Men In Blue Page 10

  That sort of a perpetrator is not going to be found sitting in the toilet, head between his hands, sick to his stomach with remorse, asking to see his parish priest. The sonofabitch is going to run, and if run to earth is going to deny ever having been near the scene of the crime in his life.

  It is necessary to make the case against him. Find his gun, wherever he hid it or threw it, and have the crime lab make it as the murder weapon. Find witnesses who saw him at the scene of the crime, or with the loot. Break the stories of witnesses who at first are willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that the accused was twenty miles from the scene of the crime.

  This is proper detective work, worthy of homicide detectives, who believe they are the best detectives in the department. It requires brains and skills in a dozen facets of the investigative profession.

  And every once in a great while, there is a case just like cop stories on the TV, where some dame does in her husband, or some guy does in his business partner, on purpose, planning it carefully, so that it looks as if he fell down the cellar stairs, or that the partner got done in by a burglar, or a mugger, or a hit-and-run driver.

  But something about it smells, and a good homicide detective starts nosing around, finding out if the done-in husband had a girl on the side, or a lot of insurance, or had a lot of insurance and the wife was running around.

  Very near the top of the priority list are the homicides of children, and other sorts of specially protected individuals, such as nuns, or priests.

  And at the absolute top of the priority list is the murder of a police officer. There are a number of reasons for this, some visceral (that could be me lying there with a hole in the back of my head) and some very practical: You can’t enforce the law if the bad guys think they can shoot a cop and get away with it. If the bad guys can laugh at the cops, they win.

  Technically, the investigation of the murder of Captain Richard C. Moffitt would be handled exactly like the murder of any other citizen. The case would be assigned to a homicide detective. It would be his case. He would conduct the investigation, asking for whatever assistance he needed. He would be supervised by his sergeant, who would keep himself advised on where the investigation was leading. And the sergeant’s lieutenant would keep an eye on the investigation through the sergeant. Both would provide any assistance to the homicide detective who had the case that he asked for.

  That was the procedure, and it would be followed in the case of Captain Richard C. Moffitt.

  Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Division, had assigned the investigation of the murder of Captain Richard C. Moffitt to Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., almost immediately upon learning that Captain Moffitt had been shot to death.

  Detective Washington was thirty-nine years old, a large, heavyset Afro-American who had been a police officer for sixteen years, a detective for eleven, and assigned to Homicide for five. Washington had a reputation as a highly skilled interrogator, a self-taught master psychologist who seemed to know not only when someone being interviewed was lying, but how to get the person being interviewed to tell the truth. He was quite an actor, doing this, being able convincingly to portray any one of a number of characters, from the kindly understanding father figure who fully understood how something tragic like this could happen to the meanest sonofabitch east of the Mississippi River.

  Washington had a fine mind, an eagle’s eye when discovering minor discrepancies in a story, and a skill rare among his peers. He was a fine typist. He could type with great accuracy at about eighty words per minute. This skill, coupled with Detective Washington’s flair for writing, made his official reports the standard to which his peers aspired. Detective Washington was never summoned to the captain’s office to be asked, “What the hell is this supposed to mean?”

  Detective Washington and Captain Moffitt had been friends, too. Washington had been (briefly, until he had been injured in a serious wreck, during a high-speed pursuit) then-Sergeant Moffitt’s partner in the Highway Patrol.

  None of this had anything to with the case of Captain Richard C. Moffitt being assigned to Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr. He was given the job because he was “up on the wheel.” The wheel (which was actually a sheet of cardboard) was the device by which jobs were assigned to the detectives of the Homicide Division. Each shift had its own wheel. When a job came in, the detective whose name was at the head of list was given the assignment, whereupon his name went to the bottom of the wheel. He would not be given another job until every other homicide detective, in turn, had been given one.

  The system was not unlike that used in automobile showrooms, where to keep a prospective customer, an “up,” from being swarmed over by a dozen commission-hungry salesmen, they were forced to take their turn.

  Jason F. Washington, Sr., knew, however, as did everybody else in Homicide, that while Dutch’s shooting might be his job, he was going to be given a higher level of supervision and assistance than he would have gotten had Richard C. Moffitt been a civilian when he stopped the bullet in the Waikiki Diner.

  There was no suggestion at all that there was any question in anyone’s mind that Washington could not handle the job. What it was was that the commissioner was going to keep an eye on the case through Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, who was going to lean on Captain Quaire to make sure everything possible was being done, who was going to lean on Lieutenant Lou Natali who was going to lean on Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, who was going to lean on Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr.

  And now Peter Wohl had been added to the equation, and Jason Washington wasn’t sure what that would mean. He had found that out when he’d asked Captain Quaire why the witness hadn’t been brought to the Roundhouse. Quaire had told him, off the record, that Wohl had stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong, and that Lowenstein was about to chop it off for him. But an hour after that, Quaire had come out of his office to tell him that was changed. He was not to do anything about the witness at all, without checking with Staff Inspector Wohl. Staff Inspector Wohl was presently at the medical examiner’s office and might, and then again might not, soon grace Homicide with his exalted presence.

  Quaire had thrown up his hands.

  “Don’t look at me, Jason. I just work here. We are now involved in bullshit among the upper-level brass.”

  Detective Jason Washington had seen Staff Inspector Peter Wohl come into Homicide, and had seen Matt Lowenstein take him into Captain Quaire’s office, throwing Quaire out as he did so. He was not surprised when Wohl appeared at his desk, five minutes later, although he had not seen, or sensed, him walking over.

  “Hello, Jason,” Wohl said.

  Washington stood up and offered his hand.

  “Inspector,” he said. “How goes it?”

  “I’m all right,” Wohl said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Aside from the normal ravages of middle age, no real complaints. Something on your mind?”

  “I’ve been assigned to stroke WCBL-TV generally and Miss Louise Dutton specifically,” Wohl said. “I guess you heard?”

  Washington smiled. “I heard about that.” He pointed at the wooden chair beside his desk.

  Wohl smiled his thanks and sat down and stretched his legs out.

  “You ever read Animal Farm?” Wohl asked.

  Washington chuckled.

  “I wouldn’t compare a pretty lady like that with a pig,” he said.

  “Let’s just say then that she’s more equal than some other pretty lady,” Wohl said. “If you’re ready for her, I’ll go get her.”

  “Anytime it’s convenient,” Washington said. “But an hour ago would be better than tomorrow.”

  “Jason, all I’m going to do is stroke her feathers,” Wohl said. “Did I have to tell you that?”

  “No, but I’m glad you did,” Washington said. “Thank you.”

  “But for personal curiosity, has anything turned up?” Wohl asked.

  “Not yet, but if I was a white b
oy with long hair and a zipper jacket, I don’t think I would leave the house today. I guess you heard what the Highway Patrol is up to?”

  “I’m not sure how effective that will be, but you can’t blame them. They liked Dutch.”

  “So did I. We were partners, once. Hell, Highway may even catch him.”

  “What’s your gut feeling, Jason?”

  “Well, he’s either under a rock somewhere in Philadelphia, or he’s long gone. But gut feeling? He’s either here or in Atlantic City.”

  Wohl nodded and made a little grunting noise.

  “An undercover guy from Narcotics thinks he identified the woman—”

  “Sergeant Hobbs called me,” Washington interrupted him. “If they can come up with a name ...”

  “I have a feeling they will,” Wohl said. “Okay. So long as you understand where I fit in this, Jason, I’ll go fetch the eyewitness.”

  He stood up.

  Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., extended something to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.

  “What’s that?”

  “Miracle of modern medicine,” Washington said. “It’s supposed to prevent ulcers.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m going to need it?” Wohl asked with a smile.

  “Somebody thinks that TV lady is going to be trouble,” Washington said.

  Wohl popped the antacid in his mouth, and then turned and walked out of Homicide.

  SIX

  When Sergeant Hobbs and Officer McFadden got to the Roundhouse, and McFadden started to open the passenger-side door, Hobbs touched his arm.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. He then got out of the car, walked to the passenger side, motioned for McFadden to get out, and when he had, put his hand on his arm, and then marched him into the building. It looked for all the world as if McFadden was in custody and being led into the Roundhouse, which is exactly what Hobbs had in mind.

  The Roundhouse is a public building, but it is not open to the public to the degree, for example, that City Hall is. It is the nerve center of the police department, and while there are always a number of ordinary, decent, law-abiding citizens in the building, the overwhelming majority of private citizens in the Roundhouse are there as nonvoluntary guests of the police, or are relatives and friends of the nonvoluntary guests who have come to see what can be done about getting them out, either by posting bail, or in some other way.

  There are almost always a number of people in this latter category standing just outside, or just inside, the door leading into the Roundhouse from the parking lot out back. Immediately inside the door is a small foyer. To the right a corridor leads to an area from which the friends and relatives of those arrested can watch preliminary arraignments before a magistrate, who either sets bail or orders the accused confined until trial.

  To the left is a door leading to the main lobby of the building, which is not open to the general public. It is operated by a solenoid controlled by a police officer who sits behind a shatterproof plastic window directly across the corridor from the door to the parking lot.

  Hobbs didn’t want anyone with whom McFadden might now, or eventually, have a professional relationship to remember later having seen the large young man with the forehead band walking into the place and being passed without question, as if he was cop, into the main lobby.

  Still holding on to Officer McFadden’s arm, Hobbs flashed his badge at the corporal on duty behind the window, who took a good look at it, and then pushed the button operating the solenoid. The door lock buzzed as Hobbs reached it. He pushed it open, and went through it, and marched McFadden to the elevator doors.

  There was a sign on the gray steel first-floor door reading CRIMINAL RECORDS, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Hobbs pushed it open, and eventually the door opened. A corporal looked at Officer McFadden very dubiously.

  “This is McFadden, Narcotics,” Hobbs said. The room held half a dozen enormous gray rotary files, each twelve feet long. Electric motors rotated rows of files, thousands of them, each containing the arrest and criminal records of one individual who had at one time come to the official attention of the police. The files were tended by civilian employees, mostly women, under the supervision of sworn officers.

  Hobbs saw the sergeant on duty, Salvatore V. DeConti, a short, balding, plump, very natty man in his middle thirties, in a crisply starched shirt and perfectly creased uniform trousers, sitting at his desk. He saw that DeConti was unable to keep from examining, and finding wanting, the fat bearded large young man he had brought with him into records.

  Amused, Hobbs walked McFadden over to him and introduced him: “Sergeant DeConti, this is Officer McFadden. He’s identified the woman who shot Captain Moffitt.”

  It was an effort, but DeConti managed it, to offer his hand to the fat, bearded young man with the leather band around his forehead.

  “How are you?” he said, then freed his hand, and called to the corporal. When he came over, he said, “Officer McFadden’s got a name on the girl Captain Moffitt shot.”

  “I guess the fingerprint guy from Identification ought to be back from the medical examiner’s about now with her prints,” the corporal said. “What’s the name?”

  “Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann,” McFadden said. “And I got a name, Sergeant, for the guy who got away from the diner.” He gestured with his hand, a circular movement near his head, indicating that he didn’t actually have a name, for sure, but that he knew there was one floating around somewhere in his head. That he was, in other words, working intuitively.

  “Florian will help you, if he can,” Sergeant DeConti said.

  “Gallagher, Grady, something Irish,” McFadden said. “There’s only three or four thousand Gallaghers in there, I’m sure,” Corporal Florian said. “But we can look.”

  “Help yourself to some coffee, Sergeant,” DeConti said. Then, “Damned shame about Dutch.”

  “A rotten shame,” Hobbs agreed. “Three kids.” Then he looked at DeConti. “I’m sure McFadden is right,” he said. “Lieutenant Pekach said he’s smart, a good cop. Even if he doesn’t look much like one.”

  “I’m just glad I never got an assignment like that,” DeConti said. “Some of it has to rub off. The scum he has to be with, I mean.”

  Hobbs had the unkind thought that Sergeant DeConti would never be asked to undertake an undercover assignment unless it became necessary to infiltrate a group of hotel desk clerks, or maybe the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. If you put a white collar on DeConti, Hobbs thought, he could easily pass for a priest.

  Across the room, McFadden, a look of satisfaction on his face, was writing on a yellow, lined pad. He ripped off a sheet and handed it to Corporal Florian. Then he walked across the room to Hobbs and DeConti.

  “Gerald Vincent Gallagher,” he announced. “I remembered the moment I saw her sheet. He got ripped off about six months ago by some Afro-American gentlemen, near the East Park Reservoir in Fairmount Park. They really did a job on him. She came to see him in the hospital.”

  “Good man, McFadden,” DeConti said. “Florian’s getting his record?”

  “Yes, sir. Her family lives in Holmesburg,” McFadden went on. “I went looking for her there one time. Her father runs a grocery store around Lincoln High School. Nice people.”

  “This ought to brighten their day,” Hobbs said.

  Corporal Florian walked over with a card, and handed it, a little uneasily, to McFadden. DeConti and Hobbs leaned over to get a look.

  “That’s him. He’s just out on parole, too,” McFadden said.

  “He fits the description,” Hobbs said, and then went on: “If you were Gerald Vincent Gallagher, McFadden, where do you think you would be right now?”

  McFadden’s heavily bearded face screwed up in thought.

  “I don’t think I’d have any money, since I didn’t get to pull off the robbery,” he said. “So I don’t think I would be on a bus or train out of town. And I wouldn’t go back where I lived, in case I had been recognized, s
o I would probably be holed up someplace, probably in North Philly, if I got that far. Maybe downtown. I can think of a couple of places.”

  “Make up a list,” Hobbs ordered.

  “I’d sort of like to look for this guy myself, Sergeant,” McFadden said.

  Hobbs looked at him dubiously.

  “I don’t want to blow my cover, Sergeant,” McFadden went on. “I could look for him without doing that.”

  “You can tell Lieutenant Pekach that I said that if he thinks you could be spared from your regular job for a while, that you could probably be useful to Detective Washington,” Hobbs said. “If Washington wants you.”

  “Thank you,” McFadden said. “I’ll ask him as soon as I get back to the office.”

  “Jason Washington’s got the job?” Sergeant DeConti asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Hobbs said. He picked up the telephone and dialed it.

  “Detention Unit, Corporal Delzinski.”

  “This is Sergeant Hobbs, Homicide, Corporal. The next time a wagon from the Sixth District—”

  “There’s one just come in, Sergeant,” Delzinski interrupted.

  “As soon as they drop off their prisoner, send them up to Criminal Records,” Hobbs said. “I’ve got a prisoner that has to be transported to Narcotics. They’ll probably have to fumigate the wagon, afterward, but that can’t be helped.”

  DeConti laughed.

  “We have a lot of time and money invested in making you a credible turd, McFadden,” Hobbs said. “I would hate to see it all wasted.”

  “I understand, sir,” McFadden said. “Thank you.” A civilian employee from the photo lab, a very thin woman, walked up with three four-by-five photographs of Gerald Vincent Gallagher.

  “I wiped them,” she said. “But they’re still wet. I don’t know about putting them in an envelope.”

  “I’ll just carry them the way they are,” Hobbs said.

  “McFadden, you make up your list. When the Sixth District wagon gets here, Sergeant DeConti will tell them to transport you to Narcotics. I’ll send somebody up to get the list from you.”