The Witness Read online

  Since Casimir had gone to all that trouble for him, it seemed to Mr. O’Hara that it would be ungrateful of him not to turn in luncheon expense vouchers whether or not cash had actually changed hands. Anyway, Mr. O’Hara reasoned, if Beato’s hadn’t grabbed the tab, he would have paid it.

  Mr. O’Hara’s profession was journalism. Specifically, he was the Bulletin’s top crime reporter. Arguably, he was the best crime reporter in Philadelphia or, for that matter, between Boston and Washington.

  Dr. Bolinski had enjoyed a certain fame—some said “notoriety”—as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers professional football team before hanging up the suit and joining the bar and entering the legal specialization field of representing professional athletes.

  Bull Bolinski had surprised a lot of people, including Mickey O’Hara, who had known him since they were in the third grade at Saint Stephen’s Parochial School at 10th and Butler, with his near-instant success at big-dollar contract negotiations.

  “What it is, Michael,” The Bull had once explained to him over a beer, “is that the fuckers think I’m just a dumb fucking jock. That gives me a leg up on the bastards.”

  The Bull was the only person in the world except Mickey’s mother who called Mr. O’Hara “Michael.” Mickey, similarly, was the only person in the world save Mrs. Bolinski who called The Bull “Casimir.” The Bull’s mother didn’t even call him Casimir; usually it was Sonny, but often she called him “Bull” too.

  That went back to Saint Stephen’s too, where Sister Mary Magdalene, the principal, had a thing about Christian names. You either used the name you got when you were baptized, or you took a crack across the hand, bottom, or a stab into the ribs from Sister Mary Magdalene’s eighteen-inch steel-reinforced ruler.

  Casimir had been in town eight months before and had been deeply shocked to learn how little Michael was being compensated for his services by the Bulletin.

  “Jesus, Michael, you got a fucking Pulitzer Prize, and that’s all those cheap bastards are paying you? That’s fucking outrageous!”

  “Casimir, you may have been a hot shit ball player, and you may be a hot shit lawyer now, but you don’t know your ass from left field about newspapers.”

  “Trust me, Michael,” The Bull had said confidently. “I can handle those bastards.”

  Somewhat uneasily, Mr. O’Hara had placed the financial aspects of his career into Dr. Bolinski’s hands. To his genuine surprise, the Bulletin was now paying him more money than he had ever expected to make, and there were fringe benefits like the Buick (previously he had driven his own car and been reimbursed at a dime a mile) and the expense account.

  While it would not be fair to say that Mickey O’Hara was happy to hear that someone had been illegally deprived of their property at gunpoint, or that somebody had gotten themselves shot, neither would it be honest to say that he was beside himself with vicarious sorrow.

  It had been a damned dull week, so far, and so far the line of type reading, “By Michael J. O’Hara, Bulletin Staff Writer” had not appeared on the front page of the Bulletin. A good shooting would probably fix that.

  Mickey finished filling out the expense account chit, shoved the pad of forms back into the glove compartment, and got the Buick moving.

  Mickey knew the streets of the City of Philadelphia as well as any London taxi driver knows those of the city on the Thames. He turned left onto 26th Street and headed south toward the Art Museum and moved swiftly down the Benjamin Franklin Parkway toward City Hall. The pedestrian traffic around City Hall was frustrating, but his pace picked up as he headed south on Broad Street toward South Street. As he turned east on South Street, he could see flashing lights a few blocks ahead.

  He drove expertly. That is to say, he was not reckless. But he paid absolutely no attention to the posted speed limits, and paused for red lights only long enough to make sure he could get across the intersection without getting hit.

  He was not worried about being cited for violation of the Motor Vehicle Code. His chances of being charged with speeding or running a red light or reckless lane changing were about as great as those of Mayor Jerry Carlucci’s.

  Mickey O’Hara was regarded by the Police Department as one of their own. To be sure, there was always some stiff-necked prick who would point out that all Mickey O’Hara was, was a goddamn civilian and entitled to no special privileges. But for every one of these, there were two or three cops, driving RPCs or walking beats, or captains and inspectors, who had known Mickey for twenty years and had come to believe that he was on the side of the cops, and told the prick where to head in.

  When the Emerald Society had a function, and there was a head table, Mickey O’Hara was routinely seated at it. The Fraternal Order of Police club, downtown, off North Broad Street, had an ironclad rule that the only way a civilian could get past the door was in the company of a member. Except for Mickey O’Hara, who could be expected to drop in once a night for a beer, sitting at a stool near the cash register that might as well have had his name on it, because it was tacitly reserved for him.

  The thing about Mickey, it was said, was that he never betrayed a confidence. If you told him something was out of school, you would never see it in the newspaper.

  There was a white-capped (Traffic Division) cop diverting traffic away from South Street onto South 9th Street when Mickey O’Hara’s Buick appeared.

  He waved Mickey through, winked at him as he passed, and then furiously blew his whistle at the car behind him, who thought he wanted to follow Mickey.

  Mickey pulled up behind a car he recognized as belonging to Central Detectives. Some of the chrome letters that had once spelled out CHEVROLET had fallen off; now it read CHE RO T. He had seen it the night before downtown; a lawyer from Pittsburgh had been mugged and stabbed coming out of a bar. The detective had told Mickey what had happened, and when Mickey had asked him, “What do you think?” the detective had said, “It’s a start, but the bastards breed like rabbits.”

  Mickey took a 35-mm camera from the passenger side floor and got out. He saw that South Street was jammed with police vehicles of all descriptions. There were three 6th District RPCs, cars assigned to one of the 6th District sergeants and the 6th District lieutenant captain, a Highway RPC, a 6th District van and two stakeout vans, the Mobile Crime Lab vehicle, and a number of unmarked cars. One of the unmarked cars was a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, telling Mickey that a captain (or better) with nothing more important to do had come to the crime scene, and was more than likely getting in the way. The other unmarked cars were battered; that meant they were from Central Detectives.

  Obviously (people were standing around) whatever had happened here was over. The stakeout vans, which are manned by specially trained policemen who are equipped with special weapons (rifles, shotguns, machine guns, et cetera) and equipment, and called into use in situations where ordinary armament (handguns) is likely to be inadequate, were not going to be needed.

  Then Mickey saw a familiar face, that of Homicide Detective Joe D’Amata, and knew that something serious had happened. The “hospital case” in the Police Radio call hadn’t needed a hospital.

  Mickey stepped over the Crime Scene barrier and walked toward another familiar face. He now knew who was driving the new Impala.

  “I didn’t know they let old men like you go in on real jobs,” Mickey said.

  Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, a short, stocky man with large, dark eyes, who commanded the Detective Division, took a black, six-inch cigar from between his lips and looked coldly at Mickey.

  “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a laugh-a-minute Irishman,” he said. “I knew if I didn’t get out of here, something unpleasant, like you showing up, would happen.”

  “Things a little slow at the Roundhouse, are they? Or are you trying to recapture your youth by patrolling the streets?”

  “I was driving by, all right? Up yours, O’Hara.”

  Despite the exchange, they were friends. Matt
Lowenstein met Mickey O’Hara’s criteria for a very good cop. Not all senior supervisors did. O’Hara admired Lowenstein for being an absolute straight arrow, who protected his men like a mother hen.

  On Lowenstein’s part, he not only respected O’Hara professionally, but when his son had been bar mitzvahed, not only had Mickey shown up (his gift had been The Oxford Complete Dictionary of the English Language) but the event had been reported on the front page of the Sunday Social Section, complete with a three-column picture of Lowenstein and his son via Mickey’s influence at the Bulletin.

  “So before you go back to the rocking chair, you going to tell me what happened? Why are you here?”

  “I told you, I was nearby and heard the call,” Lowenstein said. “It’s a strange one, Mickey. Six, eight guys, A-rabs—”

  “Real Arabs?” Mickey interrupted.

  “They kept saying ‘motherfucker.’ That’s Arabian, isn’t it?”

  Mickey chuckled. “I think so,” he said solemnly.

  “They came in the place one at a time, spread out through the building, and then pulled guns. They shot up the place, God only knows why, and then tried to set some rugs on fire. The maintenance man walked in while it was going on, and they killed him.”

  “He try to do something or what?”

  Lowenstein shrugged.

  “Don’t know yet. You want to have a look?”

  “I’d like to, Matt,” Mickey said.

  Lowenstein pursed his lips. A surprisingly loud whistle came from between them. A dozen people turned to look, including the uniformed cop guarding access to the Goldblatt crime scene.

  “He’s okay,” Lowenstein said, pointing to Mickey O’Hara.

  “Thanks,” Mickey said.

  “Sylvia said if you can watch your filthy mouth, you can come to dinner.”

  “When?”

  “How about tonight?”

  “Fine. What time and what can I bring?”

  “Half past six. You don’t have to bring anything, but take a shave and a shower.”

  “Didn’t The Dago tell you you were supposed to cultivate the press?”

  “No. But I’ll tell you what I did hear: You finally found some girl willing to be seen in public with you. Bring her, if you want.”

  “Okay. I was going to anyway,” Mickey said, and touched Lowenstein’s arm and walked past the cop into Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc.

  As Michael J. O’Hara walked into Goldblatt & Sons Credit Furniture & Appliances, Inc., on South Street, four blocks away, on 11th Street, near Carpenter, three law enforcement officers in civilian clothing were having their lunch in Shank & Evelyn’s Restaurant.

  They were Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and Officer Matthew Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department, and Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed (in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit) man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Shank & Evelyn’s Restaurant was not the sort of place Walter Davis had had in mind when he had telephoned Wohl early that morning to ask if he was free for lunch. Davis had had in mind the Ristorante Alfredo, in downtown Philadelphia, in part because the food was superb and the banquettes would provide what he considered to be the necessary privacy he sought, and also because he thought it would provide an opportunity to needle the management a little.

  There was no question in Davis’s mind (or for that matter in the minds of any peace officer with the brains to find his rear end with both hands) that Ristorante Alfredo was owned by persons connected with organized crime, otherwise known as “the Mob” and sometimes as “the Mafia.”

  Davis was sure that there would be someone in the restaurant who would recognize him and Wohl, whom Davis believed to be as bright and competent a Philadelphia cop as they came, and note and report to his superiors that they had been taking lunch together.

  If that had caused Ricco Baltazari, who held the restaurant license for Ristorante Alfredo, or Vincenzo Savarese, “the businessman” who actually owned it, some uncomfortable moments wondering what the head of the FBI and the head of Special Operations were up to, together, that would have added a little something to the luncheon.

  But that had not come to pass. Wohl had accepted the invitation, and said that since he would be at the Roundhouse at about lunchtime, he would just stop by the FBI office when he was finished with his business and pick Davis up.

  The Administration Building of the Philadelphia Police Department, at 8th and Race Streets, was universally called “the Roundhouse” because its architect had been fascinated with curves, and everything in the building was curved, right down to the elevators.

  Wohl’s own office was at Bustleton and Bowler Streets in Northeast Philadelphia, from which he commanded the Special Operations Division, which consisted of the Highway Patrol and a newly formed, somewhat experimental unit of above-average uniformed and plainclothes cops.

  The original idea was that Special Operations, which like the Highway Patrol had city-wide responsibility, would move into high-crime areas of the city, and overwhelm the problem with manpower, special equipment and techniques, and an arrangement with the district attorney to hustle the arrested through the criminal justice procedure.

  That was being done, but politics had inevitably entered the picture almost immediately. First, there had been the murder of Jerome Nelson, whose father, Arthur J. Nelson, was chairman of the board of the Daye-Nelson Corporation, which owned (among other newspapers and television stations) the Philadelphia Ledger and WGHA-TV.

  When a Homicide Division lieutenant, Edward M. DelRaye, had been truthfully tactless enough to inform the press that the police were looking for a Negro Male, Pierre St. Maury, a known homosexual known to be living with young Nelson in his luxury Society Hill apartment, in connection with the killing, the Ledger and its publisher had declared war on both the Police Department and the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia.

  Mayor Carlucci had “suggested” to Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich that the investigation of the Nelson murder be turned over to Peter Wohl’s Special Operations Division.

  The case had more or less solved itself when two other Negro Homosexual Males had been arrested in Atlantic City in possession of Jerome Nelson’s Visa and American Express cards, and had been charged by New Jersey authorities with the murder of Pierre St. Maury, whose body had been found near Jerome Nelson’s abandoned Jaguar in the wilds of New Jersey.

  SAC Davis knew that, for reasons that could only be described as political, Mayor Carlucci had “suggested” to Commissioner Czernich that Peter Wohl’s Special Operations Division be given responsibility for three other situations that had attracted a good deal of media attention, much of it (all of it, in the case of the Ledger) unfavorable.

  The first of these, a serial murder-rapist in Northwest Philadelphia, had been resolved, to favorable publicity, when a police officer assigned to Special Operations had not only shot the murder-rapist to death, but done so when the villain actually had his next intended victim tied up, naked, in the back of his van.

  The other two highly publicized cases had not gone at all well. One was the apparently senseless murder of a young police officer who had been on patrol near Temple University. A massive effort, still ongoing, hadn’t turned up a thing, which gave Arthur Nelson’s Ledger an at least once-a-week opportunity to run an editorial criticizing the Police Department generally, Special Operations specifically, and Mayor Carlucci in particular.

  Davis was sure that the pressure on Wohl to find the cop killer must be enormous.

  The third case had been that of a contract hit of a third-rate mobster, Anthony J. DeZego, also known as “Tony the Zee,” on the roof of a downtown parking garage. Ordinarily, the untimely demise of a minor thug would have been forgotten in twenty-four hours, but this particular thug had been in the company of a young woman named Penelope Detweiler
when someone had opened up on him with a shotgun. The Detweiler girl’s father was president of Nesfoods International and one of the rocks upon which the cathedral of Philadelphia society had been built. Not only had this young woman been wounded during the attack on Mr. DeZego, but it had come out that she was not only carrying on with Tony the Zee but also addicted to heroin.

  Obviously, since it wasn’t their fault that their precious child had not only been shacking up with a married thug, but had been injecting and inhaling narcotics, it had to be somebody’s fault. Since the police were supposed to stop that sort of thing it was obviously the fault of the police. For a few days, the influence of Nesfoods International had allied itself with Mr. Nelson and his newspaper in roundly condemning the Police Department and the mayor.

  But then that had stopped, with Mr. Detweiler making a 180-degree turn. Davis had no idea how Mayor Carlucci (or possibly Peter Wohl) had pulled that off, but what had happened was that Detweiler had made a speech not only praising the police, but also starting, with a large contribution of his own, a reward fund to catch whoever had murdered the young cop in his patrol car.

  Special Agent Davis knew that Mr. Detweiler’s change of heart had nothing to do with the cops having caught whoever had killed DeZego and seriously wounded his daughter. That was never going to happen. The DeZego murder and the Detweiler aggravated assault cases would almost certainly never be officially closed.

  There had been a report from the FBI’s Chicago office that a known contract hit man meeting the description of the DeZego killer had been found in the trunk of his car with three .45-caliber bullets having passed through his cranial cavity. There was little question in anyone’s mind that the DeZego/Detweiler hit man had himself been hit, probably to shut his mouth, but knowing something and being able to prove it were two entirely different things.

  Special Agent in Charge Davis had been meaning to have lunch with Peter Wohl, to chat, out of school, about these cases, even before he had learned, within the past forty-eight hours, that the Nelson case was not, in something of an understatement, over. It was in fact the reason he had asked Staff Inspector Wohl to break bread with him, preferably in some quiet restaurant, like Ristorante Alfredo, where they could talk in confidence.