“I appreciate that very much, Lieutenant,” Jim Byrth replied.
“And, please, call me Jason,” Washington said, waving them both into chairs.
Byrth nodded once. “Only if you’ll call me Jim.”
“Very well, Jim.” Washington paused, and looked to be gathering his thoughts. “I have some understanding as to why you’re here.”
“Yes, sir,” Byrth said, but his inflection made it more of a question.
“And I’m afraid you may have arrived a little late,” Washington went on.
“I don’t follow you.”
“Just shy of noon today, one of our Marine Unit vessels recovered the headless body of a young Hispanic female from the Schuylkill River.”
“Fuck!” Byrth angrily blurted. His face was clearly furious-his squinted eyes cold and hard, his brow furrowed.
“Sonofabitch,” Payne added with his own look of disgust.
Byrth then relaxed somewhat and said, “Jason, please forgive that outburst, it’s just-”
Washington motioned with his right hand in a gesture that said, No apology necessary. “That word has been thrown around here once or twice. Even I, in a fit of anger or frustration, have been known to make use of it.”
“I’m not apologizing,” Payne said. “That’s just despicable. What animal does that? And to a young girl?”
“I want this guy bad,” Byrth said.
Washington looked Byrth in the eyes a long moment, then said, “As unsettling as the thought is, there’s always the possibility that it’s another doer. But whoever did it, I agree with you, Jim. We both, as you say, want him bad.”
“Any details on the victim yet?” Payne said.
“Very little, Matthew,” Washington said. “Only that she was found in a black garbage bag weighted with dumbbells. Apparently, the current had pushed her onto a shoal in the river.”
“Jesus!” Payne said, shaking his head. Then he said, “Has the media got its hands on the story?”
Washington shook his head. “We’ve squashed it.”
“Story like that is going to get out,” Payne said. “It’s too sensational.”
“Agreed,” Byrth said. “And it’s just what we don’t want. It’d be better if the doer thinks she’s still at the bottom of the river.”
“Jason,” Payne then said, “I’ve been giving Jim background on what a typical boring day it’s been around here today-”
Washington grunted.
“-and,” Payne went on, “I’d planned on giving him an overview of what we have in the way of working cases and of assets he might find helpful. I thought that part of that would be showing him the Executive Command Center. Now, with this news, that seems essential. You see any problem with us using the ECC?”
Washington was quiet a moment as he considered that.
Then he picked up the phone and punched a short string of numbers.
“Commissioner Walker? Jason Washington. Sorry to bother you, sir, but I have what I fear may be an unusual request.” He paused to listen. “Yes, sir. I do appreciate that. But I thought it best to ask, if only to give you a heads-up. Commissioner Coughlin has Sergeant Matthew Payne-” He paused again, having apparently been interrupted. Washington’s eyes glanced at Matt as he went on: “Yes, sir, that Payne. As I was saying, the commissioner has Payne working a special project. And Payne has requested access to the ECC.” He paused to listen, then added, “Understood, sir. He would of course relinquish control if it were needed by the police commissioner or others.” He listened, then finished by saying, “I will indeed tell him, sir. Thank you for your time and your help.”
Washington hung up the phone and looked at Payne.
“Okay, Matthew, the ECC’s laid on for you. All you need to do is call up there first to make sure that either Corporal Rapier or his assistant is available to run the machines. And in the event something comes up, you’re to relinquish use to whoever needs access.”
“Got it,” Payne said as he began to stand. “Thank you, Jason.”
“Just stay out of trouble, Matthew.” He looked at Byrth. “You do realize you’re running with dangerous company, Jim?”
Byrth smiled.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said as he stood up. “Thanks again for your hospitality, Jason.”
Washington leaned back in his chair as he watched Payne lead the Texas Ranger across Homicide. Payne stopped at an unoccupied desk and used the phone to call Corporal Rapier.
That Byrth is an interesting man, Washington thought.
But there was something in his eyes when he said, “I want this guy bad.”
What could that be about?
Or am I projecting something on him that’s not really there?
Because I also really want this doer bad.
Corporal Kerry Rapier was at his electronic control console when Sergeant Payne and Sergeant Byrth entered the Executive Command Center on the third floor.
“Hey, Matt!” Rapier said. “So you’re coming to play with my toys?”
“I’ll let you play with them, Kerry. We’ll just watch.” He looked to Byrth. “Sergeant Jim Byrth, this is Corporal Kerry Rapier.”
The big Texan held The Hat in the crook of his left arm as he nearly crushed the right paw of the tiny blue shirt.
“Pleasure,” Byrth said with a nod.
When they had finished, and Rapier was flexing his hand to get the blood flowing again, Rapier said, “You’re not from around here, are you, Sergeant?”
Payne said, “Jim’s a sergeant with the Texas Rangers.”
Byrth shifted The Hat under his arm and looked around the room. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Corporal?”
Rapier grinned.
“Glad you noticed,” he said. Then, with a tone that showed professional pride, he began: “We have one of the finest command centers in the country-”
“For which we have you in part to thank, Jim,” Payne interrupted.
“How so?”
“Your tax dollars. The fine folks in Washington sent us all kinds of federal funds to ramp up for the protection of the Democrats’ national convention here.”
“How damned kind of them,” Byrth said dryly.
Rapier went on officiously: “We have approximately four million dollars invested in all of the electronics. That is just in this room and what’s on the roof. There’s another couple million worth of commo equipment-cameras to radios-in the field. We can accommodate fifty-two officers at these conference tables, and another forty in the seating along the walls.”
“That’s one helluva crowd,” Byrth said.
Rapier nodded. “That’s capacity, from Philly cops to the feds. We generally run with maybe half that many people, all Philly cops. The Secret Service, FBI, and DHS have their own war rooms in Philly, of course.”
“Of course,” Byrth said, shaking his head.
Rapier waved at the banks of frameless flat-screen TVs. They were dark.
“Sixty-inch high-definition LCDs, nine to a bank, with the capability of up to twenty-seven unique video feeds. We can have live feeds from all sorts of unclassified and classified sources, everything from our helos in the sky down to the bomb squad robots. All absolutely secure.”
He moved his hands over the control console.
“Let me show you the various live video feeds,” he said.
He threw a bank of switches. The darkened flat-screen TVs all blinked to life.
When the main screen of nine flat panels lit up with a single huge image, Payne could not help but let out a laugh. He thought he was going to wet his pants.
