“I understand it was the mayor’s inspiration of the day,” Washington said.
“Well, just for the record: Lieutenant, you are designated the senior investigating officer for the mayor’s task force investigating the murders at the Roy Rogers. You will report directly to me. Now, is there anything you feel you need to facilitate your investigation?”
“No, sir.”
“If there is, you will promptly let me know?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We now go off the record,” Wohl said. “Who told you?”
“The commissioner. Off the record. He also told me about Matt. I thought Matt would have called me.”
“Me, too,” Wohl said. “Detective Payne, why didn’t you telephone Lieutenant Washington and inform him of your spectacular performance?”
“He’s there?” Washington asked.
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Well, Detective Payne?”
“I thought,” Matt said, raising his voice so the microphone on Wohl’s desk would pick it up, “Tony would tell you.”
“As indeed he did. When can we expect your services, Sergeant?”
“Homicide’s wastebaskets need emptying, do they, Jason?” Wohl asked, innocently.
“I’m not a sergeant yet.”
“You will be, as I understand it, at approximately nine-thirty tomorrow morning. May I assume that you will report for duty immediately thereafter?”
“Your wastebaskets must be overflowing,” Wohl said.
“I have nothing so mundane in mind for Sergeant Payne, Inspector. His first duty will be to supervise Detective Harris, and Harris’s team.”
Matt thought: That will be a blind man leading the guide dog around.
“Tony’s somehow fallen from grace?” Wohl asked.
“Actually, Peter, it was Tony’s idea. He figures Matt can keep other people from looking over his shoulder. And we all know what a splendid typist Sergeant Payne is.”
Wohl considered that—the problem of how rookie Sergeant Payne will fit into Homicide has been solved. Jason said it was Tony’s idea, but I suspect Jason was involved. Matt will follow Harris around, relieve him of as many administrative details as possible, and since he is both bright and aware of his massive ignorance of Homicide procedures, he will keep his mouth shut, do whatever Tony “suggests”—which will include making sure that the rest of Tony’s team does what Tony wants them to do, and when—and in the process learn a hell of a lot—and grunted his agreement.
“Tony hasn’t come up with anything on the doers?” Wohl asked.
“They’re out there somewhere, Peter,” Washington said. “I think it highly unlikely that the mob imported two professionals from New York to stick up a Roy Rogers.”
Wohl chuckled.
“One distinct possibility, Peter, is that these two master criminals, once they have gone through the—best estimate— less than fifteen hundred dollars they earned on this job, will do it again.”
“Yeah,” Wohl agreed, seeing both the likelihood of a second or third or fourth robbery before they were—almost inevitably—caught, and the likelihood that once they were arrested, they could be identified in a lineup as the Roy Rogers doers.
“There is an obvious downside to that,” Washington went on. “Their willingness to use their weapons . . .”
“Compounded by the fact they know they are already facing Murder Two,” Wohl interjected.
“. . . and there will be no greater penalty if they use them again,” Washington finished for him.
“Or they may really go underground,” Matt said, “knowing they’re wanted for Murder Two.”
“The cheap seats have been heard from,” Wohl said.
“I was about to make reference to wisdom from the mouths of babes,” Washington said. “Except, of course, he’s right.”
“God, don’t tell him that. His ego needs no buttressing.”
“Actually, Peter, he will bring a fresh approach, which may very well be useful. Yesterday, when Tony walked Coughlin and our new sergeant through the Roy Rogers, Matt wondered aloud why Doer Two put his revolver under Charlton’s vest. Tony was somewhat chagrined that question hadn’t occurred to him.”
“Is that significant?”
“Never leave a stone unturned . . .” Washington began.
“. . . or the stone under the stone,” Wohl finished.
“You were, as I recall, an apt pupil,” Washington said. “It might be. It opens avenues of inquiry. ‘Is Doer Two a cop hater?’ for example. ‘Is he someone who knew, and intensely disliked, Kenny Charlton?’ ‘Did Stan Colt—which brings us to that—use the under-the-vest technique in one of his cinema fantasies?’ ”
“Yeah,” Wohl agreed. “What about Stan Colt?”
“The commissioner didn’t mention that Sergeant Payne’s services will be required in Dignitary Protection when Stan Colt comes to our fair city?”
“No,” Wohl said, simply. “He didn’t.”
“He apparently made a very good impression on Monsignor Schneider,” Washington said, “as incredible as that might sound. I am to lose his services temporarily whenever the Colt people think they need him.”
“Can’t you get me out of that?” Matt asked.
On the other hand, that would give me a lot of time with Terry.
“No,” Washington said. “Peter—Tony just walked in, shaking his head ruefully—you asked if there is anything I need. I just thought of something.”
“It’s yours,” Wohl said.
“I’m a little short of wheels. Sergeant Payne, obviously, will no longer be needing his sparkling new Crown Victoria.”
“Okay,” Wohl said. “And to prove what a fully cooperating fellow I am, I will even have Sergeant Payne deliver it to you, tomorrow when he reports for duty.”
“It’s always a pleasure dealing with you, Inspector,” Washington said, and the line went dead.
Peter removed the cellular phone from the hands-off system, laid it on the desk, and turned to Matt.
“Now, where were we?”
The telephone on his desk buzzed, and Wohl answered it.
The conversation was very brief.
Wohl said “Yes, sir” three times, “Yes, sir, at three” once, and “Yes, sir” one final time.
He looked at Matt again. “The commissioner thinks it would be a very good idea if I were to be at the Monti Funeral Home at three,” he said, “to coincide with the visit of the mayor, and his announcement that he has formed a task force to quickly get the Roy Rogers doers.”
Matt nodded.
“Now, where were we?” Wohl asked again.
[TWO]
When the Hon. Alvin W. Martin got out of the mayoral limousine at the Monti Funeral Home on South Broad Street in Yeadon, just outside the city limits, he paused long enough on the sidewalk to tell the press that he would have an announcement to make as soon as he had offered his condolences to Mrs. Charlton and the Charlton family.
Then he made his way into the funeral home itself, where he found the long, wide, carpeted central corridor of the building about half full of men with police badges on their uniforms, or hanging from breast pockets of suits, from chains around the necks, or on their belts.
Each of the badges had a narrow, black “mourning band”—sliced from the elastic cloth around the bottom of old uniform caps—across it.
The mayor spotted Deputy Commissioner Coughlin at almost the end of the corridor. Commissioner Mariani had told him that Coughlin knew Mrs. Charlton, and would escort him into the “viewing room” where Charlton’s body was laid out, wait until the mayor paid his respects at the casket, then introduce him to Mrs. Charlton, and finally lead him out of the viewing room.
Coughlin was in the center of a group of seven men. Mayor Martin recognized first Mr. Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin— no camera, and in a suit. What the hell is he doing here? And with these people?—and then Captain Hollaran, Coughlin’s executive assistant—or whatever the hell
his title is—and Lieutenant Jason Washington. The others he could not remember having met—or, for that matter, even seen— before.
One was in the special uniform of the Highway Patrol, and as Martin drew closer, he saw the insignia of a captain. That made him the Highway Patrol’s commanding officer. That little fellow is the head of Highway Patrol? There was another captain, a large man with an imposing, even somewhat frightening, mien—Jesus, I’d hate to get on the wrong side of him!—in a standard police captain’s blue tunic and white shirt uniform.
The other two men—young men, one in his twenties, the other maybe ten years older—in Coughlin’s group didn’t look like policemen. Both were wearing gray, single-button suits very much like the suit the mayor was himself wearing— I’ll give three to two that they get their clothes in the same place, and that place is Brooks Brothers. They look like lawyers. I’ll give even money that’s what they are.
Well, I would have lost that one, he thought, as the older of the lawyers turned toward Commissioner Coughlin—probably to tell him he spotted me—and in doing so, his previously concealed breast pocket came into view. There was a black-banded badge hanging from it.
Martin extended his hand and smiled just a little as he reached Coughlin.
“A sad occasion, Commissioner,” he said.
“Indeed it is,” Coughlin said. “Mr. Mayor, I don’t believe you know any of these officers?”
“Aside from Captain Hollaran and Lieutenant Washington, I’m really sorry to say I don’t,” Martin said. “Good to see you, Jason, Captain.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor,” they said, almost in unison.
“This is Inspector Peter Wohl, of Special Operations,” Coughlin said, and the older lawyer put out his hand.
“How do you do, sir?”
“Captain Sabara, his deputy,” Coughlin went on, “and Captain Pekach of Highway Patrol.”
When the mayor had shaken their hands, Coughlin gestured toward the “other lawyer.”
“And this is Detective Payne, Mr. Mayor.”
“Is it indeed? Congratulations on the exam, Detective Payne.”
“Thank you.”
What I’m looking at here is the police establishment. A politically correct police establishment. Coughlin and Hollaran, the Irish cops of fame and legend; God only knows what the rough-looking one is, Eastern European, maybe; Wohl sounds German; Payne looks like a WASP. And Jason Washington representing the Afro-Americans—what did Washington say, “all cops are blue?” All we’re missing is a Jew.
As if on cue, a large, stocky, ruddy faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair, a badge with a mourning strip on it hanging from his pocket, walked up to the group. He was Chief Inspector of Detectives M. L. Lowenstein.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Thank you for coming, Chief Lowenstein,” the mayor said. “I really wanted you here when I make the announcement. ”
Lowenstein nodded at him, then put out his hand to Detective Payne.
“I saw The List, Matt,” he said. “Congratulations.”
He knows Payne, too? That young man really gets around.
“Thank you.”
“Have you seen Denise?” Coughlin asked Lowenstein.
“Sarah and I went to the house Monday evening,” Lowenstein said, and looked at Commissioner Mariani. Neither the commissioner nor the mayor had trouble translating the look: I’ve already expressed my condolences, so there’s no reason for me to be here again, except for this political bullshit about a task force.
“Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “I’ll take you in.”
“Right,” the mayor said, and nodded, and followed Coughlin into the viewing room.
It was a large room, with an aisle between rows of folding chairs. Up front, the first row of chairs on the right was upholstered. Mayor Martin saw the heads of two children on either side of a gray-haired woman—the widow and their kids—and of several other adults—-family members, probably.
Officer Kenneth J. Charlton was laid out in a gray metal casket in the center of the room. As he walked down the aisle behind Charlton, the mayor could see his face, and then enough of the body to see that Charlton was to be buried in his uniform.
Coughlin stopped in the aisle next to the first row of chairs, and the mayor realized he was expected to approach the casket alone.
There was a prie-dieu in front of the casket, which made the mayor uncomfortable. So far as he was concerned— he had learned this from his father, the Rev. Dr. Claude Charles Martin, now pastor emeritus of the Second African Methodist Episcopal Church—prie-dieux were a Roman Catholic device, or maybe Catholic/Episcopal device, of which he did not approve.
So what the hell do I do now? Ignore it, as Pop would have me do, and stand by the casket looking thoughtfully down at the body? Or use the damn thing, and feel—and perhaps look—hypocritical?
He dropped to his knees onto the padded prie-dieu and bent his head. And looked at the face of Officer Charlton.
You poor bastard. Goddamn the animals that did this to you!
The anger took him by surprise.
Lord, forgive my anger. But what we have here is a good man who put his life on the line to protect other human beings. And lost it.
Lord, take him into Your arms, and give him the peace that passes all understanding.
He’s wearing his badge. Will they take it off? Or bury him with it?
Probably take it off.
Give it to his family?
Or is there some sort of memorial with the badges of the other cops who’ve been killed in the line of duty?
They have their pictures hanging in the lobby of the Roundhouse, but I can’t remember if their badges are there, too.1
Lord, protect this man’s wife and children, and give them the strength to get through this ordeal.
Make them wise in Your ways, Dear Lord, and grant them Thy peace.
Give the police the wisdom to find the people who did this to this Thy servant, Lord.
And quickly, before they kill someone else.
Lord Jesus, guide my steps with Thy almighty hand.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
The mayor took one more look at the face of Officer Kenneth J. Charlton, and then got somewhat awkwardly off the prie-dieu.
Then he turned and walked toward the widow and the children.
Mrs. Charlton stood up, then urged the boy and the girl to their feet.
“Mrs. Charlton, I’m Alvin Martin . . .”
“It was good of you to come, Mayor.”
"... and you have my most sincere condolences, and my . . .”
“This is Kenny Jr., and this is Deborah.”
“Kenny, Deborah, your father was a brave man who died a hero. You can be very proud of him.”
There was no response.
“If there is ever anything I can do for you, I want you to call me. You understand?”
Kenny Jr. and Deborah nodded their heads but didn’t look at him.
The mayor nodded at Mrs. Charlton, then turned and walked to the aisle and then down it.
His press relations officer was waiting for him in the corridor outside the viewing room.
He led the mayor to another viewing room where the press was waiting for him. The press relations officer had arranged Mariani and the other police department brass in a line against the wall, and he handed the mayor two three-by-five cards on which the essence of the announcement had been printed in large letters.
The mayor glanced at them quickly, then turned to face the press.
“This is a very sad day,” he began. “Both a citizen—a single mother of three—and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia.
“This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be. I have ordered the formation of a task for
ce to be commanded by Inspector Peter Wohl of the Special Operations Division. . . .”
[THREE]
When Matt Payne, driving the unmarked Crown Victoria, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached the driveway to his parents’ home in Wallingford, he looked carefully in the rearview mirror before applying the brake. Two-fifty-two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. He had more times than he liked to remember come uncomfortably close to being rear-ended.
Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the “Baltimore Pike,” runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle-income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.
Brewster Cortland Payne II had raised his family, now grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford. It had been in the Payne family for more than two centuries.
What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure that fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate sales-woman had once remarked in the hearing of Mrs. Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that “the Payne place just looked like old, old money.”
The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither swimming pool nor tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a fifty-eight-foot Hatteras called Final Tort V.
Matt made it safely into the drive, and as he approached the house, saw a two-year-old, somewhat battered, GMC Suburban parked with one of its front wheels on the grass beside the parking area by the garage. It had been Brewster Payne’s gift to his daughter, Amelia Payne, M.D., not because she needed such a large vehicle, but in the hope that the truck-sized—and truck-strong—vehicle would keep her alive. Amy Payne’s inability to conduct a motor vehicle over the roads of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania without, on the average of once a week, at least grazing other motor vehicles, street signs, and on memorable occasion, a fire hydrant, was almost legendary.
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