W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 04 - The Witness

by The Witness(lit)

I really would like to believe that. I wonder why I don't?

  Young looked at his watch.

  "Gotta get moving," he said, and offered Matt his hand.

  When Matt followed him back into the living room, Mat-thews was holding the Queen of a set of green jade chess pieces Matt had been given for his fifteenth birthday.

  "Interesting set," Matthews said. "Do you play much?"

  "Some."

  "We'll have to have a game sometime."

  "Anytime. I'll be here."

  "I might surprise you, and just come knocking some night."

  "I wish you would."

  TWENTY-THREE

  "How are you, Inspector?" Lieutenant Warren Lomax greeted Peter Wohl cheerfully, offering his hand. "What can we do for you?"

  Lomax was a tall, quite skinny man in his early forties. He had been seriously injured years before in a high-speed chase accident as a Highway Patrol sergeant, and pensioned off.

  After two years of retirement, he had (it was generally ac-knowledged with the help of then Commissioner Carlucci) managed to get back on the job on limited duty. He'd gone to work in the Forensics Laboratory as sort of the chief clerk. There, he had become fascinated with what he saw and what the lab did, actually gone back to school at night to study chemistry and electronics and whatever else he thought would be useful, and gradually become an expert in what was called "scientific crime detection."

  Three years before he had managed to get himself off limited duty, taken and passed the lieutenant's exam, and now the Fo-rensics Lab was his.

  Wohl thought, as he always did, that Lomax looked like a sick man (he remembered him as a robust Highway sergeant), felt sorry for him, and then wondered why: Lomax obviously didn't feel sorry for himself, and was obviously as happy as a pig in mud doing what he was doing.

  "How are you, Warren?" Wohl said, and handed him the cassette tape from Matt Payne's answering machine with his free hand.

  "What's this?" Lomax asked.

  "The tape from Officer Matt Payne's answering machine. Payne told me that Chief Coughlin wanted to run them through here. And as I had to come here to face an irate mayor anyhow, I brought it along."

  "Christ, Carlucci even called me, wanting to know if I had heard anything about the-what is it-the Islamic Liberation Army."

  "Had you?"

  "The first I ever heard of them was in the newspapers. Who the hell are they, anyway?"

  "I wish I knew," Wohl said. "You come up with anything on Payne's car?"

  Lomax turned and walked stiffly, reminding Wohl that the accident had crushed his hip, to a desk and came back with a manila folder.

  "My vast experience in forensics leads me to believe a. that the same instrument was used to slice his tires and fuck up his paint job, and b. that said instrument was a pretty high quality collapsible knife, probably with a six-inch blade."

  "How did you reach these conclusions, Dr. Lomax? And what is a collapsible knife?"

  "A switchblade," Lomax said, "is like a regular penknife, the blade folds into the handle, except that it's spring loaded, so that when you push the button, it springs open. A collapsible knife is one where the blade slides in and out of the handle. Some are spring loaded, and some you have to push. You fol-low me?"

  Wohl nodded.

  "Okay. Switchblades aren't much good for stabbing tires, particularly high-quality tires like the Pirelli's on Payne's car. They're slashing instruments. The blades are thin. You try to stab something, like the walls of tires, the blade tends to snap. Payne's tires were stabbed, more than slashed. The contour of the penetration, the holes, shows that the blade was pretty thick on the dull side. A lot of switchblades are just thin pieces of steel sharpened on both sides. Hence, a collapsible knife of pretty good quality. Six inches long or so because there's gen-erally a proportion between blade width and length. The same instrument because we found particles of tire rubber in the scratches in the paint. And, for the hell of it, the size and depth of the scratches indicates a blade shape, the point shape, con-firming what I said before."

  "I am dazzled," Wohl said.

  "Now all you street cops have to do is find the knife, and there's your doer. There can't be more than eight or ten thou-sand knives like that in Philadelphia. Forensics is happy to have been able to be of service."

  Wohl slid photographs out of the folder and looked at them.

  "I hate to think what it's going to cost to have that car re-painted," he said.

  "Well, I have a nice heel print of who I suspect is the doer," Lomax said. "Heel and three clear fingers, right hand. Maybe you can get him to pay to have it painted."

  Wohl looked at him curiously.

  "It's in a position suggesting that he laid his hand on the hood, left side, when he bent over to stick the knife in the ninety-dollar tire," Lomax said, and then pointed to one of the photographs. "There."

  "Well, when we have a suspect in custody," Wohl said, "I'm sure that will be very valuable."

  Lomax laughed. Both knew that while the positive identifi-cation of an individual by his fingerprints has long been estab-lished as nearly infallible-fingerprints are truly unique-it is not true that all you have to do to find an individual is have his fingerprint or fingerprints. Trying to match a fingerprint with-out a name to go with it, with fingerprints on file in either a police department or in the FBI's miles of cabinets in Wash-ington, and thus come up with a name, is for all practical purposes impossible.

  "What's on here?" Lomax asked, picking up the cassette tape.

  "I don't know. I didn't hear it. I don't think anybody has. They're calling there every fifteen minutes or so, so McFadden-one of the guys sitting on Payne-fixed it so that the machine worked silently."

  "You want to hear it?"

  "Not particularly," Wohl said, and then reconsidered. He looked at his watch. "Maybe I'd better," he said. "Let me have the phone, will you, please, Warren?"

  Lomax pushed a telephone to him, and Wohl dialed a num-ber.

  "This is Inspector Wohl. Have Detective Harris call me at 555-3445."

  When he had put the phone down, Lomax asked, "He get-ting anywhere with the Magnella job?"

  "Not so far."

  "How's he doing?"

  "If you mean, Warren, 'is he still on a bender?' he better not be. Christ, is that all over the Department?"

  "People talk, Peter."

  "The word is gossip, and cops do it more than women," Wohl said.

  "I was having my own troubles with good ol' Jack Daniel's for a while," Lomax said. "I'm sympathetic."

  "I sometimes wonder if people weren't so sympathetic if the people they feel sorry for would straighten themselves out."

  "He's a good cop, Peter."

  "So I keep telling myself," Wohl said. "But then I keep hearing stories about him waving his gun around and getting thrown in a holding cell to sober up."

  "You heard that, huh?"

  "Let's play the tape."

  Lieutenant Lomax had methodically made notes on seven-teen recorded messages when his telephone rang. He answered it, then handed it to Wohl. "Tony Harris."

  "Where are you working, Harris?" Wohl asked. There was a pause while Harris told him. Wohl thought a moment, then said, "Okay. Meet me at the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Bou-levard at noon. If you get there before I do, get us a booth."

  He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  "Would you think me a racist if I told you I suspect all of these calls were from those of the Afro-American persua-sion?" he asked.

  "What did you expect?" Lomax replied. "Two kinds, though, I think. Some of these sleaze-balls have gone past the sixth grade."

  "Yeah, I sort of noticed that. A little affectation in the dic-tion."

  "And not all of them are black, I don't think."

  "No?"

  "At least not on the first tape. There was a very sexy lady on tape one. 'You know who this is,' she said, in a very sultry voice indeed, 'call me in the morning,' or 'after nine in
the morning.' Something like that."

  "Now you're a racist. How do you know the sexy lady isn't black?"

  "I doubt it. This was a pure Bala Cynwyd, Rose Tree Hunt Club accent. She talked with her teeth clenched."

  Wohl chuckled. "I think one might reasonably presume that if one is young, good-looking, rich, and drives a Porsche, one might reasonably expect to get one's wick dipped."

  "Even a Porsche with slashed tires?" Lomax quipped, and then started the tape again.

  The fifth message next played was, "Darling, he's gone out again, thank God, and I'm sitting here with a martini-and you know what they do to me-thinking of all the things I'd like to do to you. So if you get this before eight-thirty, call me, and we can at least talk. Otherwise, call me after nineish in the morning."

  Wohl could see the lady, teeth clenched, talking. He even had a good idea of what she looked like. Blond hair, long, parted in the middle and hanging to her shoulders. She was wearing a sweater and a pleated skirt. From Strawbridge & Clothier in Jenkintown.

  "I wonder what she has in mind to do to Officer Payne?" Lomax asked, teeth clenched. "Something frightfully naughty, wouldn't you say?"

  "We gonna stick a.45 down your throat, motherfucker, and blow your fucking brains out your ass!"

  "On the whole, I think I prefer the lady's offer," Wohl said.

  "Yeah," Lomax said.

  "Her voice," Wohl thought aloud, "sounds vaguely famil-iar. "

  "If he who has gone out again, thank God," Lomax said, in a credible mimicry, "finds out, Payne is going to have a bullet in both legs."

  "We gonna cut your cock off and shove it down your throat, motherfucker!"

  "I think that's more or less what the lady has in mind," Wohl said. "Except that she wants to bite it off and shove it down her own throat."

  "Peter, you're a dirty old man."

  "Shut it off, I've heard enough," Wohl said. "I'm on my way to 'counsel' Detective Harris. I shouldn't have a mind full of lewd images."

  "I don't think you missed anything. I'll play the whole thing to be sure. But that's about what the first one had on it."

  "Why do you think they're doing this, Warren?"

  "I don't know," Lomax said thoughtfully. "Just to be a pain in the ass, maybe. Or they get their jollies talking nasty to a cop."

  "Wouldn't that get dull after a while? How many times can you say 'fuck you'?"

  "I had the feeling too, that it's organized. Some of them sound like they're reading it."

  "That brings us back to why?"

  "It could be, playing a psychiatrist, that they're getting a little worried, and calling Payne and Goldblatt's makes them think they're doing something useful for the revolution."

  "You think they're really revolutionaries?"

  "They don't sound like bomb throwers. Christ, I've listened to enough of them. They sound either really bananas, or very calm, as if they're going about God's work. These clowns don't even sound particularly angry."

  "Yeah," Wohl said. "Well, thanks, Warren. It was good to see you."

  "I got some really dirty tapes back there, Peter," Lomax said, gesturing toward a row of file tapes, "and some blue movies, now that we know you react to them. Come back anytime."

  ***

  Martha Peebles woke thinking that she was-to her joyous sur-prise; four months before she would have given eight to five that she would end her life as a virginal spinster-not only a woman in love, but a betrothed woman.

  David-sweet, shy David-had never actually proposed, of course, getting down on his knees and asking her to be his bride, giving her an engagement ring. But that didn't matter. He knew in his heart as she knew in hers that they were meant for each other, that it was ordained, perhaps by God, that they share life's joys and pains together, that they be man and wife.

  Getting down on his knees wasn't David's style. She could not, now that she had time to think about it, imagine her father getting down on his knees either. And she already had an en-gagement ring. It had been her mother's. And it looked so good on her finger!

  She got out of bed and put on a robe and went into the bath and watched David shave and then get dressed, and, hanging on his arm, her head against his shoulder, walked with him downstairs for breakfast.

  Evans gave her, she thought, a knowing look.

  Well, have I got a surprise for you! It's not what you think at all.

  Evans disappeared into the kitchen, and then returned a mo-ment later with the coffee service.

  "Good morning, Miss Martha, Captain," he said. "It's cold out, but nice and clear. I hope you slept well?"

  "Splendidly, thank you," Martha said. "Evans, Captain Pekach and I have a little announcement."

  David looked uncomfortable.

  "I saw the ring when you came in, Miss Martha," Evans said. "Your mother and dad would be happy for you."

  He held out his hand to David.

  "May I offer my congratulations, Captain?"

  "Thank you," David said, getting to his feet, visibly torn between embarrassment and pleasure.

  Harriet Evans came through the swinging door to the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Martha.

  "Oh, honey baby, I'm so happy for you," she said, tears running down her cheeks. "I knew the first time I saw you with the captain that he'd be the one."

  "I knew the first time I saw him that he was the one," Martha said.

  Harriet touched Martha's face and then went to Pekach and hugged him.

  David's embarrassment passed. He was now smiling broadly.

  I will never be as happy ever again as I am at this moment, Martha thought.

  She waited until Evans and Harriet had gone to fetch the rest of breakfast, and then asked, "Precious, would you do some-thing for me?"

  "Name it," he said, after a just perceptible hesitation.

  "I know how you feel about people and parties, precious. But I do want to share this with someone.'"

  "Who?" David asked suspiciously.

  "I was thinking we could have a very few people, Peter Wohl, for example, in for cocktails and dinner. Nothing elab-orate-"

  "Wohl?"

  "Well, he is your boss, and he was the first one who knew."

  "Yeah, I guess he was."

  "And he's not married, and I suspect that he's under terrible pressure-"

  "You can say that again."

  "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Would you ask him?"

  "For when?"

  "For tonight."

  "I'll ask him."

  "And maybe Captain and Mrs. Sabara?"

  "I can ask."

  And I will think of one more couple. Somebody who can do David some good. I would like to ask Brewster and Patricia Payne, but with their boy in the condition he is, that probably isn't a good idea. I'll think of someone. Since my husband-to-be wants to be a policeman, it is clearly the duty of his wife-to-be to do everything in her power to see that he becomes commissioner.

  "You ask the minute you get to work, and call me and tell me what they said."

  "That sounds like a wifely order."

  "Yes, I guess it does. Do you want to change your mind about anything?"

  Smiling broadly, he shook his head no.

  She got up and went to his end of the table and stood behind his chair and put her arms around him.

  And so it was that when Assistant District Attorney Farnsworth Stillwell finally managed to get Staff Inspector Peter Wohl on the telephone at half past one that afternoon, Wohl was able to make the absolutely truthful statement, "Well, that's very kind of you, Farnsworth, but I have previous plans."

  He was to take cocktails and dinner with Miss Martha Pee-bles and her fianc‚ at Miss Peebles's residence, primarily because when Dave Pekach asked him, Pekach took him by surprise, and he could think of no excuse not to accept that would not hurt Pekach's feelings.

  Until Stillwell had called, he had taken some consolation by thinking that the food would probably be g
ood, and even if that didn't happen, he would be able to satisfy his curiosity about what the inside of the mansion behind the walls at 606 Glen-garry Lane looked like.

  Now he was extremely grateful to have been the recipient of Miss Peebles's kind invitation.

  I may even carry her flowers.