“Dammit, Dad!” his daughter yelled. “Don’t talk like that—especially in front of the kids!”
Stanley Dowbrowski still knew some of the people at the Medical Examiner’s Office. (He also knew they wouldn’t tie a toe tag on him; he just liked the black humor of the metaphor . . . and the response it elicited.) But not as many people as he used to.
He had retired from the Philadelphia Police Department fifteen years earlier.
Yet he’d never really left the police department. He kept up with old friends from there, also retired or, like the one in Homicide who lived by the middle school a few blocks away, still on the force. And he read cop books and watched cop movies. He lived and breathed—albeit sometimes on an oxygen tank now—everything about being a law-enforcement officer.
And high on his list of proud cop-related moments involved his sister’s daughter. Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski had joined the cops six years before—after telling him she’d first gotten the idea of going out for the police department from listening to “Uncle Stan’s cop stories.”
Stanley Dowbrowski had many memories. Even the bedroom that he’d converted from his oldest child’s bedroom into an office occasionally triggered one.
It had damn near taken an act of Congress for the conversion to happen. His beloved Betty had practically turned the boy’s bedroom into a shrine to her son—who was now married, he and his bride happily living on their own. It had taken his son’s help to convince Betty that it was fine if his father moved his office from the small corner of the basement into the old bedroom.
The office soon became packed with all of the stuff that Stanley Dowbrowski had collected over the course of his service to the citizens of Philadelphia. On the walls he’d hung black wooden frames holding diplomas and commendations and uniform patches and old photographs and newspaper clippings. He had added a wall of bookshelves, and on these were all his cherished books, arranged alphabetically by author, and a healthy collection of movies. Most were on VHS videotape, but he had a growing number of DVDs, too. His kids brought him a lot of movies with the weekly food deliveries.
The one thing that Stanley Dowbrowski considered the real gem of his office, however, was his desktop computer. It was a brand-new tower model, and he’d bought it with all the bells and whistles. These included a lightning-fast processor, more memory than he could believe, a home-theater audio system, and a pair of twenty-four-inch LCD monitors.
Of the latter, he used one LCD panel for his main screen. The other held all the different screens of whatever he was working on—an Internet browser window, say, showing a police scanner website, another with his e-mail in-box, and so on. He had even started watching some of the DVDs on the computer.
Stanley Dowbrowski used his mouse to scroll back up the browser window that had caused him to look askance at the screen.
Since Betty’s passing, Dowbrowski had established a daily routine. Most of it was centered in this room and around the computer. It was something he knew Betty would have frowned upon had she still been alive. But she wasn’t there. And he had decided his life—at least what was left of it—was his to live in any way that he wanted. Or, considering his failing health, any way that he could manage.
And if the ME boys have to pull my cold body out of this office chair to tie on that toe tag, so be it.
Metaphorically speaking . . .
Every night around nine o’clock, Stanley Dowbrowski poured himself his usual nightcap of a double Buffalo Trace bourbon over three ice cubes. Sometimes, he might even slip and pour three shots. Then he would bring the cocktail into the office and make one last check of his e-mail. He also usually clicked on the website of his local newspaper to see what the forecast was for the next day’s weather. And he’d run the program that backed up the files on his computer’s internal hard drive to an external drive that he kept in his fireproof safe.
Then he would grab a book from the bookshelf—tonight he was excited about a new novel by a Florida cop named James O. Born—then take it and his bourbon down the hall to his bedroom. And there he’d climb in between the sheets and read till the nightcap kicked in.
He stared at the screen now, which showed the news story on the hospital shooting:
ARMED MAN MURDERS BURN VICTIM BEFORE FLEEING HOSPITAL, FIRING AT POLICE
While police remain mum on details of the murder, witnesses claim gunman fired shots at man who shouted “Police!” while chasing gunman from hospital.
He scrolled down to see if the story had been updated.
And he found that there was something new. It was a single-sentence paragraph at the end of the article:
Update (5:44 p.m.): According to the anonymous source inside the hospital, the patient who was shot to death was J. Warren Olde, Jr.
Then Dowbrowski scrolled down to the comments section. His comment was there, of course:
From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (2:56 p.m.):
I talked to an inside source, too, and was told that this was a hit job. Maybe not a professional one, but the burn victim (thereʹs more to that story that I cannot share) was targeted. So sad to see this happening in Philly. Iʹll say it again: Shoot ʹem all and let the Good Lord sort ʹem out.
And below it there were five new postings, including one that seemed vaguely familiar:
From Death.Before.Dishonor (3:20 p.m.):
What about “Thou Shalt Not Steal”??
The only sad thing about what happened is the gun didnʹt empty all of its bullets into that pendejo! Skipper deserved every damn bullet!
Recommend [ 0 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
And he repeated to himself: “Something there’s not right.”
At three twenty, that article had not ID’d who got shot.
And it sure as hell hadn’t said “Skipper.”
I only know the guy’s name was Skipper Olde because Stephanie told me. And that he was the son of that McMansion builder.
He glanced over at the secondary LCD screen, where he could see the e-mail in-box. The list of e-mails included Stephanie’s.
Maybe this guy knew him, too?
But how did he find out?
And that screen name, “Death.Before.Dishonor,” rings a bell.
Where the hell else I have seen it?
He sipped his bourbon, then clicked around the newspaper site, trying to remember.
He saw a link in the box that read TODAY’S MOST READ ARTICLES.
In the box was: 2 DEAD AFTER METH LAB EXPLODES, BURNS PHILLY INN MOTEL.
He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
That’s it!
Death.Before.Dishonor had posted a comment at the end of that article that said, “Fuck you!” and something else.
It was listed right after mine.
He clicked on the link, then scrolled down. He found his comment and the one after it:
From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (9:50 a.m.):
Amen to both of you, Indy1 & WWBFD. I spent enough time walking the beat to see everything at least once. And nothing is as insidious as what these drugs do to families of every walk of life. I say, Shoot ʹem all and let the Good Lord sort ʹem out.
Recommend [ 4 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
From HowYouseGuysDoin’ (9:22 a.m.):
And amen to that! Iʹll provide the ammo! This nonsense has got to stop. The inmates are running the asylum!
Recommend [ 1 ] Click Here to Report Abuse
He scrolled farther down the list. There were four other comments.
But not one from Death.Before.Dishonor.
And clearly not the one that ranted about “fuck you!”—oh, and said that drugs were no different from booze and hookers.
It’s gone now.
Huh. Guess someone reported it as abuse, and they pulled it off.
Stanley Dowbrowski quickly clicked back to the article on the Temple University Hospital murder.
He scrolled down and saw that the Death.Before.Dishonor comment was sti
ll there.
He clicked on the printer icon, and in a minute his color printer was spitting out sheets with the article and all of its comments on it.
Then he reached over and picked up the phone. He punched in a number.
Great.
Got his answering machine.
“Yo, Tony,” he said to the answering machine. “Stanley Dowbrowski here. Sorry to bother you this late at home. But I got something weird here. Not sure what. Or even if it’s really anything. But it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It’s about that shooting at the hospital. And the motel that blew up over on Frankford. That damn thing rattled the hell out of my windows this morning. Thought the world was coming to an end. Anyway, give me a call when you can. 555-1840. Later.”
Stanley Dowbrowski then picked up his James O. Born cop novel and wheezed his way down the hall to the bedroom.
IX
[ONE]
140 South Broad Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 8:45 P.M.
Captain Francis X. Hollaran pointed to his wristwatch and said to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, “You’re on in fifteen, boss.” Both were wearing suits and ties.
Coughlin nodded.
From the corner of the room, he looked around at the audience. People were beginning to fill the fifty seats set up around the ten round tables in the western wing of the Grant Room of the Union League of Philadelphia. The room, thirty-seven feet square with ten-foot-high ceilings, was elegantly decorated with stunning chandeliers, dark wood-paneled walls, rich burgundy drapery, and thick deep-red-patterned woolen carpeting. A waitstaff in understated black outfits served light hors d’oeuvres and drinks, the latter being mostly coffee and water and soft drinks but also a fair number of cocktails.
The crowd was composed mostly of men. All were well-dressed and well-groomed.
And well-connected.
The Union League of Philadelphia was founded as a patriotic society in 1862, during the Civil War, by men of the upper middle class. They supported the Union side in the war and, of course, President Lincoln’s policies. In keeping with its motto of “Love of Country Leads,” the League fiercely supported the military of the United States of America. Its building, listed on the National Historic Register, occupied a whole block of Center City.
Coughlin regularly came and spoke to the Union League’s members and guests as an outreach of the police department. The gathering had evolved—which was to say, had grown far beyond his expectations—from smaller informal chats over drinks in the League’s bar down the corridor. Still, he tried to keep the tone of the larger gathering the same as that of those earlier ones—that of a more or less casual get-together.
The outreach was a self-appointed task, one he felt neither the mayor nor the police commissioner could do effectively because of their high profiles. And they both agreed with Coughlin; as first deputy police commissioner, he was the top cop who really had his hand in the everyday business of all the varied departments.
Coughlin considered it highly important that the city’s heavy hitters had a better understanding of what the department was doing—and what the men on the street were up against. If they did, he figured, then they would be more prone to defend and support the police department. And, failing that, at least not be of a limited mind-set to rush to judgment and damn the department for the slightest infraction.
Denny Coughlin quickly patted his suit coat at chest level, first one side then the other. He felt relief when he found that the half-dozen index cards bearing his notes for the evening discussion were still in the inside left pocket.
Coughlin then looked at Hollaran and said, “Frank, Jason Washington told me that that Texas Ranger is with Matty.”
“That’s right, Denny.”
“Put out the arm for them, would you, please? For one, I’d like to meet the man. Liz Justice spoke highly of him. For another, he might be able to contribute to tonight’s topic. Meantime, I’m going to visit the gentlemen’s facility before this thing gets started.”
Hollaran nodded, then stepped into the corridor. He pulled out his cell phone from his suit jacket’s inside pocket. But then he remembered that by the door was a chrome-plated four-foot-tall pole on a round chrome base that displayed a sign:
CELLULAR TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS PROHIBITED!
PER STRICT LEAGUE POLICY 0654-1.
KINDLY TURN OFF ALL SUCH DEVICES.
THANK YOU.
Hollaran walked down the corridor and went to a bank of telephones. He picked up the receiver of one that had a small sign beside it that read LOCAL CALLS. He looked at his cell phone. He scrolled down its phone book list until he found PAYNE MATT HOME, then PAYNE MATT CELL. He punched a key to show the number, then he punched the number into the landline phone’s keypad.
“Matt,” Hollaran said when Payne answered. “Frank Hollaran. Commissioner Coughlin would like you and your guest to join us at the Union League. How soon can you get here?”
“We just left the ME’s office,” Payne said.
“Anything new?”
“Yeah. And it doesn’t look good. I think we can be there directly. ‘We’ being Jim Byrth and Tony Harris.”
Harris? Hollaran thought. He’s a damned good cop.
But he’d be out of his league here in, well, the League. Would that make him uncomfortable?
“I have no problem with Tony, Matt. But would he be comfortable?”
“A helluva lot more comfortable than where we just were and witnessed.”
Hollaran heard a strange tone in Payne’s voice. Anger maybe?
“Okay,” he said. “I leave the decision in your capable hands, Sergeant. See you shortly.”
Forty-five minutes earlier, Philadelphia Homicide Detective Tony Harris and Philadelphia Homicide Sergeant Matt Payne and Texas Rangers Sergeant Jim Byrth had walked out of Liberties feeling no pain. The questions had arisen as to where they were going to have dinner and where Byrth was going to rent a room for the duration of his stay in the City of Brotherly Love.
Payne had said, “I’d offer you the guest room in my apartment—”
“Thanks, but no way could I accept your offer,” Byrth had interrupted.
“And you’re exactly correct,” Payne had replied. “Because I’m not.”
Byrth turned to him with a look that said, Then why the hell did you offer it?
Tony Harris explained, “It’s because he doesn’t have one. His apartment is tiny.”
Payne’s stomach growled.
“Excuse me. Obviously, I am in need of sustenance,” he said. Then he added, “Jim, that was what’s known as a hypothetical statement. Because if I did have one, it’d be all yours. That’s where I was going with that train of thought.”
Byrth smiled, then shook his head. The Hat on top accentuated the motion.
Harris added, “You’re welcome to stay at my house. I do have a guest room.”
“Thank you, Tony. But, really, I couldn’t impose. Besides, I’m not spending my money.”
Then Harris’s phone had started ringing. That reminded Payne he’d turned his off, and he pushed the 0/1 button till his screen lit up. He cleared out the MISSED CALLS list—all from Chad Nesbitt, who within a twenty-minute period had called a dozen times, then had gotten the message and given up.
I told you, ol’ buddy, I’ll deal with that later.
Harris answered his phone.
After a moment, he said, “Okay, thanks.” And ended the call.
“Dr. Mitchell’s finishing up with the girl they fished out of the river,” Harris said. “I asked him to call me when he did. I wanted to swing by. You guys don’t need to go.”
“Am I allowed to ask, ‘Who’s Dr. Mitchell’?”
Payne said, “Sure. Feel free to ask anything. He’s the medical examiner.”
“As strange as it might sound, I’d like to go,” Byrth said. “You always learn something. Even if it’s only a little thing that triggers a thought later.
”
“The Black Buddha calls that ‘Looking under the rock under the rock,’ ” Payne said. “I’m in, too, Tony. I figure I’ve got enough liquid encouragement in me to get through it.”
“Won’t take but a moment,” Harris said.
Harris had been wrong. It had taken longer than he had thought. They’d had more to discuss than just the young Hispanic woman.
The Medical Examiner’s Office, just across the Schuylkill River, was next door to the University of Pennsylvania and, somewhat appropriately, just up University Avenue from Woodlands Cemetery.
The medical examiner’s job was to investigate all “non-natural and unattended natural deaths.”
The Medical Examiner’s Office was open round-the-clock. In a city like Philly, that was an absolute necessity. Its investigators handled some six thousand cases each year—which averaged out to be a staggering sixteen a day. They worked long hours to determine what caused a person’s violent or suspicious death, particularly all homicides and suicides and any deaths that were drug-related.
And they were good at it. They more or less quickly determined the manner of death in about half of the cases; the remainder required an autopsy. The ME’s office then wrote up a report of the autopsy for use in the criminal justice system, and the ME himself often appeared in court and provided expert testimony.
Philadelphia Medical Examiner Howard H. Mitchell was board-certified in forensic pathology, and the balding, rumpled man could usually be found in a well-worn suit and tie. When Payne, Harris, and Byrth found him, however, he wore tan hospital scrubs and surgical gloves. The scrubs and gloves had more than a little blood on them.
Dr. Mitchell was in the room marked PORTMORTEM EXAMINATION. The autopsy room was brightly lit, almost harshly, and its temperature a chilly sixty degrees Fahrenheit. The walls and floor were covered with shiny ceramic tiling, gray ones on the floor and white ones on the walls. There were three stainless-steel operating tables, each with a four-inch-diameter stainless-steel drain in the tiled floor directly beneath them. Two of the stainless-steel operating tables were empty and gleaming.
The Traffickers Page 29
