Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  The open wound to which Washington referred was his involuntary transfer from Homicide to Special Operations.

  “He’s in there,” Summers said, chuckling. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Washington considered that a full thirty seconds.

  “Solely because a witness might be useful, you have my permission to watch me interview Brownlee. With the clear caveat that I am not furnishing you with something interesting with which to amuse, or edify, others. Do you understand?”

  Washington was dead serious, Summers saw.

  He nodded his acceptance.

  “If anyone else comes in, you will pass on to them Chief Coughlin’s admonition that if anyone lets this cat out of the bag, they may look forward to spending a good deal of time on Last Out.”

  “You got it, Jason,” Summers said.

  “The question, Kenneth, is whether or not you do.”

  “I’ve got it, Jason,” Summers said.

  “In that case, into the breach,” Washington said, and walked into the interview room.

  Summers went into the room adjacent to the interview room and took a chair.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Brownlee inquired of Sergeant Washington.

  “My name is Washington, Mr. Brownlee. I’m a police officer.”

  “You’re not going to get away with this bullshit. I know my rights!”

  “Get away with what, Mr. Brownlee?”

  “Coming to my place in the middle of the fucking night and hauling me off.”

  “If you are suggesting that something illegal has transpired—”

  “I want to call my fucking lawyer!”

  “—you err. Would you like me to explain your situation to you?”

  “I got my rights, motherfucker. I got the right to see my lawyer.”

  “Your attorney is free to visit you during the prescribed visiting hours at the Detention Center,” Washington said.

  “What’s with this Detention Center bullshit? I made bail!”

  “You were out on bail,” Washington said. “As I am sure the officers who returned you to custody informed you at the time of your rearrest, the magistrate’s decision to grant you freedom pending trial has, on appeal, been overridden.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “The Honorable Harriet M. McCandless, Judge McCandless, on reviewing your case, decided there was a real possibility that you would fail to appear for your trial. And/or, based on your criminal record, that there was a real possibility that you would engage in further criminal activity while free on bail. And/or, that you posed a real danger to society. She therefore overturned the magistrate’s decision and ordered you remanded.”

  “Ordered me what?”

  “Returned to custody. Which is your status now.”

  “How long am I going to be in here for?”

  “If you mean ‘in custody,’ I devoutly hope for a very long time.”

  “I want to make bail.”

  “You don’t seem to be able to grasp your situation, Mr. Brownlee. Let me go over it again for you. You were arrested, charged with the possession of a quantity of controlled substances—which was later determined to be cocaine. At the time of your arrest, you were brought before a magistrate in the police administration building. He decided that, upon posting a bail of twenty-five thousand dollars, or having a bail bondsman post it for you, you could be released until your trial. The bail was posted, and you were released from custody. The decision of the magistrate was appealed by the district attorney to Judge McCandless—are you familiar with Judge McCandless, Mr. Brownlee? I understand she is known within the criminal community as ‘Hanging Harriet.’ ”

  “I know who the bitch is.”

  “I believe that somewhat rude nickname is based on Her Honor’s reputation for sentencing those found guilty in her court to the most severe penalties provided for in the law.”

  “I told you, I know who she is.”

  “Well, as I said before, when the district attorney appealed the magistrate’s decision to grant you a conditional release, she granted the appeal and ordered you remanded.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “When we have finished our little talk, you will be transported to the Detention Center and held there until your trial. I understand, with the load placed on the criminal justice system, that it will be at least ninety days, and very possibly longer, before you will be brought to trial.”

  “You can’t do that!” Brownlee said indignantly, but without very much conviction.

  “I think you would be astonished at what a judge can do, Mr. Brownlee.”

  “So what am I doing here?”

  “We are going to have a little chat,” Washington said.

  “About what?”

  “If there is anything lower than a drug dealer, Mr. Brownlee, anyone deserving to be punished to the full extent of the law, it is a police officer involved in drug trafficking. That, unfortunately, may work to your advantage.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “According to the record of your arrest, which took place at the Howard Johnson motel on Roosevelt Boulevard last Thursday evening, you were found in possession of a package of cocaine weighing approximately one kilo, or a little more than two pounds.”

  “I never saw that shit before in my life,” Brownlee said. “What that was was a frame.”

  “And in possession of a loaded, snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 Special-caliber revolver, serial number J- 384401.”

  “I never saw that gun before, either.”

  “Possession of which, since you are a convicted felon, violates not only the Philadelphia ordinances proscribing possession of a pistol without a license, but also federal law, which proscribes possession of any firearm by a convicted felon, or by someone under indictment for a felony. Both conditions apply to you. You are a convicted felon, and you are under indictment for several instances of drug dealing, in addition to what happened last Thursday evening. I think you should be prepared to see yourself arrested on firearms charges by both Philadelphia and federal authorities.”

  “We’ll see what happens. I don’t know nothing about no gun.”

  “Finally, your arrest record shows that you had on your person one thousand four hundred and thirty dollars and fifty-two cents.”

  “So what? Is that against the law?”

  “Now, Mr. Brownlee, what we find interesting is that Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham, to whom you apparently intended to sell the cocaine—”

  “Never heard of him,” Baby Brownlee interjected.

  “As I was saying,” Washington went on, “Mr. Ketcham, to whom you and Mr. Amos J. Williams planned to sell the cocaine, had in his possession twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars ordinarily buys two kilos of cocaine.”

  “So what?”

  “Mr. Ketcham has given us a sworn statement that he went to the Howard Johnson motel with twenty thousand dollars in cash to meet Mr. Williams—who is again in custody, by the way—and exchange it for two kilos of cocaine.”

  “I told you I never heard of him.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Brownlee, did you ever wonder why Mr. Ketcham was not arrested at the time you were?”

  That caught Baby Brownlee’s attention, Washington saw, although he said nothing.

  “Let me tell you what happened, Mr. Brownlee. You went into Mr. Ketcham’s room at the motel. He showed you that he did in fact have the twenty thousand dollars, the agreed-upon price. You then left his room—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “—went to Mr. Williams’s blue Oldsmobile, went into the trunk, and took from it a beach bag. At that time the narcotics officers, who were watching the entire transaction, arrested you, and Mr. Williams, and the others.”

  Baby Brownlee shrugged.

  “What Mr. Ketcham has said, in a sworn statement, is that at that point—immediately after your arrest—a narcotics officer came to his room, and in
exchange for the twenty thousand dollars, did not arrest him.”

  Baby Brownlee’s eyes showed interest in that.

  “If what you say happened, how come he would have told you? How did you even know that he was there, if the cops let him buy his way out?”

  “Mr. Ketcham is in some other difficulty with the law—the nature of that being none of your business—and this is his way of trying to strike a deal with us.”

  “What kind a deal?”

  “That brings us back to what I said a moment ago,” Washington said. “Specifically, that if there is anything lower than a drug dealer, it is a police officer involved in drug trafficking.”

  “So you want the dirty cop?”

  Washington nodded.

  “Corrupt police officer. Officers, plural. That, unfortunately, may work to your advantage.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “It’s a question of priority. It has been decided that our priority is to see that corrupt police officers are removed from the Philadelphia Police Department and brought to trial. To that end, the district attorney has informed Mr. Ketcham that, in exchange for his cooperation—in other words, giving us a sworn statement and later testifying in court against the corrupt police officers in question—the charges against him, conspiring to traffic in controlled substances, will be dropped.”

  “And that’s the deal you’re offering me?”

  Washington did not reply.

  “If you have Ketcham, why do you need me?” Brownlee thought aloud.

  “Because we wish to make sure the corrupt police officers are convicted,” Washington said.

  “And maybe you’re a little afraid that a jury would believe the cops instead of this guy they ripped off?”

  “You are very perceptive.”

  “He’s a fucking drug dealer, right, and maybe out to get the cops? That’s what the jury would think, right?”

  “We have to consider that possibility.”

  “And so two witnesses would be better than one, right?”

  “As three witnesses would be better than two.”

  “And I get to walk. That’s the deal?”

  “That would depend on what you have to tell me.”

  “No fucking problem, brother. You tell me what to say, and I’ll say it.”

  “I am not your brother, Mr. Brownlee. Nor am I your friend. I am a police officer, an honest police officer, investigating allegations of corruption. What I want from you is the truth. Nothing but the truth.”

  “I think I better talk to a lawyer,” Brownlee said. “Let him make the deal.”

  “Mr. Brownlee, I’m going to say this just once, so pay attention. There is no question in my mind that you went to the Howard Johnson motel last Thursday with the criminal intent of trafficking in cocaine. The idea of seeing you escape prosecution deeply offends me.”

  “But you’re sort of stuck with me, right? If you want to get these cops, you need me.”

  “No. I don’t need you. Judge McCandless remanded to custody eleven individuals such as yourself. We need only two of them to cooperate. You do not have to be one of the two. The only reason I spoke with you now is because you were one of the first to be rearrested.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You are in no position to bargain, Mr. Brownlee. You can either cooperate or not cooperate. The choice is yours. What’s it going to be?”

  Baby Brownlee considered that for a moment.

  “I think I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Brownlee,” Washington said, and walked out of the interview room, closing the door behind him.

  There were four Highway patrolmen in the office, and sitting in a row of wooden armchairs along one wall, five prisoners, among them Mr. Amos J. Williams.

  Detective Summers came out of the room adjacent to the interview room.

  “Didn’t work, huh, Jason?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith!” Washington replied.

  He motioned to a Highway Patrol sergeant.

  “This is the script,” he said softly. “Each detail is important, and please try not to overact. First, you, Sergeant, will go to Mr. Williams and inquire if he is ‘Williams, Amos.’ When he replies in the affirmative, you will unshackle him from his chair, ask him to stand, handcuff him behind his back, and then move him to one of the chairs against the opposite wall, to which you will handcuff him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then you will bring . . .” he paused as he looked carefully at each of the remanded prisoners “. . . the beady-eyed specimen second from the right, handcuffed in front, and stand him near the door to the interview room.”

  “Okay.”

  “I will then announce that I am about to answer nature’s inevitable summons, and exit stage left—in other words, in the direction of Captain Quaire’s office,” Washington went on. “You will then enter the interview room, free Mr. Brownlee from the chair, handcuff him, again behind his back, and lead him out of the room, carefully holding his chained wrists. You will stop at a position from which Mr. Brownlee can clearly see the specimen whom you have moved to the position indicated. At that point, you will turn to Detective Summers and inquire, ‘Where does the boss want this one to go?’ or words to that effect, whereupon Detective Summers will say, ‘He said put the ones going to the Detention Center over there,’ or words to that effect, as you point at Mr. Williams. You will then take Mr. Brownlee to the chair beside Mr. Williams and handcuff him to the chair, and to Mr. Williams. You will then lead the previously positioned specimen with the watery eyes into the interview room and cuff him to the chair.”

  “Okay,” the sergeant and Detective Summers said, smiling.

  “I will then reappear, enter the interview room, and chat with the specimen for no more than three minutes. I will then open the door and order that he be taken to a stenographer—tangentially, I presume that the good ladies have answered the call to duty despite the obscene hour?”

  “One of the ladies is a him,” Summers said. “Guy named Forbes. But he’s good.”

  “Washington, you really think you can get that scumbag to talk in three minutes?” the Highway sergeant asked.

  “I’m not even going to try,” Washington said. “Just look at him. He would make a terrible witness. What I will do is ensure he will come out of the interview room looking enormously relieved, or pleased, and possibly both.”

  “Which, Sergeant,” Summers said, “will not be lost on the two who think they’re going directly to the slam, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred bucks. They will wonder what they’re missing out on.”

  “I think three minutes will be sufficient time for Mr. Brownlee to inform Mr. Williams of the deal he was offered and rejected, and for Mr. Williams to conclude that Mr. Brownlee made a gross error in judgment in not accepting it.”

  “You really think that will work?” the sergeant asked, smiling.

  “Are you a betting man, Sergeant?” Detective Summers asked. “I’ll give you three-to-one that it will. I’ve seen this guy at work before.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Thank you, Jason,” Peter Wohl said, his voice very serious, even disappointed. “It was worth a try.”

  Wohl dropped the telephone handset into its cradle and looked, not smiling, at Dennis Coughlin.

  He shook his head sadly, but said nothing.

  “You might as well tell me, Peter,” Coughlin said.

  “Mr. Amos J. Williams and Mr. Marcus C.—also known as ‘Baby’—Brownlee,” Wohl began, and smiled broadly before going on, “either having recognized the error of their sinful ways, or perhaps in the misguided belief that the charges against them will be dropped, have given statements to Sergeant Washington indicating that the amount of narcotics seized as evidence from them at the motel was approximately twice the amount Officer Grider and the rest of Five Squad turned in to the evidence room.”

  “You bastard!” Coughlin said. “You had me going.”


  “I’m not finished,” Wohl said. “Additionally, Mr. Williams has given a sworn statement that he had approximately three thousand dollars in his possession at the time of his arrest, which is fifteen hundred more than was turned in, and Baby Brownlee is about to sign his statement, in which he says he had approximately two thousand dollars more in his possession than Five Squad turned in, and was wearing a Rolex wristwatch which seems to have disappeared between the time it was taken from his person at the place of arrest and Central Lockup. He actually bought the watch, and is sure Bailey, Banks and Biddle has a record of the transaction, including the serial number. Do you suppose we’ll get really lucky and find one of these—”

  “Forget it, Peter. These characters didn’t get this far by being stupid.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “And Washington didn’t have to make a deal?”

  “He assured both of them he would personally go to the judge and tell him, or her—it’s a shame that won’t be Hanging Harriet—how cooperative they have been.”

  “They didn’t give him anything that can tie Prasko to what he did to the Longwood girl?”

  Wohl shook his head, “no.”

  “When do we lock them up, Peter?”

  “The statements will be enough to get warrants for their arrest, which I think we should do as soon as we can, but I’d rather wait and see what happens in Harrisburg before we actually bring them in,” Wohl said.

  “And what if there’s nothing in Harrisburg?”

  “If Matt says he saw Calhoun go into the bank, I think he did.”

  “And what if Savarese is two steps ahead of us and already knows it was Prasko who raped the girl?”

  “As angry as he is, I don’t think he’ll get reckless,” Peter said.

  “This is his granddaughter. All bets are off.”

  Wohl shrugged.

  “Let’s talk about Harrisburg,” Coughlin said.

  “Okay,” Wohl said, “what are you thinking?”

  “I always look for the black cloud inside the silver lining,” Coughlin said. “For the sake of discussion, Matt was wrong. The guy he saw go into the safe-deposit box was really a shoe salesman from Shamokin.”