Men In Blue Page 9

  The medical examiner shrugged, and went on with what he was doing.

  “Jesus,” Pekach said. “What did he shoot her with?”

  “I presume,” the medical examiner said dryly, not looking up, “that the weapon used was the standard service revolver.”

  Pekach snorted.

  “She shot Captain Moffitt the way she was shot up like that?” Pekach asked.

  “Before,” the medical examiner replied. “What I think happened is that she shot Moffitt before he shot her.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pekach said.

  The medical examiner pointed with his scalpel at a small plastic bag. Pekach picked it up.

  It held a misshapen piece of lead, thinner than a pencil and about a quarter of an inch long.

  “Twenty-two,” the medical examiner said. “Probably a long rifle. It entered his chest just below the armpit.” He took Unidentified White Female Suspect’s hand, raised it in the air, and pointed. “From the side, almost from the back. The bullet hit the left ventricle of the aorta. Then he bled to death, internally. The heart just kept pumping, and when he ran out of blood, he died.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Pekach said.

  The medical examiner let Unidentified White Female Suspect’s arm fall, and then pointed to another plastic envelope.

  “Show these to Peter Wohl,” he said. “I think it’s what he’s looking for. I just took those out of her.”

  The envelope contained three misshapen pieces of lead. Each was larger and thicker than the .22 projectile removed from the body of Captain Moffitt. The ends of all the bullets had expanded, “mushroomed,” on striking something hard, so that they actually looked something like mushrooms. The other end of each bullet was covered by a quarter-inch-high copper-colored cup. There were clear rifling marks on the cups; it would not be at all difficult to match these jacketed bullets to the pistol that had fired them.

  The very large young man looked carefully at the face of Unidentified White Female Suspect and changed her status.

  “Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann,” he said. “Twenty-four, five feet five, one-hundred twenty-five pounds. Last known address . . . somewhere on Vine, just east of Broad. I’d have to check.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “That’s Dorothy Ann,” McFadden said. “I thought she was still in jail.”

  “What was she in for?”

  “Solicitation for prostitution,” McFadden said. “I think the judge put her in to see if they couldn’t dry her out.”

  “She’s got needle marks all over,” the medical examiner said, “in places you wouldn’t believe. No identification on her? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Lieutenant Natali told me all she had on her was a joint and a .22 pistol,” Pekach said. “And the needle marks. He thought we might be able to make her as a junkie. Thank you, Doctor.”

  He left the room.

  Wohl and Hobbs were no longer alone. Lieutenant Natali and Lieutenant Sabara of the Highway Patrol had come to the medical examiner’s office. Sabara looked askance at the Narcotics Division officers.

  Natali saw it. “I like your sweatshirt, Pekach,” he said dryly.

  “Could you identify her?” Hobbs asked.

  “Officer McFadden was able to identify her, Sergeant,” Pekach said, formally. “Her name was Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann Schmeltzer. A known drug addict, who McFadden thinks was only recently released from prison.”

  “Any known associates, McFadden?” Hobbs asked.

  “Sir, I can’t recall any names. It’d be on her record.”

  “If I can borrow him for a while, I’d like to take McFadden with me to the Roundhouse,” Hobbs said.

  “Sure,” Pekach said.

  “I guess you can call off the rest of your people, then,” Hobbs said. “And thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Now that I’ve got her name, maybe I can find out something,” Pekach said. “I’ll get on the radio.”

  “Appreciate it,” Hobbs said. “If you do come up with something, give me or Lieutenant Natali a call.”

  “Sure,” Pekach said. “Inspector, the medical examiner said to show you these. He said he thought that’s what you were waiting for.”

  Wohl took the bag Pekach handed him and held it up to the light. He was not surprised to see that the bullets were jacketed, and from the way they had mushroomed, almost certainly had been hollow pointed.

  “What’s that? The projectiles?” Sergeant Hobbs asked.

  Wohl handed the envelope to Sergeant Hobbs. They met each other’s eyes, but Hobbs didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t lose those,” Wohl said.

  “What do you think they are, Inspector?” Hobbs asked, in transparent innocence.

  “I’m not a firearms expert,” Wohl said. “What I see is four bullets removed from the body of the woman suspected of shooting Captain Moffitt. They’re what they call evidence, Sergeant, in the chain of evidence.”

  “They’re jacketed hollow points,” Hobbs said. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “What the hell is the difference?” Pekach said. “Dutch is dead. The Department can’t do anything to him now for using prohibited ammunition.”

  “And maybe we’ll get lucky,” Hobbs said, “and get an assistant DA six months out of law school who thinks bullets are bullets are bullets.”

  “Yeah, and maybe we won’t,” Wohl said. “Maybe we’ll get some assistant DA six months out of law school who knows the difference, and would like to get his name in the newspapers as the guy who caught the cops using illegal ammunition, again, in yet another example of police brutality.”

  “Jesus,” Pekach said, disgustedly. “And I know just the prick who would do that.” He paused and added. “Two or three pricks, now that I think about it.”

  “Get those to Firearms Identification, Hobbs,” Wohl said. “Get a match. Keep your fingers crossed. Maybe we will be lucky.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Hobbs said.

  “I don’t think there is anything else to be done here,” Wohl said. “Or am I missing something?” He looked at Sabara as he spoke.

  “I thought I’d escort the hearse to the funeral home,” Sabara said. “You know, what the hell. It seems little enough ...”

  “I think Dutch would like that,” Wohl said.

  “Well, I expect I had better pay my respects to Chief Lowenstein,” Wohl said. “I’ll probably see you fellows in the Roundhouse.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Inspector,” Hobbs said. “Are you going to be in on this?”

  “No,” Wohl said. “Not the way you mean. But the eyewitness is that blonde from Channel 9. That could cause problems. The commissioner asked me to make sure it doesn’t. I want to explain that to Chief Lowenstein. That’s all.”

  “Good luck, Inspector,” Hobbs said, chuckling. Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, a heavyset, cigar chewing man in his fifties, had a legendary temper, which was frequently triggered when he suspected someone was treading on sacred Detective Turf.

  “Why do I think I’ll need it?” Wohl said, also chuckling, and left.

  There was a Cadillac hearse with a casket in it in the parking lot. The driver was leaning on the fender. Chrome-plated letters outside the frosted glass read MARSHUTZ & SONS.

  Dutch was apparently going to be buried from a funeral home three blocks from his house. As soon as the medical examiner released the body, it would be put in the casket, and in the hearse, and taken there.

  Wohl thought that Sabara showing up here, just so he could lead the hearse to Marshutz & Sons, was a rather touching gesture. It wasn’t called for by regulations, and he hadn’t thought that Dutch and Sabara had been that close. But probably, he decided, he was wrong. Sabara wasn’t really as tough as he acted (and looked), and he probably had been, in his way, fond of Dutch.

  He got in the LTD and got on the radio.

  “Isaac Twenty-Three. Have Two-Eleven contact me on the J-Band.”

  Two-Eleven w
as the Second District car he had sent with Louise Dutton.

  He had to wait a moment before Two-Eleven called him.

  “Two-Eleven to Isaac Twenty-Three.”

  “What’s your location, Two-Eleven?”

  “We just dropped the lady at Six Stockton Place.”

  Where the hell is that? The only Stockton Place I can think of is a slum down by the river.

  “Where?”

  “Isaac Twenty-Three, that’s Apartment A, Six Stockton Place.”

  “Two-Eleven, where does that come in?”

  “It’s off Arch Street in the one-hundred block.”

  “Okay. Two-Eleven, thank you,” he said, and put the microphone back in the glove box.

  He was surprised. That was really a crummy address, not one where you would expect a classy blonde like Louise Dutton to live. Then he remembered that there had been conversion, renovation, whatever it was called, of the old buildings in that area.

  When Lieutenant David Pekach came out of the medical examiner’s office, he found a white-cap Traffic Division officer standing next to the battered van, writing out a ticket.

  “Is there some trouble, Officer?” Pekach asked, innocently.

  The Traffic Division officer, who had intended to ticket the van only for a missing headlight, took a look at the legend on Pekach’s T-shirt, and with an effort, restrained himself from commenting.

  What he would have liked to have done is kick the fucking hippie queer junkie’s ass from there to the river, and there drown the sonofabitch, and in the old days, when he’d first come on the job, he could have done just that. But things had changed, and he was coming up on his twenty years for retirement, and it wasn’t worth risking his pension, even if somebody walking around with something insulting to the police like that—Support Your Local Sheriff my ass, that wasn’t what it meant—printed on his sweatshirt and walking around on the streets really deserved to get his ass kicked.

  Instead, he cited the vehicle for a number of additional offenses against the Motor Vehicle Code: cracked windshield, smooth tires, non-functioning turn indicators, and illegible license plate, which was all he could think of. He was disappointed when the fucking hippy had a valid driver’s license.

  Half a block from the medical examiner’s office, Lieutenant Pekach put his copy of the citation between his teeth, ripped it in half, and then threw both halves out the van’s window.

  ****

  When Wohl got to the Roundhouse, he parked in the space reserved for Chief Inspector Coughlin. Coughlin was very close to the Moffitt family; more than likely he would be at the Moffitt house for a while. As he walked into the building, he saw Hobbs’s car turn into the parking lot.

  He was not surprised to find Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein in Homicide. Lowenstein was in the main room, sitting on a desk, a fresh, very large cigar in the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, Inspector Wohl,” Lowenstein greeted him with mock cordiality, “I was hoping I’d run into you. How are you, Peter?”

  “Good afternoon, Chief,” Wohl said.

  “Do you think you could find a moment for me?” Lowenstein asked. “I’ve got a little something on my mind.”

  “My time is your time, Chief,” Wohl said.

  “Why don’t we just go in here a moment?” Lowenstein said, gesturing toward the door of an office on whose door was lettered captain HENRY C. QUAIRE COMMANDING OFFICER.

  Chief Inspector Lowenstein opened the door without knocking. Captain Quaire, a stocky, balding man in his late forties, was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his desk, talking on the telephone. When he saw Lowenstein, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “Henry, why don’t you get a cup of coffee or something?” Lowenstein suggested.

  Captain Quaire, as he rose to his feet, said “I’ll call you right back” to the telephone and hung it up. When he passed Peter Wohl, he shook his head. Wohl wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of sympathy, or whether it meant that Quaire too was shocked, and pissed, by what he had done.

  “Peter,” Lowenstein said, as he closed the door after Quaire, “it’s not that I don’t think that you are one of the brightest young officers in the department, a credit to the department and your father, but when I want your assistance, the way I would prefer to do that is to call Denny Coughlin and ask for it. Not have you shoved down my throat by the Polack.”

  “Frankly, Chief,” Wohl said, smiling, “I sort of expected you would ask me in here, thank me for my services, and tell me not to let the doorknob hit me in the ass on my way out.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Peter,” Lowenstein said.

  “Chief, I hope you understand that what I did at the diner was at the commissioner’s orders,” Wohl said. He saw that Lowenstein was still angry.

  “The implication, of course, is that everybody in Homicide is a fucking barbarian, too dumb to figure out for themselves how to handle a woman like that,” Lowenstein said.

  “I don’t think he meant that, Chief,” Wohl said. “I think what it was was just that I was the senior supervisor at the Waikiki Diner. I think he would have given the same orders, would have preferred to give the same orders, to anyone from Homicide.”

  “The difference, Peter, is that nobody from Homicide would have called the Polack. They would have followed procedure. Why did you call him?”

  “A couple of reasons,” Wohl said, deciding to stand his ground. “Primarily because he and Dutch were close.”

  “And the woman?”

  “And the woman,” Peter said. “I’m sorry if you’re angry, but I don’t see where what I did was wrong.”

  “Was Dutch fucking her?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said. “I thought it was possible when I called the commissioner, and that if they had something going on between them, what I should do was try to keep anybody from finding out.”

  “Maybe the Polack was already onto it,” Lowenstein said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just before you came in, Peter, I talked with the Polack,” Lowenstein said. “I was going to call him anyway, but he called me. And what he told me was that he wants you in on this, to deal with the Dutton woman from here on in.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wohl said.

  “It’s simple English,” Lowenstein said. “Whatever Homicide has to do with that woman, they’ll do it through you. I told the Polack I didn’t like that one damned bit, and he said he was sorry, but it wasn’t a suggestion. He also said that I shouldn’t bother complaining to the mayor, the mayor thought it was a good idea, too. I guess that Wop sonofabitch is as afraid of the goddamned TV as the Polack is.”

  “Well, it wasn’t my idea,” Wohl said, aware that he was embarrassed. “I went to Nazareth, and went through Dutch’s personal possessions, and then I went to the medical examiner’s office. I was going to come here to tell you what I found—which is nothing—and then I was going to call the commissioner and tell him.”

  Lowenstein looked intently at him for a moment.

  “And go back to where I belong,” Peter added.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen,” Lowenstein said. “I was going to give you a little talk, Peter, to make it clear that all you’re authorized to do is keep the TV lady happy; that you’re not to get involved in the investigation itself. But I don’t think I have to do that, do I?”

  “No, sir,” Wohl said. “Of course you don’t.”

  “And I don’t think I have to ask you to make sure that I hear anything the Polack hears, do I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The trouble with you, Peter, you sonofabitch, is that I can’t stay mad at you,” Lowenstein said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Wohl said, smiling. “What do you think I should do now?”

  “I suspect that just maybe the assigned detective would like to talk to the witness,” Lowenstein said. “Why don’t you find him and ask him? Where’s the dame?”

  “At her apartment,”
Peter said. “Who’s got the job?”

  “Jason Washington,” Chief Inspector Lowenstein said. “I expect you’ll find him outside, just a titter with excitement that he’ll now be able to work real close to a real staff inspector.”

  “There’s a rumor going around, Chief,” Wohl said, “that some people think staff inspectors are real cops.”

  “Get your ass out of here, Peter,” Lowenstein said, but he was smiling.

  There were twenty-one active homicide investigations underway by the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department, including that of Captain Richard C. Moffitt. An active homicide investigation being defined unofficially as one where there was a reasonable chance to determine who had unlawfully caused the death of another human being, and to develop sufficient evidence to convince the Philadelphia district attorney that he would not be wasting his time and the taxpayers’ money by seeking a grand jury indictment and ultimately bringing the accused to trial.

  Very nearly at the bottom of the priority list to expend investigatory resources (the time and overtime of the homicide detectives, primarily, but also including certain forensic techniques, some of which were very expensive) were the cases, sometimes occurring once or twice a week, involving vagrants or junkies done to death by beating, or stabbing. The perpetrator of these types of murders often had no motive beyond taking possession of the victim’s alcohol or narcotics, and if questioned about it eight hours later might really have no memory of what had taken place.

  There were finite resources. Decisions have to be made as to where they can best be spent in protecting the public, generally, or sometimes an individual. Most murders involve people who know each other, and many involve close relatives, and most murders are not hard to solve. The perpetrator of a murder is often on the scene when the police arrive, or if he has fled the scene, is immediately identified by witnesses who also have a pretty good idea where he or she might be found.

  What many homicide detectives privately (certainly not for public consumption) think of as a good case is a death illegally caused during the execution of a felony. A holdup man shoots a convenience-store cashier, for example, or a bank messenger is shot and killed while being held up.