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.
