Chadwick Nesbitt shook his head in disbelief.
He clicked some more, but the images either repeated what he’d already seen or captured display shelving of automotive motor oil cans and toilet paper. Then the first image came back on screen. He handed back the telephone to Esteban.
“And you say you have the address of this evil man’s house?”
“Sí. Where El Gato keeps the girls. Hancock Street—2505 Hancock Street. I will never forget that address as long as I am alive.”
Nesbitt wrote “El Gato” and “2505 Hancock” on the back of the gasoline station receipt.
“And I have the number of the van they drive the girls around in,” Esteban said with more than a little pride.
Nesbitt looked him in the eyes, clearly impressed.
“Give it to me,” he said.
Esteban recited, “ ‘ GSY696.’ It is a Ford van. No windows. The color is tan. And very dirty.”
Nesbitt nodded as he wrote it down, trying to squeeze all the information on the small slip of paper.
Nesbitt looked at Esteban. “And is the . . . the girl’s . . .”
Esteban nodded. He crossed himself, then said, “May God take pity on me, Ana’s head is still in the freezer in the basement.”
Unbelievable!
A severed head in the freezer!
And fourteen-year-old girls forced into prostitution!
What the hell next?
I do not want to know.
But I know I can’t let this guy get near—what did he call him?—El Gato.
He pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial key.
Okay, Matt. Now it’s a lot later.
Answer your goddamn telephone!
[THREE]
Philadelphia Police Headquarters Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Thursday, September 10, 8:16 A.M.
Sergeant Matt Payne and Sergeant Jim Byrth came into the Homicide Unit and saw Detective Tony Harris across the room at his desk, holding two telephones to his head. His left hand held a cell phone, his right shoulder held the receiver of his desk phone to the other ear, and he was taking notes with his right hand.
When Harris saw them approaching, he mouthed, Give me three minutes.
Payne nodded, then touched Byrth on the shoulder.
“Coffee?” Payne said.
“Sure,” Byrth said.
Payne led him to the observation room between two holding rooms that also served as the Homicide Unit’s commissary. Its windows were two-way mirrors for observing those being interviewed in either holding room. It had a Mr. Coffee brewer, as well as an open cardboard bakery box of somewhat fresh doughnuts and, surprising Payne, banana nut muffins. Next to them was an old glass beer mug that someone had obtained from Liberties in what could be termed “a midnight acquisition,” or simply “pilfered.” It had a sign taped to its side that read: REMEMBER TO FEED THE KITTY. Inside were coins and dollar bills.
As Payne poured coffee into two foam cups, Byrth stuck two bucks in the glass mug.
“Welcome to hurry up and wait,” Payne said as he glanced at Harris. “But he sounded really excited when he called.”
Payne sipped his coffee. Then he said, “There. He’s hanging up.”
They walked over to Harris’s desk and drew up two chairs.
“Good morning, Tony,” Byrth said.
“Good morning,” Harris said a lot more pleasantly than he looked. “That said, it may well turn out to be a great morning.”
He pushed a short stack of computer printouts toward Payne.
“Look at those,” Harris said.
Payne flipped through them quickly. They looked familiar—printouts of The Philadelphia Bulletin website pages—but nothing unusual.
“What am I looking for?” he said, then passed the pages to Byrth.
“I had an early breakfast with Stanley Dowbrowski.”
Payne shook his head. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”
“Maybe not. He’s sixty-five; been retired from the department some fifteen years now. He lives around the corner from me, over on Brocklehurst Street, and we stay in touch. When I got home last night just shy of midnight, I found that he’d left me a message on my machine. It was too late to call him—he’s always been a morning guy—so I set the alarm for five. Then I called him at oh-dark-thirty. Turns out he’s not as early a riser as he used to be. I woke him—”
Payne chuckled.
Byrth grinned as he put the papers back on Harris’s desk.
“—but he wouldn’t admit it. He said he had something really interesting”—he nodded at the papers—“and said to drop by for coffee and he’d show it to me.”
Harris reached for the heavy china mug on his desk that had a representation of the Philadelphia Police Department logotype and gold lettering that read: DETECTIVE ANTHONY HARRIS—HOMICIDE DIVISION. He took a sip of his coffee.
“I really need to quit. I’ve been sucking this stuff down since five-thirty. Anyway, I swung by the store and grabbed a couple boxes of doughnuts and assorted muffins. Stanley’s in really bad health—on oxygen, thanks to a life of chain-smoking cigarettes—and doesn’t get out. So I figured he could use something fresh from the store.”
Payne gestured toward the commissary. “There’re some—”
“Yeah, that’s some of them. Stanley refused to keep all I brought to him. Said that the guys at the Roundhouse deserved them more.”
“So what did he show you?” Byrth said.
“It’s curious,” Harris said. “It may not mean anything. But—”
“ ‘Turn over the stone under the stone’ sayeth the Great Black Buddha,” Payne said, almost perfectly mimicking Jason Washington’s sonorous voice.
Harris knew Payne was not mocking Washington. But still his eyes darted across the room to Washington’s glass-walled office. It was empty.
Harris picked up the pages. “Stanley likes to add comments at the end of the newspaper articles.”
He flipped to the page that had the article on the shooting at the Temple University Hospital. He pointed to it.
Payne and Byrth looked and read:ARMED MAN MURDERS BURN VICTIM BEFORE FLEEING HOSPITAL, FIRING AT POLICE
While police remain mum on details of the murder, witnesses claim gunman fired shots at man who shouted “Police!” while chasing gunman from hospital.
“Stanley likes to use as his screen name ‘Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun.’ Here’s what he posted in the comments section.”
Payne and Byrth then read it:From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (2:56 p.m.):
I talked to an inside source, too, and was told that this was a hit job. Maybe not a professional one, but the burn victim (there’s more to that story that I cannot share) was targeted. So sad to see this happening in Philly. I’ll say it again: Shoot ’em all and let the Good Lord sort ʹem out.
“Interesting perspective on shooting ’em all,” Byrth said. “Probably good thing he is retired.”
“So,” Payne said, “who’s his inside source?”
“Not for dissemination. No reason to get her in trouble just for talking shop with her uncle.”
It was clear by his expression that Payne was trying to figure out who Harris was talking about.
“ ‘Her’?” Payne repeated. “You mean that chunky female who was posted outside of Skipper’s ICU? Stephanie Polish-Something?”
Harris nodded. “Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski, age twenty-five.”
“That’s the one,” Payne said.
“She’s Stanley’s sister’s girl, and his pride and joy. She joined the department because he loved it so much.” Harris paused. “Remind you of anyone, Sergeant Payne?”
Payne made an expression that said he took Harris’s point.
“I guess sometimes there is something in our DNA that makes us hardwired to do this crazy job,” Payne said.
Then he looked at the printouts. “So, what’re we looking for here?”
He saw that someone had ci
rcled the time stamps at two different places on the page.
One was on the reader comment that followed Stanley Dowbrowski’s comment:From Death.Before.Dishonor (3:20 p.m.): What about “Thou Shalt Not Steal”??
The only sad thing about what happened is the gun didn’t empty all of its bullets into that pendejo! Skipper deserved every damn bullet!
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“ ‘Skipper’?” Payne read aloud. “How the hell did he know it was Skipper? That’s not exactly a common name.”
“Clearly, there’s some significance to ‘steal,’” Byrth added.
Tony Harris shrugged. Then he pointed to the other time stamp that was circled.
They read that one:Update (5:44 p.m.): According to the anonymous source inside the hospital, the patient who was shot to death was J. Warren Olde, Jr.
“Is the source there the girl, too?” Payne said.
“I don’t think so,” Harris said, “because she knows Stanley would never leak to reporters, and she follows his example.” He paused. “The interesting thing here is that the newspaper did not even mention the victim’s name until more than two hours after this guy, this Death.Before.Dishonor person, wrote what he or she wrote.”
Byrth offered, “ ‘ Death before dishonor’ is something the gangbangers stole from the old mafia types. It’s a badge of honor that they’ve bastardized, like everything else they’ve stolen. They get the phrase tattooed on them, usually in prison.”
Harris nodded, then went on: “When Stanley noticed that the poster had (a) mentioned Skipper and (b) mentioned him by name two hours before the paper reported the formal name and (c) then took into account the tone of the posting itself, he remembered something. He remembered that both the name Death.Before.Dishonor and the anger were familiar.”
Harris flipped the pages of the printout.
“And so he went back through the newspaper web pages, trying to find this article.”
He pointed to the printout of an article with the headline 2 DEAD AFTER METH LAB EXPLODES, BURNS PHILLY INN MOTEL.
“Here at the bottom”—he pointed—“Stanley posted this comment.”
Payne and Byrth read it:From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (9:50 a.m.) :
Amen to both of you, Indy1 & WWBFD. I spent enough time walking the beat to see everything at least once. And nothing is as insidious as what these drugs do to families of every walk of life. I say, Shoot ’em all and let the Good Lord sort ’em out.
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“Really is a good thing he’s not wandering around with a gun and a badge anymore,” Byrth repeated.
Harris chuckled. “That’s just his sense of humor. Stanley’s not the type to go postal.”
Byrth snorted. “I remember when we had that rash of post office workers shooting their coworkers. Somebody said that it just wasn’t right for them to be shooting each other—dramatic pause—because it was only fair that their frustrated customers should get to do it.”
Harris and Payne chuckled.
“Anyway,” Harris then went on, “apparently that shoot-’em-all comment provoked the Death.Before.Dishonor person, because she or he posted a pretty raw comment.”
“About?”
“Stanley said it said pushers sold drugs because people wanted them. And it was no different than what got sold legally—booze, cigarettes.”
He paused and looked between Payne and Byrth.
Harris then said, “And this is where it gets interesting: Stanley said he seemed to recall that comment ended by suggesting that drug dealers clean up after their own.”
Payne was shaking his head.
Harris went on: “And ended with something along the lines of ‘We clean up the rats like those in the Philly Inn.’ ”
“Jesus!” Payne said. “It actually used the name?”
Harris shrugged. “I don’t know. And Stanley’s not sure. But there was no question that he meant that motel.”
He pointed to the printouts.
“The reason he doesn’t know is because that comment is gone. When Stanley clicked back, he found his comment, but the one from Death.Before.Dishonor, which had been immediately after his, was gone. And this one was next in line.”
Payne and Byrth read:From HowYouseGuysDoin’ (9:22 a.m.) :
And amen to that! I’ll provide the ammo! This nonsense has got to stop. The inmates are running the asylum!
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“Stanley said that he guessed there were enough reports of the comment’s abusive language that the online editor at the paper pulled it off. That’s what I was trying to figure out when you guys came in; I was on the phone with different folks at the newspaper.”
Payne said, “It shouldn’t be a problem finding it. It’s at least got to be in the backup files on the Bulletin’s computer system mainframe. What I’m wondering is if we’d have any luck tracing the postings back to their source.”
Harris nodded, then looked at Byrth. Payne followed his eyes.
Payne noticed that Byrth was deep in thought.
And that he had the dry white bean going across the fingers of his left hand. That had been what caught Harris’s attention.
Byrth said, “It is common for, say, an arsonist to stand in a nearby crowd to watch the firemen put out his handiwork.”
Payne considered that, then picked up on his train of thought.
“Yeah,” he said, “and these comments could very well be just another manifestation of that behavior.”
Payne then felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He pulled it out and saw that he’d received a text message from his sister.
It read: Amy Payne
Against my advice as a professional and a friend, I tried to steer her away . . . You better take care of this one, Wyatt Earp!!
Payne shook his head.
What in hell is she talking about?
He made a face as he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Harris and Byrth noticed that.
“Everything okay?” Harris said.
“Hell if I know,” Payne said, shaking his head. “Women.”
That triggered appreciative chuckles.
Then Payne felt another vibration in his pocket.
Sonofabitch! Now what does Amy want?
Harris and Byrth saw that, too.
He made another face and said, “Sorry. I should just turn the damn thing off.”
He glanced down at the color LCD screen:unknown number
OK . . . I gave it some thought.
Even consulted with my favorite shrink.
I’m game, Matt.
See, I promised myself . . . well, I’ll explain later. -A
Payne thought his heart was going to burst though his chest.
Amanda!
Unknown number? Shit!
Wait! Amy has to have it!
His thumbs flew as he replied to his sister’s text.
He put down the phone and looked between Harris and Byrth.
“What?” Payne said innocently.
“Should we wait?” Harris said, sounding a little exasperated.
“No, go ahead,” Payne said.
Just then, the phone vibrated with her reply.
“Sorry,” Payne said, and glanced at the screen:Amy Payne
I was going to ignore you but knew you’d get her number somehow & then hold it against me that I withheld it . . . 609-555-6221.
Great!
Then he stuck the phone back in his pocket.
“What I was going to say,” Harris then said, his tone still suggesting mild annoyance, “was that I agree with Matt. That we could get our people to see if they can trace these to an IP address.”
Payne and Byrth nodded.
Every device connected to the Internet had to have a unique Internet Protocol numerical address, and, at least in theory, every IP address of every router had to have a legitimate physical addre
ss associated with it as well. So they could track backward and find the IP address . . . and find their doer.
“Failing that,” Harris went on, “we can get the Bulletin to seed an article that might incite the Death.Before. Dishonor person to reveal more about him- or herself. One of those phones to my ear when you came in was with Lee Bryan”—he looked to Byrth to clarify—“Bryan is the editor at the Bulletin. He agreed. With conditions, of course.”
“Of course,” Payne said dryly. “Damn sure worth a try.”
Payne gestured toward Harris’s desk telephone. Harris pushed it across the desk toward him. Payne picked up the receiver, thought for a second, then punched in a short string of numbers.
“Corporal Rapier,” Payne said into the phone. “Is the ECC free? Anyone in there?” He listened a moment and then grinned. “ ‘ Just Sweet Dee on the big screen.’ I see. Then that means you’ll be available in the next ten or so minutes. And we’ll need someone from Information Systems Division.”
Payne hung up the phone.
He looked at Byrth. “ISD falls under the department’s Science and Technology division.”
Byrth was nodding when he felt his cell phone vibrate.
“Sorry,” he said, slipping the white bean into his pocket and reaching for the phone. “Apparently, I’m not any better than Marshal In Lust here.”
He read the screen. His eyebrows went up.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He pushed a speed-dial key and put the phone to his ear.
Harris and Payne exchanged a glance.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Byrth said into the phone. “What do you have?”
And he remained stone-faced and silent for the next few minutes, breaking his silence with only a few grunts and “uh-huh”s.
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