“Yes, sir,” both young officers said, earnestly, in unison.
Mickey O’Hara laughed with delight.
Chief Lowenstein then walked up to the group around Deputy Commissioner Coughlin. The uniformed officers saluted him.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Coughlin said, not quite able to restrain a smile. “What the hell was that about?”
Chief Lowenstein was one of a tiny group of senior police officers who was not awed by either Deputy Commissioner Coughlin’s rank or his persona, possibly because they had graduated from the Police Academy together and had been close personal friends ever since.
“You all looked guilty as hell,” Lowenstein said. “Playing right into Philadelphia Phil’s hand. I decided a little levity was in order.”
“I hope Mickey doesn’t try to get past the tape,” Captain Hollaran said. “That female uniform’s got her eye on him.”
Deputy Commissioner Coughlin followed the nod of Hollaran’s head, saw a very determined, very slight, very young female police officer, her baton in her hands, glowering at Mickey O’Hara, who outweighed her by fifty pounds. Coughlin had a very difficult time not laughing out loud.
He returned his attention to the group and settled his eyes on Matt.
“Sergeant,” he ordered, “take us someplace where we can talk privately.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “Will you follow me, please, Commissioner? ”
He led the procession to the front stairs of the building and up them to Cheryl Williamson’s apartment. This was not the time, he decided, to take further advantage of Mrs. McGrory’s hospitality.
He led the procession into Cheryl Williamson’s kitchen. It was crowded with all of them in it.
“This will all seem a lot less amusing if that little scene is on the six o’clock news, and the mayor sees it,” Coughlin said. “Jesus, Matt!”
“I’d rather have that on the tube,” Lowenstein said, “than poor Smitty here on it trying to explain the law that kept his uniforms from taking the door when—maybe, just maybe—the doer was inside raping and murdering the young woman.”
“You don’t think he was inside when the uniforms were here?” Coughlin asked.
“We don’t know, Denny. Maybe he was already gone when the uniforms arrived, but if Smitty says that, in addition to explaining the law, it’ll look as if he’s loyally covering for his men.”
Coughlin grunted.
“If, however,” Lowenstein said, “some very senior officer, after half an hour personally investigating the facts, went down there and said the same thing . . .”
“You don’t mean me?” Coughlin snorted.
“. . . we could almost count on Mickey doing a thoughtful piece for the Bulletin explaining when the cops can and cannot take a door,” Lowenstein finished, “and probably getting into how hard we’re working, routinely, to get this guy.”
“Routinely?” Coughlin said. “Matt, you weren’t in the mayor’s office with the commissioner and me. The mayor doesn’t want this solved in due time, he wants it solved in time for the six o’clock news.”
“Who’s the lead detective, you, Joe?” Lowenstein asked.
“Yes, sir,” D’Amata said.
“What are the chances for that?”
“Not good, sir,” D’Amata said.
Lowenstein gestured with both his hands: Give me more.
“We have no idea who he is, other than he’s a four-star psychopath,” D’Amata said. “We have only one thing that might lead us to him.”
“Which is?”
“He left his camera behind, and Matt Payne—”
“How do you know it’s his camera?” Lowenstein interrupted.
“He took pictures of the victim, sir.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a digital camera, sir,” Matt Payne said. “I downloaded the images from the flash memory card into my laptop.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re saying you have pictures the doer took of the victim?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said, and pushed his way through everybody jammed into the kitchen, and brought the pictures up on the screen of the laptop.
“My God,” Dennis V. Coughlin said.
“How long have you had these?” Lowenstein demanded.
“Not long, sir,” Matt said. “I was calling Lieutenant Washington to tell him when he said you were all headed here.”
“And how can you locate the doer by his camera?” Lowenstein challenged.
“I’m not sure I can, sir. But I know that type camera. It comes with a program that . . .” He stopped, trying to think of a way to explain simply the Kodak camera replacement program.
"That what?”
“The camera has a serial number,” Matt said. “If we can get Kodak to tell us where they shipped it—”
“Who the hell are you?” Lowenstein demanded, nastily, interrupting him.
“Detective Lassiter, sir. Northwest.”
Matt turned and saw her standing in the doorway. She looked a little stunned by Lowenstein’s greeting.
“And what is so important that you felt you could just barge in here like this?”
“I just left the victim’s mother,” Olivia said. “She understands why the uniforms couldn’t take the door. I thought I should tell Sergeant Payne. I heard about Philadelphia Phil— or whatever his name is—on my way back here.”
“The victim’s mother understands why the uniforms couldn’t take the door?” Dennis V. Coughlin asked, and then, before she could answer, asked another question. “What were you doing with the victim’s mother?”
“I sent her with the victim’s brother when he went to tell the mother,” Matt said.
Matt happened to be looking at Washington, whose expressive eyebrows rose in surprise.
“You sent her?” challenged the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives who had been standing with Smith and others when they first had gone outside.
“Yes, sir.”
“You gave one of my detectives orders?”
“Not now,” Lowenstein said, sharply, then turned his attention to Detective Lassiter. “You’re sure the victim’s mother understands about the door?”
“Yes, sir. I told her how that works,” Olivia said. “She seemed to understand. She even calmed the brother down about it. All she wants is for us to catch the doer.”
“What’s in the envelope?”
“A picture of the victim, sir,” Olivia said, and handed it to him. “I borrowed it from the mother.”
Lowenstein looked at it, then handed it to Coughlin.
“It’ll come in handy,” Lowenstein said. “You know about the doers’ camera?”
“No, sir.”
“You ever been on television, Detective?” Lowenstein asked.
“No, sir.”
“Well, unless I’m mistaken, when Commissioner Coughlin goes outside in a couple of minutes, to tell the press why the officers couldn’t take the door, he’s going to want you to go with him, to repeat what you just said about the mother understanding. Could you handle that?”
“I’d rather not—”
“That’s not what I asked,” Lowenstein snapped.
“Yes, sir, I can handle that.”
“I haven’t said I’m going outside to talk to the press,” Coughlin said.
“Oh, excuse me, Commissioner, I thought you had.”
“I just had a brilliant idea, Chief Lowenstein,” Coughlin said. “Since you’re so good at it, I’ll reassign you to Public Relations.”
“Unless we do something, we’ll all look as stupid as the mayor thinks we are,” Lowenstein replied, unabashed. “You got a better idea, Denny?”
“No,” Coughlin said. “As a matter of fact, I was trying to think of a way to thank you that wouldn’t go directly to your head.”
“You’re welcome,” Lowenstein said. “Can I make another suggestion?”
“How can I stop you?”
>
“Detective Lassiter has dealt very well with the mother and the brother. We don’t know that possible problem has gone away permanently. . . .”
“And you want to detail her to Homicide for this job so she can sit on them?” Coughlin asked.
“That, too, but what I was thinking was that you could say, ‘Detective Lassiter, who has been detailed to Homicide for this investigation, has spoken to Miss Williamson’s brother and her mother. They have found no fault with police procedures, isn’t that right, Detective?’ ”
“I don’t know,” Coughlin said, doubtfully.
“You have any problems with Northwest detailing Detective Lassiter to Homicide for this job, Captain Quaire?” Lowenstein asked.
“No, sir,” Quaire said.
“Lieutenant Washington?”
“No, sir.”
“You, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives said.
“Okay, done,” Lowenstein said.
He gestured toward the kitchen door.
“You’re on, Commissioner,” he said.
Coughlin exhaled audibly, straightened his shoulders, and marched through it. Captain Frank Hollaran and Detective Lassiter followed him.
“There’s a TV in the living room,” D’Amata said. “There’s a Channel Six Live camera out there.”
D’Amata got it turned on and tuned to Channel Six by the time Coughlin, Hollaran, and Lassiter appeared on the screen as they came out of the walkway between the two buildings.
Coughlin marched to the massed press, with Olivia Lassiter following him. When he stopped, just inside the crime scene tape, she moved to his side.
There were shouted questions from a dozen reporters, to which Coughlin, his arms folded on his stomach, paid no attention whatever. Finally, almost in confusion, the questions died out.
“I’m Deputy Commissioner Coughlin,” he said, finally. “I will take a few questions, one at a time.”
Most of the reporters raised their hands; several shouted questions.
Coughlin pointed at one of the reporters who had raised her hand.
“If you can get these gentlemen to behave, I’ll take your question.”
One of the reporters who had been shouting a question said, disgustedly, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
Another voice, female, very clearly answered her colleague with, “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, you asshole? Some of us have deadlines.”
Coughlin pointed to a reporter holding a microphone with a Channel Six Live sign on it.
“I don’t want to tell you your business,” he said, very politely, “but I really hope someone bleeped that question before it got on the air.”
That brought laughter. When it died down, he pointed to the reporter he had selected before.
“Commissioner, what’s happened here?”
“A murder,” Coughlin said, “of a young woman named Cheryl Williamson.”
“Not a rape and murder?”
“We don’t know that yet. The medical examiner will make that determination.”
“Is it true that somebody called 911, the cops came, and then refused to enter the apartment, while the murderer was inside?”
“A few minutes before two this morning, Miss Williamson’s neighbor called 911, reporting that her mirror had fallen off the wall. Two patrol cars—not just one—of the Thirty-fifth District responded, and were here in just under four minutes. They listened to what the neighbor said, that she suspected that something had happened in Miss Williamson’s apartment that had caused her mirror to fall off the wall. The officers rang Miss Williamson’s doorbell and knocked at the door. They did that at both the front and rear doors. And they looked for signs of a forced entry and found none. There were no lights on in the apartment, and they could hear no sounds. They concluded there was no one in the apartment.”
“And left?”
“And left.”
“Why didn’t they go in the apartment?”
“Because that would be against the law,” Coughlin said. “Without sufficient cause, police have no right to break into anyone’s home.”
“The neighbor said, you said, that she thought something had happened in the apartment. That’s not sufficient cause?”
“If there had been any sound, even any lights burning, any indication of forced entry, I’m sure they would have entered the apartment. There wasn’t, and they didn’t.”
“And how do you think her family will react to that explanation? ”
“This is Detective Lassiter,” Coughlin said. “She can answer that better than I can.”
“I’ve spoken to Miss Williamson’s mother and brother,” Olivia said. “They both told me they understand why the police did not break into the apartment. Mrs. Williamson said all that she wants is for the police to find whoever did this to her daughter before the same sort of thing happens to someone else.”
“And what exactly did this guy do to her?”
“At this point, we don’t even know it was a guy,” Olivia said. “We just started the investigation. Commissioner, may I be excused?”
“Yes, you can, Detective, and I am about to excuse myself,” Coughlin said. “Whenever we learn more, we will make it available to the press. Thank you.”
“He’s very good at that,” Lowenstein said, in the apartment. “We look a lot better than we did five minutes ago.”
Everyone agreed, but no one said anything.
Lowenstein looked around and found Jason Washington.
“You know O’Hara’s cell phone number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think it would be a very good idea for you to meet with him, now. Take Payne and Lassiter with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for the rest of you, one or two at a time, not all at once, get out of here and let the Homicide people do their job.”
There were nods of understanding and a few “Yes, sir”s.
Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein had two more thoughts:
“If you don’t mind a suggestion, Sergeant Payne,” he said. “I think that you personally should try to run down connecting the camera with the doer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I think it might be useful if you asked Dr. Payne to look at those pictures. Do you think she would be willing to do that?”
“I’m sure she would, sir.”
“Chief,” Captain Durwinsky said, “I’d like to have copies of those pictures as soon as I can have them. We may be dealing with the same doer.”
“How can that be done, Payne?”
“All I need is access to a computer with a digital photo program and a color printer,” Matt said.
“We’ve got one at Special Victims,” Durwinsky said. “That’s not far.”
“Okay,” Lowenstein said. “There it is. O’Hara, Special Victims, your sister and running down the doer via the camera. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
"O’Hara first, Chief?” Captain Durwinsky asked.
“Yeah, Helene,” Lowenstein said. "O’Hara first. I would like to see at least one story in the newspapers that doesn’t gleefully point out our many failures and all-around stupidity. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Now everybody get to work.”
Lowenstein walked out of the apartment.
[TWO]
In the hope that it wouldn’t be seen, Michael J. O’Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin parked his Buick Rendezvous behind the Oak Lane Diner at Broad and Old York Road. The Rendezvous, with its array of antennae, was known to other members of the Philadelphia press corps, and some of his colleagues were even bright enough to be able to spot an unmarked car, and wonder what O’Hara was up to with the cops.
Mickey entered the diner and, after looking around, found Lieutenant Jason Washington, Sergeant Matt Payne, and that good-looking detective who’d come out of the crime scene with Denny Coughlin to face the press, at a ban
quette in the rear, drinking coffee.
He walked to them and slid in beside Washington.
“Well, isn’t this a coincidence!” O’Hara said. “Mind if I sit down?”
“I hoped you parked that conspicuous vehicle of yours where it will not attract the attention of the Fourth Estate?” Washington asked.
“Jesus!” Mickey said, his tone suggesting that Washington should have known the question was unnecessary. He smiled at Detective Lassiter. “I’m Mickey O’Hara.”
“Yes, sir, I know who you are,” Olivia said.
Mickey shook his head sadly, gave out a long sigh, and turned to Matt.
"You’re in luck, Matthew,” O’Hara said. “This beauty—this young beauty—calls me ‘sir,’ which means she has decided I am too old to merit her interest.”
“As obviously you are,” Washington said.
“Then, speaking with the wisdom of a senior citizen, my beauty, let me advise you to beware of this young man. While some think of him as the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line, others more accurately describe him as the Casanova of Center City.”
“That’s not funny, Mick,” Matt flared.
“Which part?”
“The Wyatt Earp part,” Matt said. “As a matter of fact, both parts.”
“One day, my beauty . . .”
“My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said.
"One day, Lassiter, my beauty,” O’Hara went on, “not so long ago, in an alley of our fair city, Wyatt Earp here put down a very bad guy who was shooting at both of us with a .45. I meant nothing but respect in dubbing him Wyatt Earp.”
“As disassociated as I am from the realities of life,” Washington said, “I actually thought you would be interested in learning what has transpired at 600 Independence.”
“I know what happened at 600 Independence. A citizen called 911 when she heard strange noises in the next apartment. Two uniforms responded, and they all stood around chatting and not taking the door while the doer worked his wicked way on the victim. What else do I need to know?”
“You know why they didn’t—couldn’t—take the door?”
“This is not at all what I expected when you called, Jason, my oversized old pal,” Mickey said.
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