"But?"
"It would not have solved his purpose to have Jack locked up or even fired. That might have tended to make the judge feel a little sympathetic toward Jack when he got him in court and showed the judge the color photos of Mrs. Malone's swollen, black-and-blue face. And, Jesus, tell it all, the bruises on her chest and ass. Jack literally kicked her ass all over the house."
"Oh, Christ! Who was the judge?"
"Seymour F. Marshutz," Cohan said. "Marshutz cannot conceive of a situation-don't misunderstand me, I'm not defending what Jack did, not for a minute-where slapping a wife around is not right up there with child molesting. I tried to talk to him, I've known Sy Marshutz for years, and got absolutely nowhere."
"And?"
"She got everything, of course. The only reason he didn't give her alimony is because we don't have alimony in Pennsylvania, but he gave her everything else they owned but his clothes and an old junk car. Custody, of course, because the way Sy Marshutz sees it, while playing the whore is bad, it's not as bad as violence, and Jack has limited visitation privileges."
I wonder what I'm supposed to do with Lieutenant Jack Malone. That's obviously what this is about; this is not marital notes from all over.
"I had a long talk-lots of long talks-with Jack. I chewed his ass. I held his hand. For all I know, if Marilyn had done to me what his wife did to Jack, maybe I'd have taken a swing at her too. Anyway, I told him his life wasn't over, and that if I were him, I'd give everything I have to the job for a while, that thinking about what happened was only-you know what I mean, Peter."
"Yes, sir."
"So he took me literally. He's working all the time. He's got a room in a hotel, the St. Charles, on Arch at 19^th?"
"Faded grandeur," Wohl said without thinking.
"Yeah," Cohan said. "Okay. Anyway. All he does is work and watch TV in the hotel room."
"No booze?"
"A little of that. We had a talk about that too. I think he's had more to drink in the last year than he's had up to now. That isn't a problem."
"But there is one."
"Yeah. Now he sees a car thief behind every bush."
"I don't follow you, sir."
"All work and no play hasn't made Jack a dull boy, Peter," Cohan said solemnly, "it's put his imagination in high gear, out of control."
"Is this any of my business, sir?"
"He thinks Bob Holland is a car thief."
Bob Holland was Holland Cadillac Motor Cars. And Bob Holland Chevrolet. And Holland Pontiac-GMC. And there was a strong rumor going around that Broad Street Ford and Jenkintown Chrysler-Plymouth were really owned by Robert L. Holland.
"Is he?"
"Come on, Peter," Cohan said. "You're not talking about some sleazeball used car dealer here."
"I gather Jack has nothing but a hunch to go on?"
"He went to Charley Gaft and asked for permission to surveil all of Holland's showrooms," Cohan said. "And when Gaft turned him down, he came to me. Ten minutes after Bob called me and told me he was worried about him."
Captain Charles B. Gaft commanded the Major Crimes Division.
"I'm afraid to ask what all this has to do with me, Commissioner. What do you want me to do, have Highway Patrol keep an eye on Bob Holland's showrooms? Or sit on Jack Malone?"
"Peter," Cohan said, almost sadly, "your mouth has a tendency to run away with itself. It's only because I've known you, literally, since you wore short pants and because I know what a good police officer you are that I don't take offense. But there are those-people of growing importance to you, now that you're moving up-who would think that was just a flippant remark and unbecoming to a division commander."
Oh, shit!
"Commissioner, it was flippant, and I apologize. I have no excuse to offer except the champagne."
"Now, I already said, I understand your sense of humor, Peter. But maybe you'd better watch that champagne. It sneaks up on you."
"Yes, sir. But I do apologize."
"It never happened. Getting back to Jack. He's under a strain. He's working too hard. But he's a fine police officer and worth saving, and that's why I'm asking you for your help."
I'll be a sonofabitch. He rehearsed that little speech. That's what he planned to say to me to see if I would stand still for whatever he wants. It was supposed to be delivered before he went to see Czernick and Carlucci.
"Whatever I can do, Commissioner."
I say nobly, aware that I have absolutely no option to do or say anything else.
"I knew I could count on you, Peter. What I'm going to do is send Jack over to you-"
Shit! But what else did I expect?
"-and have Tony Lucci transferred to Jack's job on the Auto Squad in Major Crimes."
Lieutenant Anthony J. Lucci, who had been Mayor Carlucci's driver as a sergeant, had been sent to Special Operations on his promotion to lieutenant. It was a reward for a job well done, which by possibly innocent coincidence gave His Honor the Mayor a window on the inner workings of Special Operations, reports delivered daily.
Every black cloud has a silver lining. I get rid of Lucci. What's that going to cost me? Is he telling the truth about Malone not having a bottle problem, or am I going to have to nurse a drunk?
"Now, I have no intention of trying to tell you how to run your division, Peter, or what to do with Jack Malone when you get him-"
But?
"-but if you could find something constructive for him to do that would keep him from thinking he's been assigned to the rubber-gun squad, I would be personally grateful."
"So far as I'm concerned, Commissioner, even after what you've told me, Jack Malone is a good cop, and I'll find something worthwhile for him to do."
"What was Lucci doing?"
"He's my administrative officer. He also makes sure the mayor knows what's going on."
Cohan looked sharply at Wohl, pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "So I've heard. Jack won't feel any obligation to do that, Peter."
"Thank you, sir."
"Your father is in good spirits, isn't he?" Cohan said. "I had a pleasant chat with him a couple of minutes ago."
Our little chat is apparently over.
"I think he'd go back on the job tomorrow, if someone asked him."
"The grass is not as green as it looked?"
"I think he's bored, sir."
"He was active all his life," Cohan said. "That's understandable."
Cohan pushed himself out of the seat and extended his hand.
"Thank you, Peter," he said. "I knew I could count on you."
"Anytime, Commissioner."
GENERAL: 0565 01/02/74 FROM COMMISSIONER
PAGE 1of 1
*** CITY OF PHILADELPHIA***
*** POLICE DEPARTMENT***
TRANSFERS:
EFFECTIVE 1201 AM JANUARY 3, 1974
LIEUTENANT ANTHONY S. LUCCI: REASSIGNED FROM SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION TO MAJOR CRIMES DIVISION AS COMMANDING OFFICER AUTO SQUAD. LIEUTENANT JOHN J. MALONE: REASSIGNED FROM AUTO SQUAD, MAJOR CRIMES DIVISION TO SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION. TADDEUS CZERNICK POLICE COMMISSIONER
TWO
The day began for Police Officer Charles McFadden at five minutes before six A.M. when Mrs. Agnes McFadden, his mother, went into his bedroom, on the second floor of a row house on Fitzgerald Street, near Methodist Hospital in South Philadelphia, snapped on the lights, walked to his bed, and rather loudly announced, "Almost six. Rise and shine, Charley."
Officer McFadden, who the previous Tuesday had celebrated his twentythird birthday, was large-boned and broad-shouldered and weighed 214 pounds.
He rolled over on his back, shielded his eyes from the light, and replied, "Jesus, already?"
"Watch your mouth, mister," his mother said sharply, and then added, "if you didn't keep that poor girl out until all hours, you just might not have such trouble getting up in the morning."
With a visible effort Charley McFadden hauled himself into a sitting
position and swung his feet out of bed and onto the floor.
"Mom, Margaret didn't getoff work until half past ten."
"Then you should have brought her straight home, instead of keeping her up all night," Mrs. McFadden said, and then marched out of the room.
Margaret McCarthy, R.N., a slight, blue-eyed, redheaded young woman, was the niece of Bob and Patricia McCarthy, who lived across Fitzgerald Street and had been in the neighborhood, and good friends, just about as long as the McFaddens, and that meant even before Charley had been born.
Margaret and Charley had known each other as kids, before her parents had moved to Baltimore, and Agnes remembered seeing her after that, on holidays and whenever else her family had visited, but she and Charley had met again only a couple of months ago.
Margaret had gone through the Nurse Training Program and gotten her R.N. at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, and now she was enrolled at Temple University to get a college degree.
As smart as Margaret was, Agnes McFadden wouldn't have been at all surprised if she wound up as a doctor.
Anyway, Charley and Margaret had bumped into each other and started going out, and there was no question in Agnes's mind that it was only a matter of time until Charley popped the question. She wouldn't have been surprised if they were waiting for one of two things, Margaret finishing her first year at Temple, or Charley taking the examination for detective. Or maybe both.
Agnes and Rudy McFadden approved of the match. She wasn't sure that the McCarthys were all that enthusiastic. Bob McCarthy was the sort of man who held a grudge, and Agnes thought he was still sore at Charley for taking out the windshield of his brand-new Ford with a golf ball, playing stickball in the street, when Charley was still a kid.
And Agnes knew full well all the nasty things Bob McCarthy had had to say about Charley when Charley had first gone on the cops and they'd made him work with the drug people.
The truth was, Agnes realized, that Charley did look and act like a bum when that was going on. He wore a beard and filthy, dirty clothes, and he was out all night, every night, and he'd hardly ever gone to church.
Anybody but Bob McCarthy, Agnes often thought, would have put that all behind him, and maybe even apologized, after Charley had caught the drug addict who had shot Captain Moffitt, and gotten a citation from Police Commissioner Czernick himself, and they'd let him wear a uniform like a regular cop. But people like Bob McCarthy, Agnes understood, found it very hard to admit they were wrong.
Charley McFadden took a quick shower and shave and splashed himself liberally with Bahama Lime aftershave, a bottle of which had been Margaret's birthday gift to him.
He put on fresh underwear, went to the head of the stairs, and called down, "Don't make no breakfast, Mom. We're going out."
"I already made it," she said. "Why don't you bring her over here? There's more than enough."
"We're meeting some people," Charley replied. That was not true. But he wanted to have breakfast with Margaret alone, not with his mother hanging over her shoulder. There was a snort of derision from the kitchen. Charley went into his room and put on his uniform. There was a blue shirt and a black necktie (a pre-tied tie that clipped on; regular ties that went around the neck could be grabbed), breeches, motorcycle boots, a leather jacket, a Sam Browne belt from which were suspended a holster for the service revolver, a handcuff case, and an attachment that held a nightstick. Finally, bending his knees to get a good look at himself in the mirror over his chest of drawers, Charley put squarely in place on his head a leather-brimmed cap. There was no crown stiffener.
This was the uniform of the Highway Patrol, which differed considerably from the uniform of ordinary police officers. They wore trousers and shoes, for example, not breeches and boots, and the crowns of their brimmed caps were stiffly erect.
Highway Patrol was considered, especially by members of the Highway Patrol, as the elite unit of the Philadelphia Police Department.
In the ordinary course of events, a rookie cop such as Officer McFadden (who had been a policeman not yet two years) would be either walking a foot beat or working a van in a district, hauling sick fat ladies down stairwells for transport to a hospital, or prisoners between where they were arrested and the district holding cell and between there and the Central Cell Room in the Roundhouse. He would not ordinarily be trusted to ride around in a district radio patrol car. He would be working under close supervision, learning the policeman's profession. The one thing a rookie cop would almost certainly not be doing would be putting on a Highway Patrolman's distinctive uniform.
But two extraordinary things had happened to Officer Charles McFadden in his short police career. The first had been his assignment, right from the Academy, to the Narcotics Bureau.
Narcotics had learned that one of the more effective-perhaps the most effective-means to deal with people who trafficked in proscribed drugs was to infiltrate, so to speak, the drug culture.
This could not be accomplished, Narcotics had learned, by simply putting Narcotics Division police officers in plain-clothes and sending them out onto the streets. The faces of Narcotics Division officers were known to the drug people. And bringing in officers from districts far from the major areas of drug activity and putting them in plainclothes didn't work either. Even if the vendors of controlled substances did not recognize the face of an individual police officer, they seemed to be able to "make him" by observing the subtle mannerisms of dress, behavior, or speech that, apparently, almost all policemen with a couple of years on the job seem to manifest.
There was only one solution, and somewhat reluctantly Narcotics turned to it. One or two young, brand-new police officers were selected from each class at the Police Academy and asked to volunteer for a plainclothes and/or undercover assignment with Narcotics.
A cop with a week on the job (or, less often, just graduated-fromthe-Academy rookie) was not going to be recognized on the street because he had not been on the street. Nor had he been a cop long enough to acquire a cop's mannerisms.
Few rookies, whose notions of police work were mostly acquired from television and the movies, refused such an opportunity to battle crime. When asked, Officer Charley McFadden had accepted immediately.
Some, perhaps even most, such volunteers don't work out when they actually go on the streets. The tension is too much for some. Others simply cannot physically stomach what they see in the course of their duties, and some just prove inept. They are then, if they hadn't graduated from the Academy, sent back to finish their training, or, if they have graduated, sent to a district.
Charley McFadden proved to be the exception. He was a good undercover Narc virtually from almost the first day, and got even better at it with experience, and after he had grown a beard, and come to look, in his mother's description, "like a filthy bum."
After three months on the job, he was paired with Officer Jesus Martinez, a slight, intense Latino who had been on the job for six months longer than Charley, and had learned the mannerisms of a successful middle-level drug dealer to near perfection.
They were an odd couple, the extra large Irishman and the barely over the height and weight minimums Latino. Behind their backs, they were known by their brother Narcotics Bureau officers as Mutt amp; Jeff, after the cartoon characters.
But they were good at what they did, and not only their peers understood this. Their lieutenant at the time, Dave Pekach, led them to believe that if they kept up the good work, he would do his very best to keep them in Narcotics even when their identities had become known on the street.
That was important. They didn't tell the rookies at the time they were recruited, but what usually happened when undercover Narcs became, inevitably, known on the street was that they were reassigned to a district. There, they picked up their police career where it had been interrupted. That is to say they now got to work a wagon and haul sick fat ladies down narrow stairways and prisoners down to Central Cell Room.
The way to become a detecti
ve in the Philadelphia Police Department was not the way it was in the movies, where a smiling police commissioner handed a detective's badge to the undercover rookie who had just made a really good arrest. In Philadelphia, it doesn't matter if you catch Jack the Ripper with the knife in his hand, you wait until you have two years on the job, and then you take the examination for detective, and if you pass, when your number comes up, then, and only then, you get to be a detective.
What Lieutenant Dave Pekach had offered them, instead of being sent to some damned district to work school crossings and turn off fire hydrants, was a chance to stay in Narcotics as plainclothes officers until they had their time in to take the detective exam.
Charley and Jesus would have killed to convince Lieutenant Pekach what good undercover Narcs they were, what good plainclothes cops they could be, if that would keep them from going out to some damned district in uniform.
And it almost came to that.
Captain Richard F. Moffitt, off duty and in civilian clothing, had walked in on a robbery in progress in a diner on Roosevelt Boulevard.
The doer, to Captain Moffitt's experienced eye, was a strung-out junkie, a poor, skinny, dirty Irish kid who had somehow got hooked on the shit and was, with a thirty-dollar Saturday Night Special.22 revolver, trying to score enough money for a hit, or something to eat, or probably both.
"I'm a police officer," Captain Moffitt said gently. "Put the gun down, son, before somebody gets hurt."
The doer, subsequently identified as a poor, skinny Irish kid who had somehow gotten hooked on a pharmacist's encyclopedia of controlled substances, and whose name was Gerald Vincent Gallagher, fired every. 22 Long Rifle cartridge his pistol held at Captain Moffitt, and managed to hit him once.
That was enough. The bullet ruptured an artery, and Captain Richard F. Moffitt died a minute or so later, slumped against the wall of the diner.
The killing of any cop triggers a deep emotional response in every other policeman. And "Dutch" Moffitt was not an ordinary cop. He was a captain. He was the son of a cop. His brother had been a cop, and it was immediately recalled that the brother, a sergeant, had been shot to death while answering a silent alarm.
The Witness boh-4 Page 2
