was discovered. Police all over the Delaware Valley were looking for a similar van.
Payne, who had been assigned to work as liaison between ace Homicide detectives Jason Washington and Anthony Harris and the Special Operations Division, had gone with Washington to the torture-murder scene in Bucks County.
He spotted the van in the early hours of this morning as he drove to the Chestnut Hill residence of Inspector Wohl to make his report before going off duty.
“He carefully appraised the situation before acting, and decided Mrs. Schneider’s very life depended on his acting right then, and alone,” Mayor Carlucci said. “She rather clearly owes her life to him. I like to think that Officer Payne is typical of the intelligent, well-educated young officers with which Commissioner Czernich and I intend to staff the Special Operations Division.”
Payne, who is a bachelor, recently graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. He declined to answer questions from the press.
After that, Chief Coughlin was no longer quite so sure that Officer Payne would soon resign from the police department. And he didn’t.
“Captain,” Sergeant Payne said now, “those two can do anything they’re asked to do.” He looked at Lieutenant McGuire. “I’d really like to have them.”
“Wohl said ‘anything we think we need,’ ” McGuire said. “Let’s see if he meant it.”
He asked permission with his eyes to use Captain Quaire’s telephone. Quaire nodded. McGuire punched in numbers.
“Lieutenant McGuire for Inspector Wohl, please.”
Then he reached to Quaire’s phone and pushed the Speaker button.
Peter Wohl’s voice came somewhat metallically over the speaker:
“Hey, Gerry, what can I do for you?”
“Inspector, you said I could ask for anything for the Stan Colt job.”
“My toothbrush excepted, ask away.”
“Mutt and Jeff. They on something that won’t wait?”
“When and where do you want them, Gerry?”
“North Philadelphia Airport at three. Tell them to report to Sergeant Payne.”
“They’ll be there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Any time.”
The line went dead.
“Why don’t you take Lassiter to Northeast Detectives now, and get that over with?” Quaire said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And then I’ll see you at the airport at three,” McGuire said.
“Yes, sir.”
Matt stood patiently by Olivia’s desk and waited until she finished talking on the telephone.
“I really appreciate that, Lieutenant,” she said. “We really want to get this guy.”
She put the handset in its cradle and looked up at Matt.
“Cincinnati Homicide,” she said. “Nice guy. Nothing that he can think of offhand, but he’s going to check around for me. What’s up?”
“Let’s go out to Northeast and get our statements out of the way,” Matt said.
She didn’t reply, but stood up, and took her purse from the desk drawer, and then waited for him to lead the way out of the office.
In the elevator, she asked, “What was going on in the captain’s office?”
“That was Lieutenant McGuire of Dignitary Protection,” Matt said. “He’s about to protect Stan Colt from his horde of fans.”
“And?”
“I’m going to help him,” Matt said.
“What’s that all about?”
The elevator door opened onto
the lobby.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said, and held the keys to the Porsche out to her. “Follow me to my place, and I’ll dump the car there.”
It seemed for a moment as if she was going to object, but she finally took the keys without comment.
Matt drove the unmarked Crown Victoria into the basement garage first, pulled it into one of his slots, and got quickly out to show her where to park the Porsche.
When she opened the door, he was standing there. When she got to her feet, they were so close that he could feel her breath on his face.
He resisted the impulse to put his arms around her, but bent slightly, far enough down to kiss her.
“Oh, God!” she said. “I should have trusted my instincts.”
“About what?”
“About what you had in mind when you handed me the keys.”
“What I had in mind was getting the Porsche out of the Roundhouse lot before it got ticketed or boosted,” he said.
Her face told him she did not believe this at all.
“All the way here, I thought of reasons why I shouldn’t let you kiss me.”
“Which are?”
“I can’t remember,” she said, and they kissed again.
She looked into his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Which question would get the desired response,” Matt said. “One, ‘Would you like to see my etchings?’ or two, ‘You want to come upstairs for a minute?’ ”
“You really have etchings?” she asked.
He nodded.
“If we go to your apartment, you know what will happen.”
“I hope I know what will happen.”
“I mean it will take longer than a minute.”
“The way I feel right now, I’m not sure it’ll take as long as a minute.”
“Oh, God!” Olivia said.
Olivia came out of Matt’s bathroom wearing his terry-cloth robe. He thought she looked adorable.
“Well, now we know, don’t we?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“That just beneath my nice girl surface there is a lewd, lascivious, and shameless slut.”
Final Justice boh-8 Page 30
