Final Justice boh-8 Read online

  The only problem Joe D’Amata had with Payne as a sergeant in Homicide was that it made him reconsider the decision he’d made years before, when he’d been in Homicide a year, and there was a sergeant’s exam coming up, and he had decided not to take it.

  It was pretty clear by then that he’d cut the mustard and wouldn’t be asked to “consider a transfer.” He realized that he would much rather be a Homicide detective than a sergeant, or a lieutenant, or even a captain, somewhere else. For one thing, with all the overtime, he was taking home as much-or more-dough as an inspector. But the money wasn’t all of it. He liked Homicide.

  Homicide was special, and it paid well. Who needs to be a sergeant?

  So he hadn’t taken the exam, and hadn’t thought about getting promoted since. And he knew that many-perhaps most-of the Homicide detectives had made the same decision at some time in their careers.

  Another trouble with taking the exam and making sergeant was that he’d have to leave Homicide, the personnel theory there being it was bad policy to have somebody who last week was one of the boys this week be their supervisor. Even if he went to a regular detective district-South, for example-as a sergeant, he wouldn’t be doing any investigations himself, just supervising detectives who were investigating retail thefts, stolen autos, and the occasional more exciting aggravated assaults, or bank robberies. And, if you turned up a good suspect on a bank job, the FBI would immediately take over. If he were sent to a uniform district, a very distinct possibility in today’s “career-development-minded” department, then he would be devoting his investigatory skills to “Disturbance, House” calls.

  There were exceptions, of course. There were exceptions to everything. Jason Washington had taken the lieutenant’s exam with the understanding that if he made it, he would stay in Homicide. And the word was out that with a couple of belts in him, after he’d heard Payne was coming to Homicide, Tony Harris had gone to Washington and asked if he couldn’t do the same thing, and Washington said he would work on it.

  There was something else, too. The reason Payne was the new sergeant was the nutty “First Five Get Their Choice of Assignment” decision Commissioner Mariani had come up with.

  That could have come out worse. Payne was a youngster, but he was a good cop. He’d been doing in critters from the time he’d come on the job. Denny Coughlin had gotten him assigned as Peter Wohl’s administrative assistant to keep him out of trouble until he realized that rich kids from the Main Line really shouldn’t be cops just because their father and uncle got blown away as cops.

  He had been working for Wohl hardly any time at all when he’d popped the Northwest serial rapist and taken him permanently off the streets without putting the Commonwealth to the expense of a trial.

  Maybe it was in his blood. Who the hell knew? But the point was Payne was a good cop. What if the Number One guy had been somebody else? Some dickhead out of Community Relations, some other candyass good at taking exams but who, on the street, couldn’t find his butt with both hands and who would piss his pants if he had to stare down some critter? What then?

  Joe D’Amata pushed himself out of his chair and walked to Lieutenant Washington’s door. He waited until he had Washington’s attention.

  “We got one, Jason,” he said. “White female, twenty-three, probably involved with a rape.”

  “Dare I hope the culprit is in custody?” Washington asked.

  D’Amata shook his head.

  “No. Thirty-fifth District uniform is holding the scene,” he said.

  “Sergeant Payne will accompany you to the scene,” Washington said, smiling broadly, “checking to make sure everything you know has to be done is done. You will explain each step in the procedure to him, so that he will be assured you know what you’re doing.”

  In other words, show the rookie the ropes.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Sergeant,” Joe said.

  “Let me know what happens, Sergeant,” Washington said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matt got up and followed D’Amata into the outer room.

  “What I usually do first, Sergeant,” D’Amata said, “is secure my replacement on the wheel.”

  Matt nodded.

  D’Amata raised his voice.

  “Kramer, put the Hustler down and take the phone.”

  Detective Alonzo Kramer, who appeared to be reading a large ledger at his desk, waved his hand to indicate he understood he was now up on the wheel.

  Matt Payne wondered if he really had a copy of Hustler magazine hidden behind the green ledger. And decided he didn’t want to know.

  “What I will do now, Sergeant,” Joe D’Amata said, punching numbers on a telephone, “is inform the very clever technicians assigned to the Mobile Crime Lab that their services are going to be required.”

  Other detectives-who, Matt did not need to be told, were the squad who would work the case-began to gather around D’Amata’s desk.

  D’Amata put the telephone handset in its cradle.

  “With your permission, Sergeant, I will designate Detectives Reeves and Grose to remain behind. Reeves, who went to night school and now reads almost at the sixth-grade level, will research the victim, see what he can find out about her in the files-does she have a rap sheet, outstanding warrants, et cetera, et cetera. Grose, who can’t read at all, will seek out a judge to get us a search warrant for the premises.”

  Detectives Grose and Reeves, having picked up on what was happening, were smiling.

  “I’m sure you’re aware, Sergeant,” D’Amata went on, “that our beloved Lieutenant Washington is picky-picky about getting a search warrant before we even start rooting in garbage cans in search of evidence, and photographing the deceased.”

  “He has made that point, Detective,” Matt said.

  “Something to do, I believe, with slimeball lawyers getting critters off because the evidence was gained unlawfully. ”

  “So I was led to believe,” Matt said.

  “And I think, with your permission, Sergeant, that I will designate Detective Slayberg-that’s the fat one in the cheap suit.. ”

  “Screw you, Joe,” Detective Slayberg said, but he was smiling.

  “… as the recorder. He’s very good at describing premises. ”

  “So I usually get stuck with that, Sergeant,” Slayberg said.

  “Many years ago,” Matt said mock seriously, “when I was a young police officer, I made the mistake of letting my sergeant know I could type with all the fingers on both hands.”

  The others chuckled.

  “Boy,” Slayberg said, “with all possible respect, Sergeant, that was a dumb fucking thing to do.”

  “So I learned,” Matt said.

  There were more chuckles.

  “So now, these little details out of the way, and with your permission, Sergeant, I think we should proceed to the scene.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “With just about everybody working the Roy Rogers job, Matt, we’re a little short of wheels. You mind if Slayberg and I ride out there with you? Or did Quaire beat you out of that new car you brought with you?”

  “Not yet,” Matt said. “But then, I haven’t been here very long.”

  I wonder why Quaire didn’t grab the car?

  He watched as all the detectives who would be going to the scene went to filing cabinets, unlocked them, and then took from them their personal equipment, which included their weapons, surgical rubber gloves, and leather- or vinyl-covered folders holding legal tablets.

  He followed D’Amata out of Homicide, at the last moment picking up his briefcase, with his laptop inside, from atop a filing cabinet near the door.

  When Matt got out of the unmarked Ford, he saw that yellow-and-black tape reading POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS had been strung along both sides of the path into the apartment complex to prohibit access to one of the buildings.

  Two uniformed white shirts, a captain and a lieutenant, were standing talking to two detectives, one of t
hem a woman, on the concrete path in front of what was obviously the crime scene.

  “Captain Alex Smith, the district commander,” Joe D’Amata said. “Good guy. I don’t make the lieutenant.”

  “Lew Sawyer,” Slayberg furnished. “He’s a prick. The broad is from Special Victims, and she’s a real bitch.”

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” Slayberg asked. “Special Victims Unit doesn’t have anything to do with homicide investigations, even when the victim has been raped.”

  “Smile nicely at her, Matt,” D’Amata said.

  Captain Smith saw the three of them coming and smiled.

  “Hello, Joe,” he said, putting out his hand.

  “Good morning, sir. I know you know Harry, but… Sergeant Payne?”

  “Yeah, sure, how are you, Harry?” He shook Slayberg’s hand. “I know who you are, Sergeant, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Matt said, reaching for Smith’s outstretched hand.

  “This is Lieutenant Sawyer,” Smith said. “And Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims.”

  “I think I used to see you around the Arsenal, didn’t I?” Detective Domenico asked.

  There was something about her smile Matt didn’t like, and he remembered what Slayberg had said.

  “I used to be out there with Special Operations,” Matt said.

  Everybody nodded at each other, but no hands were shaken.

  “What have we got, Captain?” Joe asked.

  “A dead girl, the doer is probably a sicko, and maybe a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “There was a ‘Disturbance, House’ call here last night. Two cars responded. The lady next door said her mirror fell off the wall. She said the trouble came from the Williamson apartment, and wanted them to check it out. There was no response when the officers rang the bell, no lights, no sounds, and no signs of a break-in. So they couldn’t take the door.”

  “Uh-oh,” D’Amata said. “I think I know what’s coming.”

  Captain Smith nodded.

  “So they left,” he said. “And then the brother let himself in this morning, found his sister, and the lady next door told him what had happened last night. Actually, early this morning. And the brother is pretty upset with the police department for not taking the door the first time we were here.”

  “Ouch,” D’Amata said.

  Slayberg’s cellular buzzed.

  He said his name, listened, then said, “Thanks. We just got here. Wait.” He turned to Matt.

  “Sergeant, the search warrant is on the way. Grose will bring it. Reeves said there’s nothing but a couple of driving violations on either the victim or her brother, and wants to know what you want him to do.”

  “Tell Grose to tell Reeves to come out with him and the warrant,” Matt said, forgetting that he had promised himself to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.

  He stole a quick glance at D’Amata, and saw nothing on his face to suggest he thought Matt had ordered the wrong thing. And he remembered what Quaire had said about his being expected to act like a sergeant.

  “Why don’t we go have a quick look?” Matt said to D’Amata and Slayberg. “The search warrant’s on the way.”

  He started to walk toward the stairs, and became aware that everybody started to follow him.

  I’m not about to tell the district captain he can’t have a look at the scene, but that doesn’t apply to the lieutenant and certainly not to the smiling lady from Special Victims.

  “It’s your job, Sergeant, but I would like a look.”

  “After you, sir,” he said, waving Captain Smith ahead of him.

  “Lieutenant, would you mind waiting until the Crime Lab people do their thing?” Matt asked.

  “I just wanted a quick look, but you’re right,” Lieutenant Sawyer said.

  “You understand,” Matt said to Detective Domenico.

  The ice in your eyes, Detective Domenico, Sergeant Payne thought, would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. What’s your problem? You’re not even supposed to be here. This isn’t a rape, a child molestation, it’s a homicide.

  The uniform in front of Cheryl Williamson’s door stepped aside when he saw Captain Smith and the others.

  Once they got inside, Captain Smith touched Matt’s arm.

  “I know Sex Crimes,” he said, using the old name for the Special Victims Unit, “doesn’t have anything to do with a homicide investigation, even when a sexual assault is involved. They just happened to be in my office talking to me about an unsolved rape when this job came out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said. And then he saw in Joe D’Amata’s eyes that he found this interesting. After a moment, so did Matt.

  An unsolved rape and they just happened to be here at a homicide rape scene? Is there something else we’re not being told? I think I’ll have to send a team over to the Special Victims Unit to see what their files may have.

  Without a word Joe D’Amata opened his leather-bound notepad, turned to the last page of the tablet, and scrawled a note for himself: Sex Crimes, unsolved rape in area, Lt. Sawyer, Det. Domenico, Ellis.

  There was another female detective in the apartment, sitting on the couch beside a well-dressed, somewhat distraught-looking man.

  She stood up when she saw them.

  Sergeant Payne had an unprofessional thought: Now, that’s a very interesting member of the opposite sex.

  “Captain, I’d rather not have anybody in there until we get the search warrant and the Crime Lab,” the very interesting member of the opposite sex said.

  “The warrant’s on the way,” Matt said. “And we’re just going to stand in the door for a quick look.”

  “Take a good long look,” the man on the couch said, as he stood up. “If you cops did what you’re supposed to do, my sister would probably still be alive.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, sir,” D’Amata said.

  “You’re sorry? That does Cheryl a lot of fucking good.”

  "Who are you?” Detective Olivia Lassiter asked, almost a challenge.

  “Joe D’Amata, Homicide,” D’Amata said. “I’ve got the job. This is Harry Slayberg, and Sergeant Payne.”

  D’Amata and Slayberg nodded at Detective Lassiter as they walked around Matt to the bedroom door.

  “Who are you?” Matt asked.

  “Lassiter, Northwest Detectives,” she said.

  D’Amata and Slayberg stood in the doorway of Cheryl Williamson’s bedroom and looked around-without entering-for about sixty seconds. Then they stepped away from the bedroom door and started looking around the living room. Captain Smith went to the bedroom door.

  “Jesus,” he said, softly.

  Matt saw that D’Amata and Slayberg had rubber gloves on their hands, wondered why he hadn’t seen them put them on, and pulled a pair of his own from his pocket.

  He was about to walk to the door when the apartment door opened again and two men entered. Payne knew one of them, a balding, rumpled man in a well-worn suit, Dr. Howard Mitchell of the medical examiner’s office. He had with him a photographer, a young man Matt could not remember ever having seen before.

  Matt found it interesting that Dr. Mitchell had come to the scene personally. Usually technicians from the M.E.’s office worked a death scene, and the M.E. did not; he either supervised the autopsy or did it himself.

  Probably, Matt decided, Mitchell’s appearance had something to do with a Special Operations job he’d heard about, one that had almost been assigned to him, although in the end it had been assigned to Detectives Jesus Martinez and Charles T. McFadden.

  It had begun when a highly indignant citizen, the nephew of a woman who’d fallen down her cellar stairs and broken her neck, had gone to his district and told the desk sergeant to report that he’d just gotten Aunt Myrtle’s last Visa bill. Aunt Myrtle didn’t drink, couldn’t drive, and there was no way she could have charged $355 worth of booze at Micke
y’s Liquor Store in Camden, New Jersey, on the day of her death.

  The report had worked its way through the bureaucracy to the Roundhouse, where it had been discussed by Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein.

  They agreed there was something about it that made it seem more than a simple case of credit-card fraud. And since it crossed state lines, it became a federal offense, which meant it was in the province of the FBI. Although both Coughlin and Lowenstein held the FBI in the highest possible respect, they also suspected that a credit card fraud involving only $355 would not get the FBI’s full attention.

  “Give it to Peter Wohl,” Lowenstein said. “Not this job. Get him to see if there have been other reports of other things missing from other recently deceased citizens.”

  Coughlin had-unnecessarily-told Peter Wohl that if somebody at funeral homes, cops at the scene, or maybe even from the M.E.’s office were taking things they shouldn’t, he would rather learn this from Special Operations than from the FBI.

  Charley McFadden and Hay-zus Martinez had been given the job because they had less on their plates when the job came in than Matt did. It hadn’t taken McFadden and Martinez long to discover-Matt couldn’t remember ever before having seen Charley so personally indignant-that a lot of stuff had disappeared over the past six months, and that it was pretty clear it had disappeared into the pockets of some of the M.E.’s technicians. They had apparently decided that since the deceased had no further need for rings, watches, other jewelry and cash, they might as well put the same to good use-their own.

  Four of them had been arrested, tried, and convicted.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Captain Smith said from the bedroom door.

  “Hey, Smitty,” Dr. Mitchell said, and then spotted Matt. “Hey, Payne. I saw your picture in the paper.”

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Matt said. “The search warrant’s en route.”

  Dr. Mitchell winked at D’Amata and Slayberg, then walked to the bedroom door, pulling on rubber gloves as he did so. The photographer followed him. Mitchell gestured with his hand for the photographer to stop at the door, then went inside.