conduct the investigation, asking for whatever assistance he needed. He would be supervised by his sergeant, who would keep himself advised on where the investigation was leading. And the sergeant's lieutenant would keep an eye on the investigation through the sergeant. Both would provide any assistance to the homicide detective who had the case that he asked for.
That was the procedure, and it would be followed in the case of Captain Richard C. Moffitt.
Captain Henry C. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Division, had assigned the investigation of the murder of Captain Richard C. Moffitt to Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., almost immediately upon learning that Captain Moffitt had been shot to death.
Detective Washington was thirty-nine years old, a large, heavyset Afro-American who had been a police officer for sixteen years, a detective for eleven, and assigned to Homicide for five. Washington had a reputation as a highly skilled interrogator, a self-taught master psychologist who seemed to know not only when someone being interviewed was lying, but how to get the person being interviewed to tell the truth. He was quite an actor, doing this, being able convincingly to portray any one of a number of characters, from the kindly understanding father figure who fully understood how something tragic like this could happen to the meanest sonofabitch east of the Mississippi River.
Washington had a fine mind, an eagle's eye when discovering minor discrepancies in a story, and a skill rare among his peers. He was a fine typist. He could type with great accuracy at about eighty words per minute. This skill, coupled with Detective Washington's flair for writing, made his official reports the standard to which his peers aspired. Detective Washington was never summoned to the captain's office to be asked, 'What the hell is this supposed to mean?'
Detective Washington and Captain Moffitt had been friends, too. Washington had been (briefly, until he had been injured in a serious wreck, during a high-speed pursuit) then-Sergeant Moffitt's partner in the Highway Patrol.
None of this had anything to with the case of Captain Richard C. Moffitt being assigned to Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr. He was given the job because he was 'up on the wheel.' The wheel (which was actually a sheet of cardboard) was the device by which jobs were assigned to the detectives of the Homicide Division. Each shift had its own wheel. When a job came in, the detective whose name was at the head of list was given the assignment, whereupon his name went to the bottom of the wheel. He would not be given another job until every other homicide detective, in turn, had been given one.
The system was not unlike that used in automobile showrooms, where to keep a prospective customer, an 'up,' from being swarmed over by a dozen commission-hungry salesmen, they were forced to take their turn.
Jason F. Washington, Sr., knew, however, as did everybody else in Homicide, that while Dutch's shooting might be his job, he was going to be given a higher level of supervision and assistance than he would have gotten had Richard C. Moffitt been a civilian when he stopped the bullet in the Waikiki Diner.
There was no suggestion at all that there was any question in anyone' s mind that Washington could not handle the job. What it was was that the commissioner was going to keep an eye on the case through Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, who was going to lean on Captain Quaire to make sure everything possible was being done, who was going to lean on Lieutenant Lou Natali who was going to lean on Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, who was going to lean on Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr.
And now Peter Wohl had been added to the equation, and Jason Washington wasn't sure what that would mean. He had found that out when he'd asked Captain Quaire why the witness hadn't been brought to the Roundhouse. Quaire had told him, off the record, that Wohl had stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, and that Lowenstein was about to chop it off for him. But an hour after that, Quaire had come out of his office to tell him that was changed. He was not to do anything about the witness at all, without checking with Staff Inspector Wohl. Staff Inspector Wohl was presently at the medical examiner's office and might, and then again might not, soon grace Homicide with his exalted presence.
Quaire had thrown up his hands.
'Don't look at me, Jason. I just work here. We are now involved in bullshit among the upper-level brass.'
Detective Jason Washington had seen Staff Inspector Peter Wohl come into Homicide, and had seen Matt Lowenstein take him into Captain Quaire's office, throwing Quaire out as he did so. He was not surprised when Wohl appeared at his desk, five minutes later, although he had not seen, or sensed, him walking over.
'Hello, Jason,' Wohl said.
Washington stood up and offered his hand.
'Inspector,' he said. 'How goes it?'
'I'm all right,' Wohl said. 'How've you been?'
'Aside from the normal ravages of middle age, no real complaints. Something on your mind?'
'I've been assigned to stroke WCBL-TV generally and Miss Louise Dutton specifically,' Wohl said. 'I guess you heard?'
Washington smiled. 'I heard about that.' He pointed at the wooden chair beside his desk.
Wohl smiled his thanks and sat down and stretched his legs out.
'You ever readAnimal Farm? ' Wohl asked.
Washington chuckled.
'I wouldn't compare a pretty lady like that with a pig,' he said.
'Let's just say then that she's more equal than some other pretty lady,' Wohl said. 'If you're ready for her, I'll go get her.'
'Anytime it's convenient,' Washington said. 'But an hour ago would be better than tomorrow.'
'Jason, all I'm going to do is stroke her feathers,' Wohl said. 'Did I have to tell you that?'
'No, but I'm glad you did,' Washington said. 'Thank you.'
'But for personal curiosity, has anything turned up?' Wohl asked.
'Not yet, but if I was a white boy with long hair and a zipper jacket, I don't think I would leave the house today. I guess you heard what the Highway Patrol is up to?'
'I'm not sure how effective that will be, but you can't blame them. They liked Dutch.'
'So did I. We were partners, once. Hell, Highway may even catch him.'
'What's your gut feeling, Jason?'
'Well, he's either under a rock somewhere in Philadelphia, or he's long gone. But gut feeling? He's either here or in Atlantic City.'
Wohl nodded and made a little grunting noise.
'An undercover guy from Narcotics thinks he identified the woman-'
'Sergeant Hobbs called me,' Washington interrupted him. 'If they can come up with a name…'
'I have a feeling they will,' Wohl said. 'Okay. So long as you understand where I fit in this, Jason, I'll go fetch the eyewitness.'
He stood up.
Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., extended something to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.
'What's that?'
'Miracle of modern medicine,' Washington said. 'It's supposed to prevent ulcers.'
'Are you suggesting I'm going to need it?' Wohl asked with a smile.
'Somebody thinks that TV lady is going to be trouble,' Washington said.
Wohl popped the antacid in his mouth, and then turned and walked out of Homicide.
SIX
When Sergeant Hobbs and Officer McFadden got to the Roundhouse, and McFadden started to open the passenger-side door, Hobbs touched his arm.
'Wait a minute,' he said. He then got out of the car, walked to the passenger side, motioned for McFadden to get out, and when he had, put his hand on his arm, and then marched him into the building. It looked for all the world as if McFadden was in custody and being led into the Roundhouse, which is exactly what Hobbs had in mind.
