The Investigators Part 61

Deitrich pulled to the curb, and Matt understood he was to get out.

"Thank you, sir."

Deitrich nodded at him but did not speak.

Matt got out. He had no idea where he was, and had to ask directions to get back to the First Harrisburg Bank & Trust.

He called Jason Washington, was told he was not available, then tried Staff Inspector Weisbach's number and was told he was out sick with a cold. Finally, he called Inspector Peter Wohl.

I really don't want to talk to Wohl.

Wohl listened to his recitation of Calhoun going into a box without there being a record of it, and what he had done about it.

"Call in when you have something," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir."

"I had lunch with Chief Coughlin," Wohl said. "I told him that I felt sure you were not going to do anything stupid in Harrisburg. Don't make a liar of me, Matt."

"I'll try not to."

"Anything happening with your lady friend?"

"No, sir."

Jesus, I hate to lie to him. It makes me want to throw up.

"Take care, Matt," Wohl said and hung up.

Matt hung up, then leaned back in the high-backed executive chair.

His foot struck the attache case half full of stolen money and knocked it over.

He sat there another minute or two, considering the ramifications of what he had done, and what he was doing.

And then he stood up, reached under the desk for the attache case, picked it up, and walked out of the bank with it.

TWENTY.

While Mr. Michael J. O'Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin Bulletin enjoyed a close personal relationship with many-indeed, almost all-of the senior supervisors of the Philadelphia Police Department, the White Shirts, as a general rule, did not provide him with the little tidbits of information from which Mr. O'Hara developed the stories in which his readers were interested. enjoyed a close personal relationship with many-indeed, almost all-of the senior supervisors of the Philadelphia Police Department, the White Shirts, as a general rule, did not provide him with the little tidbits of information from which Mr. O'Hara developed the stories in which his readers were interested.

The unspoken rules of the game were that if Mr. O'Hara posed a question to a senior White Shirt based upon what he had dredged up visiting the various districts and the special units of the Philadelphia Police Department, he would either be given a truthful answer, or asked to sit on the germ of a story, and they would get back to him later-and more important, first, before his compet.i.tors-when releasing the information would be appropriate.

The unspoken rules were scrupulously observed by both sides. The White Shirts would indeed get back to Mickey O'Hara first as soon as they could. And on his part, even if Mr. O'Hara himself uncovered the answers to the questions-on-hold, he would not print them without at least asking for the reasons he should not, and in nine occasions of ten, having been given a reason, would sit on the story until he was told it would be appropriate to publish it.

The White Shirts were aware that no manner of stern admonition to lower-ranking police officers would stop them from furnishing Mr. O'Hara with facts they thought would interest him. Ninety-five percent of the uniformed police officers of the Philadelphia Police Department thought of Mr. O'Hara as one of their own.

In each of Philadelphia's police districts, the day-to-day administrative routines are under the supervision of a corporal. The corporal is always a.s.sisted by a "trainee," which is something of a monumental misnomer, as the term would suggest to the layman a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, very young police officer.

Quite the reverse is true. Many trainees are veteran police officers with many years on the job, who for a variety of reasons, but often their physical condition, are not up to walking a beat, or riding around in a radio patrol car for eight hours. They don't wish to go out on a pension, and being designated a trainee both gives them something important to do and gives the district the benefit of their long experience.

Michael J. O'Hara knew every trainee in the Philadelphia Police Department by his first name, and just about every trainee felt privileged to consider himself a friend of the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist.

When Mickey O'Hara went into the 1st District Headquarters at 24th and Wolf streets in Southwest Philadelphia, he caught the attention of the corporal behind the plate-gla.s.s window and mimed drinking from a coffee cup. The corporal smiled, gave Mickey a thumbs-up, and pushed the b.u.t.ton that activated the lock on the door that carried the caveat, ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE-POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY.

Mickey went into the room, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and put a dollar bill into the coffee kitty.

"s.h.i.t, Mickey, you don't have to do that!" the trainee, a portly, florid-faced fifty-year-old with twenty-six years on the job, said.

"I am simply upholding the reputation of those of Gaelic extraction as perfect gentlemen," Mickey replied.

(In truth, this was not entirely a benevolent gesture. The dollar would be reported on Mr. O'Hara's expense account as "Coffee and Doughnuts for three, 1st Police District, $8.50.") The corporal and the trainee laughed, then laughed even louder when Mickey told them the story of the cop in the 19th District who, after he'd had a couple of belts on the way home, realized it was not only three A.M. when he got there, but that he probably smelled of perfume which was not that of his wife. Knowing that if he tried to take a shower, his wife would hear the water and wake up for sure, he needed a better idea, and found one. He tiptoed into the bathroom, remembering not to turn on the lights, because that would wake the wife. Then he stripped and sprayed himself liberally all over with deodorant. When he sniffed himself, he thought he could still smell perfume, so he sprayed himself again, and then tiptoed into the bedroom and eased himself into bed without waking his wife.

"That took him about ninety seconds," Mickey finished. "Just long enough for the wife's hair spray-what he thought was deodorant-to glue his w.a.n.g to his left leg and his b.a.l.l.s to the other."

The laughter emanating from the office was of such volume as to attract the attention of the district commander and the tour lieutenant, who looked into the office, saw Mr. O'Hara, and entered the office to say h.e.l.lo.

Mickey repeated the story for their edification and amus.e.m.e.nt, and they chatted about mutual acquaintances for several minutes. The district captain told Mickey he and the lieutenant were going to ride around-which he knew meant take a look around the 1st District-and invited him to join them.

He declined with thanks. They shook hands, and the White Shirts left the office.

Neither the corporal nor the trainee thought it out of the ordinary-or inappropriate-when Mickey went to a clipboard containing the most recent communications from the Roundhouse, took it off its nail, and started reading them.

He found one of interest.

A Locate, Do Not Detain had been issued on one Ronald R. Ketcham, white male, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, of an address on Overbrook Avenue, which Mickey recognized as being near the Episcopal Academy. The bulletin said he might be driving a Buick coupe, and gave the license number. The cooperation of suburban police departments was requested.

What attracted Mr. O'Hara's attention was that the Locate, Do Not Detain ordered that any information generated on Mr. Ketcham be immediately furnished directly to ChInsp. Coughlin or Insp. Wohl or Sgt. Washington-it gave their telephone numbers-rather than be reported through ordinary channels.

Mickey carried the clipboard to the trainee.

"Pat, what's this, do you think?"

"Yeah, I noticed that. The last I heard, Denny Coughlin wasn't running Missing Persons. I don't have a clue."

"Name doesn't ring a bell?"

Pat shook his head, "no."

"Probably some ambulance chaser took off for Atlantic City with his squeeze, and the wife came home from Mama's before she was expected."

"Probably," Mickey said, although he didn't think so.

He thought about it a minute, then decided he would not call Denny Coughlin and ask him what it was all about.

Paragraph 11.B. of the Unspoken Rules required that, in a situation like this, he make inquiries of the senior White Shirt whose name he had, to avoid putting the subordinates on the spot about what to tell him. Denny Coughlin would tell him, of course. But that would use up a favor, and Mickey liked to have Denny Coughlin in his debt, rather than the other way around.

So Mickey didn't call Chief Inspector Coughlin, but instead filed Ronald R. Ketcham away in a corner of his mind, to be retained until he heard something else.

Officer Tommy O'Mara put his head into Captain Michael Sabara's office.

"Sir, there's a civilian who wants to talk to you."

"To me, personally?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did this civilian say what he wants?"

"No, sir."

Sabara picked up the telephone, punched the flashing b.u.t.ton, and, somewhat impatiently announced: "This is Captain Sabara. How can I help you?"

"My name is Phil-Philip-Chason, Captain. Does that ring a bell?"

Sabara quickly searched his memory.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Chason. How may I help you?"

"I was with you last night, Captain, at Captain Beidermann's retirement party. I was hoping you'd remember."

"Oh, of course," Sabara lied kindly. "My memory is failing."

"I used to be a detective," Chason said. "I went out on medical disability after twenty-six years on the job."

"How can I help you, Mr. Chason?"

"Karl and I went to the Academy together. I just found out that he meant it when he told us last night he was going to Florida in the morning. Otherwise, I would have gone to him."

"Oh?"

"I've stumbled onto something that bothers me. And I don't want to go to Narcotics with it. Or Major Crimes. Or Intelligence."

"Stumbled onto what?" Sabara asked, a trifle impatiently.

"I was hoping you'd have fifteen minutes to hear me out."

"This concerns Narcotics? This is Special Operations, we don't deal-"

"Narcotics and the mob," Phil said. "I really think I wouldn't be wasting your time."

"You want to see me now, is that it?"

"I'd like to, yes."

"You know where I am?"

"Frankford and Castor?"

"Right. I'll be expecting you."

"Thank you."

Sabara hung up and then raised his voice: "Tommy!"

Officer O'Mara appeared.

"Just for your general information, Officer O'Mara, that unnamed civilian who called me has a name."

"Yes, sir?"

"His name is Chason," Sabara said. "And he's coming to see me. When he comes in, bring him right in."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Chason is actually Detective Chason, Retired, Tommy."

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know where your father was last night, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir. He was at Captain Beidermann's retirement party. They were cla.s.smates at the Academy."

"Then your father was also a cla.s.smate of Detective Chason, Tommy. And he was also at Captain Beidermann's retirement policy. Now, don't you think you could have at least picked up a little bit of that information regarding Detective Chason before you told me a nameless civilian was on the phone?"

Officer O'Mara considered that.

"Yes, sir. I suppose I should have."

"Good boy!" Sabara said.

"Thank you, sir," Officer O'Mara said, pleased to have been complimented.

"Thank you for seeing me, Captain," Phil said when Officer O'Mara-after telling Chason who his father was, and that he understood they were Academy cla.s.smates-had taken him into Sabara's office.