The Investigators Read online

  Then, when the Chevy had gone around the first row of rooms to the back, he got out of the car, trotted quickly after them, and got to the corner of the building in time to see Mr. Ketcham enter 138, a ground-floor room in about the middle of the back row of rooms.

  He then went to the pay phone outside the motel office and called Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan at Narcotics and told him what he had. Dolan—who could be a prick—made him repeat everything he said, and then told him not to let the door to 138 out of his sight, as if he thought Prasko had come on the job last Tuesday and had to be told shit like that.

  Five Squad would be there as soon as they could get there, Dolan said, and said to meet them on the H Band. That was the special radio frequency assigned for the use of detectives, but available for other purposes as well.

  Officer Prasko then took a pair of binoculars and a walkie-talkie from the floor of the backseat of the Mercury and went up the stairs to the second-floor balcony of the first building. He stationed himself between a Coke machine and an ice machine in an alcove, from where he could see the rental Chevy and the door to 138.

  He had a good view of both the door and the car, especially the car and the girl in it.

  She was a looker. And she was nervous. She lit a cigarette and took only a couple of puffs before putting it out and turning to look at the door, which made her breasts stretch the thin material of her blouse. Then she lit another cigarette.

  A little after that, she put her hand in her blouse and adjusted her bra, which Prasko found exciting.

  What the hell was Ketcham thinking, bringing a girl like that along on a meet like this? Amos Williams was a mean son of a bitch, and the first thing he was likely to do if something went wrong was grab the girl. By the time Ketcham fixed whatever Williams didn’t like, Christ only knew what Williams and his goons would do with a white girl like that, a real looker.

  “Six?” the radio went off. Too loud.

  He recognized the voice. It was that of Officer Joe Grider. More important, it wasn’t Dolan’s, which was a good thing, meaning they could put Plan B into operation.

  Officer Prasko adjusted the volume and the squelch before putting the microphone to his lips.

  “Six,” he said.

  “He still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the room?”

  “Around in the back. Middle. Ground floor.”

  “Any sign of his friends?”

  “No.”

  “We’re about there. I’m going to park up the street and see who shows up.”

  “What are you in?”

  “The van.”

  The van was not standard, but a 1971 Dodge panel truck, also formerly the property of someone who had been apprehended while illegally trafficking in controlled substances. After the forfeited vehicle had been turned over to Five Squad for undercover work, they had chipped in and had it painted in the color scheme used by—and with the logotype of—Philadelphia Gas Works.

  “Who’s the super?”

  “I am. Plan B,” Officer Grider replied.

  “Just the van?”

  “One car.”

  “One of you block the Chevy.”

  “You got it.”

  Officer Prasko picked up his binoculars again. The curtains were drawn across the picture window of 138—Why the fuck do you suppose they put in picture windows? Nobody ever looks out of a motel room, and if you did, all you would see is the other part of the motel—and there was no sign of activity. The blonde in the front seat of the Hertz Chevy was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one.

  Three minutes later, the radio went off again. He couldn’t hear what was being said.

  “Repeat,” he ordered.

  “Turn the goddamn volume up!”

  “I just did.”

  “Bingo, here comes our friends. Light blue new Olds 98. Tell me when he gets inside, and we’ll come in halfway.”

  Officer Prasko scurried across the balcony, keeping low so that he wouldn’t be seen.

  He saw the Blue Olds 98—well enough to recognize Amos Williams sitting beside the driver—enter the motel area and drive toward the rear. And stop.

  “He stopped halfway to the back,” Prasko reported.

  “Being careful,” Officer Grider replied.

  Mr. Williams was careful for three minutes, which seemed like much longer, and then the driver’s-side rear door of the Olds 98 opened and Marcus C. aka “Baby” Brownlee, black male, thirty-six, six-one, 240 pounds, thirty-two previous arrests, got out, looked around, and walked very quickly toward room 138.

  “Baby Brownlee going to the room,” Officer Prasko reported.

  He dropped his binoculars to the Chevy. The blonde was not in sight.

  Probably dropped onto the seat. I would if I was a good-looking piece like that and saw that mean-looking dinge walking my way.

  “Knocking on the door,” Officer Prasko reported, and added a moment later, “He’s in.”

  “Wait,” Officer Grider replied.

  Baby Brownlee was in room 138 for two minutes forty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

  “Door opening,” Officer Prasko reported. “Baby’s coming out. Moving toward car.”

  “Five?”

  “Ready.”

  Five was officer Timothy J. Calhoun, and he was apparently driving the unmarked police car.

  “At the car,” Officer Prasko reported. “Getting in.”

  Baby Brownlee was in the Olds 98 for fifty seconds, which seemed like much longer.

  The blonde’s head appeared in the Chevy. She took a look around and then dropped from sight again.

  Christ, I’d like to jump the bones of something like that.

  “Car’s moving,” Officer Prasko reported.

  “Five?”

  “Car’s turning around,” Officer Prasko reported.

  “Just say when,” Officer Calhoun replied.

  “Car’s stopped. Now facing toward exit,” Officer Prasko reported.

  “What are they doing?” Officer Grider inquired.

  “Getting out of the car. Baby’s out. Amos is out. Opening trunk.”

  “And? And?”

  “Baby’s got a beach bag.”

  “Go! Go! Go!” Officer Grider ordered.

  Officer Prasko stood up and walked as far as he could toward the stairs without losing sight of the Olds 98, the Hertz Chevy, and the door to room 138.

  The van came in first, tires squealing, the rear door already open and stopped in front of the Olds 98. Half a dozen plainclothes police officers, weapons—four pistols, two pump-action 12-gauge shotguns—at the ready, jumped out.

  Officer Calhoun’s unmarked car skidded to a stop in a position blocking the Hertz Chevy. Calhoun and another plainclothes officer, revolvers drawn, jumped out of the car.

  Prasko descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, considering the fucking binoculars were banging on his chest, and he had to be careful holding the walkie-talkie, otherwise he’d drop the son of a bitch and have to pay for the fucker.

  As he reached the ground floor, Prasko stooped and drew his snub-nosed .38 Special-caliber revolver from its ankle holster.

  This act coincided with the appearance, at a full run, of an individual black male, twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, 150 pounds, noticeable scar tissue left cheek, who had not obeyed the orders of the other police officers to subject himself to arrest.

  Just in fucking time!

  “Freeze, motherfucker!” Prasko ordered.

  The individual almost visibly debated his chances to evade Prasko and then apparently decided attempting to do so would not be in his best interests.

  He stopped running and raised his hands above his head.

  “Up against the wall!” Prasko ordered, spinning the man around, then pushing him toward the wall.

  “Oh, shit, man!” the individual responded.

  “Spread your legs!” Prasko ordered, as Calhoun appeared around th
e corner.

  “I got the bastard, Timmy,” Prasko said.

  “Put your left hand behind your back,” Prasko ordered, then looked at Calhoun.

  “You want to cuff him, please, Timmy?”

  Calhoun placed handcuffs on the man’s left wrist, then grabbed the other wrist, which caused the man’s face to fall against the wall.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  Calhoun finished cuffing him, then performed a per functory search of his person to determine if he was armed.

  “Clean,” Calhoun informed Prasko.

  “Do him,” Prasko requested.

  Calhoun emptied the man’s pockets onto the ground beside him, but no controlled substances or any other illegal matter were discovered.

  “Nothing,” Calhoun reported.

  “I’ll bring him. You want to take my walkie-talkie?”

  Calhoun took Prasko’s walkie-talkie, and then, at a half-trot, ran back around the building.

  Prasko dropped to his knees beside the pile of items and picked up the man’s wallet. It contained his driver’s license and other documents, a color photograph of a white female performing fellatio on a black male (not the individual), and seven hundred and sixty-three dollars in currency, five hundred of it in one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Officer Prasko became aware that his heart was beating rapidly, and that he had to take a piss.

  Prasko put two of the one-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket, replaced the rest of the currency into the wallet, and then placed the wallet and other material back into the man’s pockets.

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  The man turned around with some difficulty, being cuffed, and looked at Prasko with what Prasko believed was mingled loathing and contempt. Prasko believed he understood why. It had to do with the criminal justice system and their relative compensation. The guy was almost certainly aware that since he had been apprehended without being found in possession of controlled substances, or a firearm or other deadly weapon, he could reasonably expect to be released from custody on bail within a matter of hours.

  He was also aware that he made more money in a day than a policeman made in a week. Or ten days. Or two weeks. Or maybe even a month, depending on how valuable he was to Amos Williams.

  Prasko gestured for him to start walking back the way he had come. When they got there, they found Amos Williams, Baby Brownlee, and two other men under arrest, their arms handcuffed behind them.

  “Wagon’s on the way,” Officer Grider said. “And the tow truck.”

  “You,” Prasko ordered the individual, “with them.”

  He placed his hand on the man’s cuffed hands and guided him to the end of the line of handcuffed figures. Then he walked to Officer Grider.

  “What did we get?” Prasko asked.

  “Baby had in his possession two packages, approximately one kilo in weight, of a white crystalline substance which appears to be cocaine,” Grider said.

  “Plan B?” Prasko asked.

  Grider nodded.

  “I want you to stay here with Calhoun until the tow truck removes the Olds,” he said.

  “Right,” Prasko said.

  Two minutes or so later, a police van assigned to the 7th District rolled into the motel in response to Grider’s radio request for prisoner transport.

  One by one, the individuals arrested were hauled to their feet and placed in the van. Then the van started to leave. It had to stop and back up when, warning lights flashing, a police tow truck came into the motel area.

  Officer Grider and the other members of Five Squad got into the Dodge panel truck with the PGW color scheme and logotype and pulled up behind the 7th District van.

  Calhoun directed the tow truck toward the Olds 98. When the passage was clear, the van and the PGW Dodge drove out of the parking lot.

  “Timmy, take my Mercury,” Prasko called to Calhoun. “Keys in that?” he asked, pointing to the unmarked police car that blocked the Hertz Chevy.

  Calhoun threw Prasko the keys to the unmarked car. Prasko caught them in midair and dropped them into his pocket, then walked toward room 138.

  The blonde was not in sight, but after a moment, looking through the Chevy’s window, he saw her on the floor of the front seat. She was on her side, and he was sure that she hadn’t seen him. She had had to wiggle around to find room for herself on the floor, and in the process her skirt had been pushed up so that he could see her underpants.

  Nice legs, too!

  Officer Prasko felt sure that she wasn’t going to try to leave the car until either Mr. Ketcham came for her or a long time had passed.

  He looked at the tow truck. It already had the wheels of the Olds 98 off the ground. Calhoun started walking toward where Prasko had parked his Mercury, so that he would be able to follow the tow truck and testify in court that the vehicle had not been out of his sight from the place of arrest until it had been taken to the Narcotics Unit at 22nd and Hunting Park Avenue where it would be searched.

  Prasko waited until the tow truck had disappeared around the corner of the front row of rooms, and then he walked to the door of room 138. There he took his pistol and knocked three times on the door with the butt.

  It took Mr. Ketcham a long time to respond.

  Come on, Ketcham. I know you’re in there, and I know you can’t get out.

  “Who is it?” Ketcham finally inquired.

  “Police, open up,” Prasko called.

  The door opened.

  “Is something wrong, Officer?” Ketcham asked.

  “You know fucking well what’s wrong, Ketcham,” Prasko said, somewhat nastily.

  He spun Ketcham around, then twisted his left hand and arm around his back and upward and propelled him into the room, where he pushed him facedown on the bed and quickly handcuffed him.

  “May I say something?” Ketcham inquired.

  “Don’t open your mouth. Don’t turn over, don’t even move,” Prasko said, and holstered his pistol.

  Then he searched the room methodically until he found what he was looking for under the cushion in the room’s one armchair: two business-size envelopes held closed with rubber bands. Each was stuffed with ten rubber-band-bound sheafs of one-hundred-dollar bills, ten bills to a sheaf, for a total of $20,000.

  Prasko put the envelopes on the table beside the armchair, then went to the bed and rolled Ketcham over.

  “You got something to say?” he asked.

  “I really have no idea what all this is—”

  Prasko interrupted Ketcham by striking him with the back of his open hand.

  “Bullshit time is over,” Prasko said.

  “Am I under arrest?” Ketcham asked after a moment.

  “Not yet.”

  “Why don’t you take that money and leave?” Ketcham asked, reasonably.

  Prasko considered the suggestion.

  “Your father would be very embarrassed if you had to call him and tell him you had been arrested for dealing in drugs,” Prasko said. “It would probably cause him trouble at the bank.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Ketcham said.

  “Who’s the girl?” Prasko asked.

  “What girl?”

  Prasko struck him again with the back of his hand.

  “I already told you, bullshit time is over.”

  “My girlfriend,” Ketcham said. “She doesn’t know anything about this. You could let her go.”

  “What did you do,” Prasko inquired sarcastically, “tell her that tonight you were going to do something new? You were going to rent a motel room and go in, and she was going to sit outside in the car?”

  “Take the money. Who’d ever know?” Ketcham said.

  Prasko considered that again, then reached down and unlocked one of the handcuffs. He then motioned Ketcham to get to his feet.

  “This is really the mature way to deal with this situation,” Ketcham said, extending the wrist that still had a handcuff attached, obviously expecting Prasko to free him of that cuff,
too.

  Instead, Prasko firmly took Ketcham’s arm and led him into the bathroom, where he ordered him to sit on the floor beside the toilet. Then he attached the free end of his handcuff to the pipes running to the flushing mechanism of the toilet.

  “What are you doing?” Ketcham asked.

  Prasko ignored him, went out of room 138 to the car, and tried the passenger-side door. It was locked.

  “Come out of there, honey,” he ordered.

  He saw the blonde looking up from the floor with horror in her eyes.

  “Open up,” Prasko ordered.

  The blonde tried to move away as far as she could.

  Prasko unholstered his revolver and used the butt as a hammer to shatter the window. Then he reached inside and unlocked the door.

  “You can come out,” he said, “or I can drag you out.”

  She scurried across the floor to the open door, which caused her skirt to rise even higher.

  Peggene had legs like that when I first met her. Now her legs look like shit.

  He took the girl’s arm and led her into room 138 and closed and locked the door without letting go of her arm.

  When she saw Ketcham handcuffed to the crapper, she sucked in her breath.

  “What you are, honey,” Prasko said, “is an accessory to a felony, possession of controlled substances with the intent to distribute.”

  “Ronny?” the girl asked, looking into the bathroom.

  “We’re working something out, Cynthia,” Ketcham said. “Just take it easy.”

  The girl looked at Prasko defiantly.

  Prasko walked to the bathroom door and closed it. “He had some money,” he said to the girl. “I may let him go. What have you got to trade?”

  “I’ve got a little money,” she said.

  “He had twenty thousand. You got that much?”

  “No!”

  “Then I guess you’re both going to jail.”

  “I could probably get you some money,” the girl said.

  “Twenty thousand? That kind of money?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “How about five minutes of your time?” Prasko asked.

  “Five minutes of my time? I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, you understand,” Prasko said.

  “Oh, my God!”