protect him. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to knock on his mother’s door with the news that now Jack’s son had been killed on the job, too. Unfortunately, that duty fell last week to First Deputy Commissioner of Police Peter Wohl.”
New Cop, Hero Cop
After graduating from the Police Academy, there was no question that Matt Payne was becoming both a good cop and a respected one.
“But no matter how hard we tried throughout his career,” said Peter Wohl, to whom Payne was first assigned as an administrative assistant when Wohl ran Special Operations, “Matt wound up in the thick of things, bullets flying. That said, all his shootings were found to be righteous ones.”
Before Payne had even put in six months on the job, he had already drawn his pistol. It had happened when he was off duty and had come across a van that fit the description of the one used by the criminal the newspapers had labeled the Northwest Serial Rapist. When the driver tried to run him down, Payne shot him in the head. A young woman, trussed up and naked in the back of the vehicle, was saved from becoming the rapist’s next victim. And headlines hailed Matt Payne as a hero.
The next incident happened during an operation that this writer covered.
Matt Payne had been assigned to provide protection for me in an alleyway that was supposed to be a safe distance from where tactical teams were staging to arrest a gang who had committed murder while robbing Goldblatt’s Department Store.
“We thought that in having Matt sit on Mick,” Wohl explained, “we could keep Mick out of our way and at the same time keep Matt far from any gunplay.”
They were wrong.
As this writer reported then, one of the men the cops were trying to arrest came into the alleyway and began shooting. Matt Payne, his forehead grazed by a bullet, returned fire and killed the shooter.
The following day, on the front page of the Bulletin, the photograph I took of a bloodied Matt Payne holding his pistol and standing over the dead shooter appeared with this writer’s firsthand account of Payne’s heroic actions.
The photograph’s headline read: “Officer M. M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
A Shining-but Brief-Career
Promotion followed, but so, too, did more gunfire.
Payne became romantically involved with a young woman named Susan Reynolds and then discovered that a sorority sister of hers had become caught up with a terrorist named Bryan Chenowith, who was the target of a nationwide manhunt by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
In an attempt to trap Chenowith, Payne asked Reynolds to lure her friend to a diner in hopes that the fugitive would follow and the FBI’s special agent in charge in Philadelphia could nab him. However, the fugitive brought with him a. 30-caliber carbine rifle and shot up the parking lot.
Susan Reynolds took a bullet to the head and died in Payne’s arms.
Later, Matt Payne quietly admitted to a very few that the experience haunted him beyond anything he’d ever known.
Payne dealt with it as best he could, mostly by losing himself in his work. And that he did well.
When he was promoted to sergeant and transferred to the Homicide Unit, Matt Payne was given Badge Number 471, which previously had been worn by Sergeant John “Jack” F. X. Moffitt, his father.
Other dramatic incidents occurred-too many to be included here-but one of the most recent was among the most memorable, when the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line again found himself involved in a foot chase-and a shoot- out-with a murderer.
Payne happened to be at Temple University Hospital when Jesus Jimenez, a nineteen-year-old gang member, snuck into the hospital’s third-floor Burn Unit and executed a patient.
When Jimenez fled the floor, Payne pursued him out onto the streets, ultimately wounding Jimenez in the thigh before he got away.
Jimenez, it turned out, belonged to a group led by Juan Paulo Delgado, a Texican, age twenty-one. And the assassination in the hospital was only a part of Delgado’s reign of terror-one that stretched from the streets of Philadelphia to the dirt trails of the Texas-Mexico border.
When Delgado abducted Dr. Amanda Law for ransom, Payne, Detective Anthony Harris, and Sergeant Jim Byrth of the legendary Texas Rangers law-enforcement agency were already hunting him. Thery were accompanied by a confidential informant.
Acting on a tip from the informant, the group tracked Delgado to a dilapidated row house on Hancock Street in Kensington. The policemen confronted the occupants-Jimenez, Delgado, and their associate Omar Quintanilla-in an exchange that eventually left Delgado and Quintanilla dead. Payne and his associates rescued Dr. Law, who was found in the kitchen, her head covered by a pillowcase, her ankles and wrists bound by duct tape to a chair, and the arrests of the members of Delgado’s gang quickly followed.
And so now we come to today: One final time we declare Matt Payne a hero.
This courageous, dedicated son of Philadelphia gave the city his all in last week’s gun battle and selfless act in which he put down a pair of vicious criminals and saved a fellow officer.
May he rest in peace.
“We know that Matt will always be a hero to the decent and law-abiding citizens of Philadelphia,” said his deeply grieving wife, Dr. Amanda Law Payne, as she held their toddler daughter on her hip and as their twin sons clung to her legs following a memorial service that overflowed with attendees. “But first and foremost, he was our family’s hero. While we must move forward, our children and I shall never ever forget that.”
Matthew Mark Payne is survived by his loving wife of five years, Mrs. Amanda Law Payne; his sons, Brewster Cortland Payne III and John Francis Xavier Moffitt Payne, age four; his daughter, Mandy Law Payne, age two; his sister, Dr. Amelia Payne; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. B. C. Payne II; and numerous other relatives and friends.
The family requests that, in lieu of flowers, memorials be made in Matthew Mark Payne’s name to the Widow amp; Orphan Fund at the Fraternal Order of Police, Lodge #5, 1336 Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, PA 19123.
Matt remembered slowly folding the sheets of paper, then handing it back to her.
She smiled weakly as tears welled, then trickled down her rosy cheeks.
Softly, she said, “Life is short, baby. Maybe too short.”
II
[ONE]
1834 Callowhill Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 8:27 P.M.
Will Curtis, almost across the street, chuckled at the tune that suddenly played in his head. Then he heard himself start singing it softly: “O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain side, the summer’s gone, and all the losers falling…”
As he came closer to the law office, he realized that he hadn’t given a hell of a lot of thought as to how he was going to get inside. He figured if he knocked on the door long enough and loud enough he would get a response.
Hell, then again, all I really have to do is make a lot of noise kicking over the motorcycle.
I’ll bet that bastard Jay-Cee comes flying outside.
When he reached the door and had put the canteen on the sidewalk beside it, he decided, just for the hell of it, to try the doorknob.
With his right hand holding his Glock, he carefully grabbed the knob with his left hand and slowly started to turn it.
It was unlocked.
Why am I not surprised? Jay-Cee’s a dumbass.
The heavy metal door swung outward with a squeak of its hinges.
