The Witness Page 2

“Oh, you mean, my administrative assistant?”

  “You know very well what I meant. Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “I believe Officer Payne is having dinner with his parents.”

  “He should be here. He could meet people.”

  “He already knows people.”

  “I mean the right people.”

  “He already knows the right people. He told me that he and his father were going to play golf with H. Richard Detweiler and Chadwick T. Nesbitt this morning.”

  “Really?”

  Chadwick T. Nesbitt III and H. Richard Detweiler were chairman of the board and president, respectively, of Nesfoods, International, which had begun more than a century before as Nesbitt Potted Meats and was now Philadelphia’s largest single employer.

  “Now if I were interested in social climbing, I probably could have talked myself into an invitation.”

  “You don’t play golf.”

  “I could learn.”

  “He’s a policeman now, Peter. It doesn’t matter who his family is.”

  “Mother, I have no intention of telling them, but I’ll bet you a dollar to a doughnut that if Jerry Carlucci or the commissioner knew where Matt is, they would be delighted.”

  Mrs. Wohl sniffed; Peter wasn’t sure what it meant.

  “I’d better go see what Cohan wants,” Wohl said. “Can I trust you to go easy on the booze?”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Peter Wohl!”

  “I’ll be right back,” Wohl said. “I hope.”

  Deputy Commissioner-Administration Francis J. Cohan was a fair-skinned, finely featured, trim man of fifty or so. He was dressed in a suit almost identical to Peter Wohl’s, but instead of the blue button-down collar shirt and striped necktie, he wore a stiffly starched white shirt and a tie bearing miniature representations of the insignia of the International Association of Chiefs of Police.

  “Happy New Year, Commissioner,” Wohl said. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Happy New Year, Peter,” Cohan said, smiling and offering his hand. “Yes, I did. Why don’t we get ourselves a fresh drink and find a quiet corner someplace? What is that, champagne?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did you start drinking that?”

  “As soon as I saw the bottles with ‘Moet et Chandon’ on them. This is first-class stuff.”

  “It gives me a headache.”

  “May I say I admire your taste in suits, Commissioner?”

  Cohan chuckled. “I noticed,” he said. “Makes us look like the Bobbsey Twins, doesn’t it?”

  “Did you ever notice, sir, that when a man goes someplace and sees someone else with a suit like his, he thinks, ‘Well, he certainly has good taste,’ but if a woman sees somebody with a dress like hers, she wants to go home?”

  “Don’t get me started on the subject of women,” Cohan said, and put his hand on Wohl’s arm and led him to the bar. “Sometimes I think the Chinese had the right idea. Just keep enough for breeding purposes and drown the rest at birth.”

  Commissioner Cohan ordered a fresh Scotch and water. “And bubbly for my son here. You’d better give him two. Those look like small glasses, and this may take some time.”

  The bartender served the drinks.

  “Tad Czernich said he has a little office off the hall; that we could use that,” Cohan said. “Now let’s see if we can find it.”

  I sense, Peter Wohl thought, that while this little chat is obviously important—Czernich knows about it—it doesn’t concern anything I’ve either done wrong or have not done.

  Commissioner Czernich’s home office was closet-sized. There was barely room for a desk, an upholstered “executive” chair, and a second, straight-backed, metal chair. Wohl thought, idly, that it was probably used by Czernich only to make or take telephone calls privately. There were three telephones on the battered wooden desk.

  Cohan sat in the upholstered chair.

  “Have you got room enough to turn around and close the door?” he asked.

  “If I suck in my breath.”

  Wohl closed the door behind him and sat down, feeling something like a schoolboy, in the straight-backed chair.

  “Peter, the sequence in which this happened was that I was going to talk to you first, then, if you were amenable, to Tad, and if he was amenable, then to the mayor. It didn’t go that way. I got here as the mayor did. He wanted to talk to me. I had to take the opportunity; he was in a good mood. So the sequence has been reversed.”

  Which means that I am about to be presented with a fait accompli; Carlucci has apparently gone along with whatever Cohan wants to do, and whether I am amenable or not no longer matters.

  “You’re aware, I’m sure, Peter, that the great majority of FBI agents are either Irish or Mormons?”

  “I know one named Franklin D. Roosevelt Stevens that I’ll bet isn’t either Irish or Mormon,” Peter said.

  Cohan laughed, but Peter saw that it was with an effort.

  “Okay,” Cohan said. “Strike ‘great majority’ and insert ‘a great many.’”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve noticed, come to think of it.”

  “You ever hear the story, Peter, about why is it better to get arrested by an Irish FBI agent than a Mormon FBI agent?”

  What the hell is this, a Polish joke?

  “No, sir. I can’t say that I have.”

  “Let’s say the crime is spitting on the sidewalk, and the punishment is death by firing squad. You know they really do that, the Mormons in Utah, execute by firing squad?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d heard that.”

  “Okay. So here’s this guy, spitting on the sidewalk. If the Mormon FBI guy sees him, that’s it. Cuff him. Read him his Miranda and stand him up against the wall. The law’s the law. Spitters get shot. Period.”

  “I’m a little lost, Commissioner.”

  “Now, the Irish FBI agent: He sees the guy spitting. He knows it’s against the law, but he knows that he’s spit once or twice himself in his time. And maybe he thinks that getting shot for spitting is maybe a little harsh. So he either gets something in his eye so he can’t identify the culprit, or he forgets to read him his rights.”

  “And therefore, be nice to Irish FBI agents?”

  “What follows gets no further than Czernich’s closet, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know Jack Malone, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  Before Chief Inspector Cohan had been named a deputy commissioner, Sergeant John J. Malone had been his driver. Wohl now remembered that Malone had been on the last lieutenant’s list. He couldn’t remember where he had been assigned. If, indeed, he had ever known.

  “And?”

  “What do I think of him? Good cop. Smart. Straight arrow.”

  “Not always smart,” Cohan said.

  “Oh?”

  “Assault is a felony,” Cohan said carefully. “A police officer who is found guilty of committing any crime, not just a felony, is dismissed. A Mormon FBI guy would say, ‘That’s the law. Fire him. Put the felon in jail.’”

  But you’re Irish, right?

  “You may have noticed, Peter, that I’m Irish,” Cohan said.

  “Who did he hit?”

  “It’s not important, but you’d probably hear anyway. A lawyer named Howard B. Candless.”

  Wohl shrugged, signaling he had never heard of him.

  “Jack did quite a job on him,” Cohan said. “Knocked a couple of teeth out. Caused what the medical report said were ‘multiple bruises and contusions.’ They kept Candless in the hospital two days, worrying about a possible concussion.”

  “Why?” Wohl asked. “That doesn’t sound like Malone.”

  “And when he was finished with the lawyer, Jack had a couple too many drinks and went home and slapped his wife around.”

  “On general principles?”

  “Jack is a very simple guy. He believes that when a woman marries one man, she should not get into an
other man’s bed.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “They kept her in the hospital overnight; long enough to make Polaroid pictures of her bruises and contusions. That’s important.”

  “But he’s not going to be charged? Or did I get the wrong impression?”

  “It took some doing. He wasn’t charged.”

  Malone wasn’t charged because Deputy Commissioner Cohan is his rabbi. Every up-and-coming police officer has a rabbi. My father was Jerry Carlucci’s rabbi. Jerry Carlucci was Denny Coughlin’s rabbi. Denny Coughlin, it is said, is my rabbi. Even Officer Matthew M. Payne has a rabbi, I have lately come to realize—me.

  The function of a rabbi is to select a young officer and guide him through the mine fields of police department politics, try to see that he is given assignments that will broaden his areas of expertise and enhance his chances of promotion. And, of course, when he gets in trouble, to try not only to fix it, so he doesn’t get kicked off the cops, but to try to insure that he won’t do what he did again.

  “He was lucky to have you as a friend,” Wohl said.

  “He’s a good man,” Cohan said. “And a good cop.”

  “Yes, sir, I think so.”

  “I had him assigned to Major Crimes Division, to the Auto Squad,” Cohan said. “And I arranged for him to stay there after he made lieutenant. All this took place, you understand, right around the time they were making up the lieutenant’s list. If there had been an Internal Affairs report—”

  “I understand,” Wohl said. “What’s his status with his wife?”

  “They were divorced. I was a little slow on that one, Peter. A little naive. I thought the lawyer had gone along with withdrawing the assault charges because he was either ashamed of what he had done, didn’t want the story repeated around the courtrooms, and/or didn’t want to have any scandal floating around Mrs. Malone, who he intended to marry.”

  “But?”

  “It would not have solved his purpose to have Jack locked up or even fired. That might have tended to make the judge feel a little sympathetic toward Jack when he got him in court and showed the judge the color photos of Mrs. Malone’s swollen, black-and-blue face. And, Jesus, tell it all, the bruises on her chest and ass. Jack literally kicked her ass all over the house.”

  “Oh, Christ! Who was the judge?”

  “Seymour F. Marshutz,” Cohan said. “Marshutz cannot conceive of a situation—don’t misunderstand me, I’m not defending what Jack, did, not for a minute—where slapping a wife around is not right up there with child molesting. I tried to talk to him, I’ve known Sy Marshutz for years, and got absolutely nowhere.”

  “And?”

  “She got everything, of course: the house, everything in it, and almost every other damn asset they had. All he took was his clothes and an old junk car. She got custody, of course, because the way Sy Marshutz sees it, while playing the whore is bad, it’s not as bad as violence, and Jack has limited visitation privileges.”

  I wonder what I’m supposed to do with Lieutenant Jack Malone. That’s obviously what this is about; this is not marital notes from all over.

  “I had a long talk—lots of long talks—with Jack. I chewed his ass. I held his hand. For all I know, if Marilyn had done to me what his wife did to Jack, maybe I’d have taken a swing at her too. Anyway, I told him his life wasn’t over, and that if I were him, I’d give everything I have to the job for a while, that thinking about what happened was only—you know what I mean, Peter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So he took me literally. He’s working all the time. He’s got a room in a hotel, the St. Charles, on Arch at 19th?”

  “Faded grandeur,” Wohl said without thinking.

  “Yeah,” Cohan said. “Okay. Anyway. All he does is work and watch TV in the hotel room.”

  “No booze?”

  “A little of that. We had a talk about that too. I think he’s had more to drink in the last year than he’s had up to now. That isn’t a problem.”

  “But there is one.”

  “Yeah. Now he sees a car thief behind every bush.”

  “I don’t follow you, sir.”

  “All work and no play hasn’t made Jack a dull boy, Peter,” Cohan said solemnly, “it’s put his imagination in high gear, out of control.”

  “Is this any of my business, sir?”

  “He thinks Bob Holland is a car thief.”

  Bob Holland was Holland Cadillac Motor Cars. And Bob Holland Chevrolet. And Holland Pontiac-GMC. And there was a strong rumor going around that Broad Street Ford and Jenkintown Chrysler-Plymouth were really owned by Robert L. Holland.

  “Is he?”

  “Come on, Peter,” Cohan said. “You’re not talking about some sleaze-ball used car dealer here.”

  “I gather Jack has nothing but a hunch to go on?”

  “He went to Charley Gaft and asked for permission to surveil all of Holland’s showrooms,” Cohan said. “And when Gaft turned him down, he came to me. Ten minutes after Bob called me and told me he was worried about him.”

  Captain Charles B. Gaft commanded the Major Crimes Division.

  “I’m afraid to ask what all this has to do with me, Commissioner. What do you want me to do, have Highway Patrol keep an eye on Bob Holland’s showrooms? Or sit on Jack Malone?”

  “Peter,” Cohan said, almost sadly, “your mouth has a tendency to run away with itself. It’s only because I’ve known you, literally, since you wore short pants and because I know what a good police officer you are that I don’t take offense. But there are those—people of growing importance to you, now that you’re moving up—who would think that was just a flippant remark and unbecoming to a division commander.”

  Oh, shit!

  “Commissioner, it was flippant, and I apologize. I have no excuse to offer except the champagne.”

  “Now, I already said, I understand your sense of humor, Peter. But maybe you’d better watch that champagne. It sneaks up on you.”

  “Yes, sir. But I do apologize.”

  “It never happened. Getting back to Jack. He’s under a strain. He’s working too hard. But he’s a fine police officer and worth saving, and that’s why I’m asking you for your help.”

  I’ll be a sonofabitch. He rehearsed that little speech. That’s what he planned to say to me to see if I would stand still for whatever he wants. It was supposed to be delivered before he went to see Czernich and Carlucci.

  “Whatever I can do, Commissioner.”

  I say nobly, aware that I have absolutely no option to do or say anything else.

  “I knew I could count on you, Peter. What I’m going to do is send Jack over to you—”

  Shit! But what else did I expect?

  “—and have Tony Lucci transferred to Jack’s job on the Auto Squad in Major Crimes.”

  Lieutenant Anthony J. Lucci, who had been Mayor Carlucci’s driver as a sergeant, had been sent to Special Operations on his promotion to lieutenant. It was a reward for a job well done, which by possibly innocent coincidence gave His Honor the Mayor a window on the inner workings of Special Operations, reports delivered daily.

  Every black cloud has a silver lining. I get rid of Lucci. What’s that going to cost me? Is he telling the truth about Malone not having a bottle problem, or am I going to have to nurse a drunk?

  “Now, I have no intention of trying to tell you how to run your division, Peter, or what to do with Jack Malone when you get him—”

  But?

  “—but if you could find something constructive for him to do that would keep him from thinking he’s been assigned to the rubber-gun squad, I would be personally grateful.”

  “So far as I’m concerned, Commissioner, even after what you’ve told me, Jack Malone is a good cop, and I’ll find something worthwhile for him to do.”

  “What was Lucci doing?”

  “He’s my administrative officer. He also makes sure the mayor knows what’s going on.”

  Cohan looked s
harply at Wohl, pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “So I’ve heard. Jack won’t feel any obligation to do that, Peter.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Your father is in good spirits, isn’t he?” Cohan said. “I had a pleasant chat with him a couple of minutes ago.”

  Our little chat is apparently over.

  “I think he’d go back on the job tomorrow, if someone asked him.”

  “The grass is not as green as it looked?”

  “I think he’s bored, sir.”

  “He was active all his life,” Cohan said. “That’s understandable.”

  Cohan pushed himself out of the seat and extended his hand.

  “Thank you, Peter,” he said. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Anytime, Commissioner.”

  GENERAL: 0565 01/02/74 FROM COMMISSIONER PAGE 1

  of 1

  *************CITY OF PHILADELPHIA***********

  *************POLICE DEPARTMENT***********

  TRANSFERS:

  EFFECTIVE 1201 AM JANUARY 3, 1974

  LIEUTENANT ANTHONY S. LUCCI: REASSIGNED FROM SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION TO MAJOR CRIMES DIVISION AS COMMANDING OFFICER AUTO SQUAD.

  LIEUTENANT JOHN J. MALONE: REASSIGNED FROM AUTO SQUAD, MAJOR CRIMES DIVISION TO SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION.

  TADDEUS CZERNICH

  POLICE COMMISSIONER

  TWO

  The day began for Police Officer Charles McFadden at five minutes before six A.M. when Mrs. Agnes McFadden, his mother, went into his bedroom, on the second floor of a row house on Fitzgerald Street, near Methodist Hospital in South Philadelphia, snapped on the lights, walked to his bed, and rather loudly announced, “Almost six. Rise and shine, Charley.”

  Officer McFadden, who the previous Tuesday had celebrated his twenty-third birthday, was large-boned and broad-shouldered and weighed 214 pounds.

  He rolled over on his back, shielded his eyes from the light, and replied, “Jesus, already?”

  “Watch your mouth, mister,” his mother said sharply, and then added, “if you didn’t keep that poor girl out until all hours, you just might not have such trouble getting up in the morning.”

  With a visible effort Charley McFadden hauled himself into a sitting position and swung his feet out of bed and onto the floor.