Final Justice boh-8 Read online

  “They are serially numbered,” Matt said. “And come with a program that if it won’t work, or you break it, you call them and they FedEx you a new one overnight. I think we should be able to find out who bought this. With a lot of luck, it will be the doer. But even if he stole it, he might have stolen it while doing another rape. That might tell us something.”

  “I don’t think so, Matt,” D’Amata said. “Dudley’s a very careful guy, and, I suspect, smart. Smart enough not to take anything that could tie him to one of his escapades.”

  “And the second thought is that I’d like to show these pictures to my sister.”

  “Did you just say what I thought I heard you say?” Slayberg asked. “The sister at Dave Pekach’s party?”

  D’Amata laughed.

  “One and the same,” he said. “She’s a shrink, Harry, a very good one.”

  “I didn’t know,” Slayberg said. “That’s a thought, but the book says a department shrink and/or Special Victims, not a civilian.”

  “Maybe that rule could be bent,” D’Amata said, smiling. “I heard Dr. Payne call Commissioner Coughlin ‘Uncle Denny,’ and Inspector Wohl ‘Honey.’ ”

  “That was at the party,” Matt said, chuckling. “And subject to change. But she’s worked with us before, Harry. I don’t think there would be a problem.”

  “What I think we should do now,” D’Amata said, “is seek the wise guidance of the Black Buddha. He’s a white shirt- they get paid to make decisions.”

  Matt caused the screen of his laptop to go blank, then took out his cell phone and held down the number that caused the phone to automatically dial the cell phone of Lieutenant Jason Washington.

  “Washington.”

  “Payne, sir.”

  “I was just about to call you, Sergeant Payne.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Where are you, Matthew?”

  “At the scene, sir.”

  “Stay there, and make sure D’Amata and Slayberg stay there. Commissioner Coughlin, Chief Lowenstein, Captain Quaire, and I will be there shortly, to exhort you vis-a-vis the rapid solution of that case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington turned off his cell phone.

  NINE

  Matt pushed the End button on his cellular. "Washington’s on his way here,” he announced. "And so are Coughlin, Lowenstein, and Quaire.”

  "What’s that all about?” D’Amata asked.

  Matt shrugged. “He wants the three of us here.”

  “Was he in the office?” D’Amata asked.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Then we have to go on the premise that he-they-may be two minutes away,” D’Amata said. “ ‘Jesus is coming, look busy.’ How can we best do that?”

  “I don’t know about you two, but I’m going back to doing the scene,” Slayberg said, and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Emperors and people like that like to be welcomed when they go someplace,” D’Amata said. “Matt, why don’t you and I go outside and wait?”

  They left the apartment by the rear door. There was a uniform standing at the foot of the stairway, and other uniforms were standing just inside the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. On the other side of the tape there were not only more spectators than Matt expected-Cheryl Williamson’s body had been taken away; the show was over-but more than a dozen representatives of the print, radio, and television press.

  He didn’t see Mickey O’Hara, and wondered where he was. Mickey was usually the first press guy at the scene of a murder.

  The answer to that came when-ignoring questions several of the journalists called out-they walked around the end of the building to the front. There, behind the yellow-and — black POLICE LINE tape were even more spectators and representatives of the press, and Mickey O’Hara was among them. To make sure they didn’t cross the tape, two uniforms stood directly in front of the press, one male, one female, both looking as if they had left the Academy as long as two weeks ago.

  On the inside of the tape, there were a number of police officers, in uniform, and others with badges visible on their civilian clothing. Captain Alex Smith, the Thirty-fifth District commander, and Lieutenant Lew Sawyer were talking to a woman with a badge on her dress, whom Matt remembered after a moment to be Captain Helene Durwinsky, the commanding officer of the Special Victims Unit, and a man with a lieutenant’s badge hanging on his suit jacket. He saw Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims, standing a few feet from the white shirts, with several other detectives Matt didn’t recognize.

  “You got the word?” Captain Smith said.

  There was no question what “the word” was, but Matt didn’t know if Smith was speaking to him or Joe D’Amata.

  “With no explanation, sir,” D’Amata replied.

  “It may have something to do with Phil’s Philly,” Captain Smith said dryly. “On which-according to my wife, one of Phil’s most devoted listeners-about forty-five minutes ago, Mrs. McGrory spoke at some length about Miss Williamson being raped and tortured while the police stood not caring outside her door.”

  “Oh, shit!” D’Amata said.

  “I just talked to her,” Matt said. “I used her kitchen to talk to the brother. She didn’t say anything about talking to that ass… Phil’s Philly.”

  Phil’s Philly was a very popular radio talk show. Philadelphians dissatisfied with something in the City of Brotherly Love could call the number, and be reasonably sure both of a sympathetic ear on the part of Phil Donaldson, and that Mr. Donaldson would then call-on the air-whoever had wronged the caller, to indignantly demand an explanation, an apology, and immediate corrective action.

  “Well, she did,” Captain Smith went on. “My wife said that Phil’s first call was to Commissioner Mariani, and when Commissioner Mariani ‘was not available’ to take the call, Phil called the mayor. Who made the mistake of taking the call.”

  Three unmarked cars pulled up shortly thereafter, within moments of each other. Television and still cameras recorded Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain F. X. Hollaran as they walked into the apartment complex, ducked under the POLICE LINE tape, and walked up to Captain Smith’s group. Smith and Sawyer, who were in uniform, saluted.

  The press then recorded the same out-of-the-car-and-under — the-tape movement of Captain Henry C. Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington, and then turned their attention to Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein.

  Lowenstein ducked under the tape and then spoke, while the cameras rolled, to the two young uniformed officers standing in front of the assembled press.

  “Do you know who I am?” Lowenstein demanded, firmly, as flashbulbs went off and television cameras followed his movements.

  “Yes, sir,” both young officers replied, in unison.

  “Most of the ladies and gentlemen of the press will respect this crime scene tape,” Lowenstein said, pointing to it. “That one”-he pointed to Mickey O’Hara-"will more than likely try to sneak under it. If he does, use whatever force you feel is appropriate. Like breaking his arms and legs.”

  “Yes, sir,” both young officers said, earnestly, in unison.

  Mickey O’Hara laughed with delight.

  Chief Lowenstein then walked up to the group around Deputy Commissioner Coughlin. The uniformed officers saluted him.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” Coughlin said, not quite able to restrain a smile. “What the hell was that about?”

  Chief Lowenstein was one of a tiny group of senior police officers who was not awed by either Deputy Commissioner Coughlin’s rank or his persona, possibly because they had graduated from the Police Academy together and had been close personal friends ever since.

  “You all looked guilty as hell,” Lowenstein said. “Playing right into Philadelphia Phil’s hand. I decided a little levity was in order.”

  “I hope Mickey doesn’t try to get past the tape,” Captain Hollaran said. “That female uniform’s got her eye on him.”


  Deputy Commissioner Coughlin followed the nod of Hollaran’s head, saw a very determined, very slight, very young female police officer, her baton in her hands, glowering at Mickey O’Hara, who outweighed her by fifty pounds. Coughlin had a very difficult time not laughing out loud.

  He returned his attention to the group and settled his eyes on Matt.

  “Sergeant,” he ordered, “take us someplace where we can talk privately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said. “Will you follow me, please, Commissioner? ”

  He led the procession to the front stairs of the building and up them to Cheryl Williamson’s apartment. This was not the time, he decided, to take further advantage of Mrs. McGrory’s hospitality.

  He led the procession into Cheryl Williamson’s kitchen. It was crowded with all of them in it.

  “This will all seem a lot less amusing if that little scene is on the six o’clock news, and the mayor sees it,” Coughlin said. “Jesus, Matt!”

  “I’d rather have that on the tube,” Lowenstein said, “than poor Smitty here on it trying to explain the law that kept his uniforms from taking the door when-maybe, just maybe-the doer was inside raping and murdering the young woman.”

  “You don’t think he was inside when the uniforms were here?” Coughlin asked.

  “We don’t know, Denny. Maybe he was already gone when the uniforms arrived, but if Smitty says that, in addition to explaining the law, it’ll look as if he’s loyally covering for his men.”

  Coughlin grunted.

  “If, however,” Lowenstein said, “some very senior officer, after half an hour personally investigating the facts, went down there and said the same thing…”

  “You don’t mean me?” Coughlin snorted.

  “… we could almost count on Mickey doing a thoughtful piece for the Bulletin explaining when the cops can and cannot take a door,” Lowenstein finished, “and probably getting into how hard we’re working, routinely, to get this guy.”

  “Routinely?” Coughlin said. “Matt, you weren’t in the mayor’s office with the commissioner and me. The mayor doesn’t want this solved in due time, he wants it solved in time for the six o’clock news.”

  “Who’s the lead detective, you, Joe?” Lowenstein asked.

  “Yes, sir,” D’Amata said.

  “What are the chances for that?”

  “Not good, sir,” D’Amata said.

  Lowenstein gestured with both his hands: Give me more.

  “We have no idea who he is, other than he’s a four-star psychopath,” D’Amata said. “We have only one thing that might lead us to him.”

  “Which is?”

  “He left his camera behind, and Matt Payne-”

  “How do you know it’s his camera?” Lowenstein interrupted.

  “He took pictures of the victim, sir.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s a digital camera, sir,” Matt Payne said. “I downloaded the images from the flash memory card into my laptop.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re saying you have pictures the doer took of the victim?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, and pushed his way through everybody jammed into the kitchen, and brought the pictures up on the screen of the laptop.

  “My God,” Dennis V. Coughlin said.

  “How long have you had these?” Lowenstein demanded.

  “Not long, sir,” Matt said. “I was calling Lieutenant Washington to tell him when he said you were all headed here.”

  “And how can you locate the doer by his camera?” Lowenstein challenged.

  “I’m not sure I can, sir. But I know that type camera. It comes with a program that…” He stopped, trying to think of a way to explain simply the Kodak camera replacement program.

  "That what?”

  “The camera has a serial number,” Matt said. “If we can get Kodak to tell us where they shipped it-”

  “Who the hell are you?” Lowenstein demanded, nastily, interrupting him.

  “Detective Lassiter, sir. Northwest.”

  Matt turned and saw her standing in the doorway. She looked a little stunned by Lowenstein’s greeting.

  “And what is so important that you felt you could just barge in here like this?”

  “I just left the victim’s mother,” Olivia said. “She understands why the uniforms couldn’t take the door. I thought I should tell Sergeant Payne. I heard about Philadelphia Phil- or whatever his name is-on my way back here.”

  “The victim’s mother understands why the uniforms couldn’t take the door?” Dennis V. Coughlin asked, and then, before she could answer, asked another question. “What were you doing with the victim’s mother?”

  “I sent her with the victim’s brother when he went to tell the mother,” Matt said.

  Matt happened to be looking at Washington, whose expressive eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “You sent her?” challenged the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives who had been standing with Smith and others when they first had gone outside.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You gave one of my detectives orders?”

  “Not now,” Lowenstein said, sharply, then turned his attention to Detective Lassiter. “You’re sure the victim’s mother understands about the door?”

  “Yes, sir. I told her how that works,” Olivia said. “She seemed to understand. She even calmed the brother down about it. All she wants is for us to catch the doer.”

  “What’s in the envelope?”

  “A picture of the victim, sir,” Olivia said, and handed it to him. “I borrowed it from the mother.”

  Lowenstein looked at it, then handed it to Coughlin.

  “It’ll come in handy,” Lowenstein said. “You know about the doers’ camera?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You ever been on television, Detective?” Lowenstein asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, unless I’m mistaken, when Commissioner Coughlin goes outside in a couple of minutes, to tell the press why the officers couldn’t take the door, he’s going to want you to go with him, to repeat what you just said about the mother understanding. Could you handle that?”

  “I’d rather not-”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Lowenstein snapped.

  “Yes, sir, I can handle that.”

  “I haven’t said I’m going outside to talk to the press,” Coughlin said.

  “Oh, excuse me, Commissioner, I thought you had.”

  “I just had a brilliant idea, Chief Lowenstein,” Coughlin said. “Since you’re so good at it, I’ll reassign you to Public Relations.”

  “Unless we do something, we’ll all look as stupid as the mayor thinks we are,” Lowenstein replied, unabashed. “You got a better idea, Denny?”

  “No,” Coughlin said. “As a matter of fact, I was trying to think of a way to thank you that wouldn’t go directly to your head.”

  “You’re welcome,” Lowenstein said. “Can I make another suggestion?”

  “How can I stop you?”

  “Detective Lassiter has dealt very well with the mother and the brother. We don’t know that possible problem has gone away permanently…”

  “And you want to detail her to Homicide for this job so she can sit on them?” Coughlin asked.

  “That, too, but what I was thinking was that you could say, ‘Detective Lassiter, who has been detailed to Homicide for this investigation, has spoken to Miss Williamson’s brother and her mother. They have found no fault with police procedures, isn’t that right, Detective?’ ”

  “I don’t know,” Coughlin said, doubtfully.

  “You have any problems with Northwest detailing Detective Lassiter to Homicide for this job, Captain Quaire?” Lowenstein asked.

  “No, sir,” Quaire said.

  “Lieutenant Washington?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir,” the lieutenant from Northwest Detectives said
.

  “Okay, done,” Lowenstein said.

  He gestured toward the kitchen door.

  “You’re on, Commissioner,” he said.

  Coughlin exhaled audibly, straightened his shoulders, and marched through it. Captain Frank Hollaran and Detective Lassiter followed him.

  “There’s a TV in the living room,” D’Amata said. “There’s a Channel Six Live camera out there.”

  D’Amata got it turned on and tuned to Channel Six by the time Coughlin, Hollaran, and Lassiter appeared on the screen as they came out of the walkway between the two buildings.

  Coughlin marched to the massed press, with Olivia Lassiter following him. When he stopped, just inside the crime scene tape, she moved to his side.

  There were shouted questions from a dozen reporters, to which Coughlin, his arms folded on his stomach, paid no attention whatever. Finally, almost in confusion, the questions died out.

  “I’m Deputy Commissioner Coughlin,” he said, finally. “I will take a few questions, one at a time.”

  Most of the reporters raised their hands; several shouted questions.

  Coughlin pointed at one of the reporters who had raised her hand.

  “If you can get these gentlemen to behave, I’ll take your question.”

  One of the reporters who had been shouting a question said, disgustedly, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  Another voice, female, very clearly answered her colleague with, “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, you asshole? Some of us have deadlines.”

  Coughlin pointed to a reporter holding a microphone with a Channel Six Live sign on it.

  “I don’t want to tell you your business,” he said, very politely, “but I really hope someone bleeped that question before it got on the air.”

  That brought laughter. When it died down, he pointed to the reporter he had selected before.

  “Commissioner, what’s happened here?”

  “A murder,” Coughlin said, “of a young woman named Cheryl Williamson.”

  “Not a rape and murder?”

  “We don’t know that yet. The medical examiner will make that determination.”

  “Is it true that somebody called 911, the cops came, and then refused to enter the apartment, while the murderer was inside?”