'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 readMARSHUTZ amp; 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 amp; 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 was 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 Tshirt, and with an effort, restrained himself from commenting.
What he would haveliked 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 Sheriffmy ass, that wasn't what it meantprinted 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, nonfunctioning 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.
