“Who are the victims? Do we know yet?”
“I’m praying that it was a family dispute,” McCarthy said.
Quaire chuckled. Sergeant McCarthy was not referring to a disagreement between husband and wife, but to one between members of Philadelphia’s often violent Mafia.
“Who’s assigned?” Quaire asked.
“Wally Milham. You didn’t say anything…”
“Sure. He was up, he got the job. I don’t think he had anything to do with Kellog.”
“I wonder who did that.”
“Nothing’s turned up?”
“Not a thing.”
By the time Detective Milham pulled up in front of the Inferno Lounge, there were nine police vehicles, including three unmarked cars, parked on Market Street. Without consciously doing so, he picked out the anomaly. The three unmarked cars were battered and worn. Therefore, none of them belonged to Sergeant Jason Washington, whose brand-new unmarked car had been the subject of much conversation in the Homicide Unit.
Wally wondered if McCarthy had been pulling his chain about Washington being in on this; or if someone had been pulling McCarthy’s chain.
There was a uniformed cop standing at the door who recognized Milham and let him in. Inside the Inferno, Milham saw three detectives whom he knew: David Rocco of the Central Detective Division; John Hanson of the Major Theft Unit; and Wilfred “Wee Willy” Malone, a six-foot-four-inch giant of a man assigned to the Intelligence Unit. That explained the three unmarked cars.
Rocco and Hanson gave him a wave. Wee Willy looked at him strangely. Wally wondered if he had heard about Kellog; that he had been interviewed and that they were checking his guns at Ballistics.
“We’re glad you’re here,” Rocco said. “ Sergeant Washington is with the victims, protecting the scene until the arrival of the hotshots-one of which presumably is you, Wally-of Homicide.”
“If you less important people would learn not to walk all over our evidence, that wouldn’t be necessary,” Wally replied, and then, not seeing Washington: “Where’s the Black Buddha?”
“Oh, shit,” Hanson said, and laughed and then pointed. “There’s a stairway off the corridor in back. There’s an office downstairs.”
Wally found the stairs and went down them. Washington heard him coming, and turned with an impatient look on his face until he recognized him.
“Good morning, Detective Milham,” Washington said.
“Hello, Jason. What have we got?”
“Have you the acquaintance of Detective Payne?”
“Only by reputation,” Milham said, and offered the young detective his hand.
“Detective Payne and myself, by pure coincidence,” Washington went on, “were taking the air on Nineteenth Street when the first police vehicle to respond to the call-Officers Adolphus Hart and Thomas Daniels, in Wagon Nine Oh One, they are upstairs-arrived. In the absence of anyone more senior, I took charge of the scene, and being aware that the front door of the premises was steel and locked, ordered Detective Payne to attempt to enter the building from the rear, and sent Officer Daniels with him. Detective Payne was able to gain entrance. He left Officer Daniels to guard the rear door, proceeded through the building, and opened the front door, which was locked from the inside, and admitted me. With Detective Payne leading the way, we searched the building, and came upon the scene of the crime.
“We found Mr. Gerald Atchison, one of the proprietors of this establishment, sitting behind the desk. Mr. Atchison told us he was in the bar upstairs when he heard the sound, a popping noise, of what he now presumes was gunfire. When he went to investigate, he encountered in the corridor upstairs two white males, armed-a flash has gone out with their descriptions-who fired upon him, striking him in the leg. He drew his own pistol…”
Jason paused.
“Matthew, give Detective Milham the pistol, please.”
Matt turned to a filing cabinet. Carefully placing his fingers on the checkered wooden handles, he picked up a Colt Cobra revolver and extended it to Milham. Wally took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and held it open until Matt dropped the revolver into it.
“…which Mr. Atchison is licensed by the Sheriff of Delaware County to carry,” Washington went on, “and a gun battle during which Mr. Atchison suffered the wound to his leg ensued. Mr. Atchison fell to the floor. He lay there he doesn’t know how long.”
“It’s starting to hurt,” Atchison said.
“A police wagon is outside, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “In just a moment, you will be transported to a hospital. Have I reported the essence of your discussion with Detective Payne accurately?”
“A short fucker and big one did this,” Atchison replied.
“After he knows not how long he laid on the floor, Mr. Atchison reports that he recovered sufficiently to become aware that his assailants were no longer present. He then descended the stairs to the office, where he found the bodies of his wife and his business partner. He thereupon sat down at his desk, called Police Emergency to report what had happened, and then took a drink of whiskey against the pain of his wound. Am I still correct, Mr. Atchison?”
“I knew they were dead,” Mr. Atchison said.
“Yes, of course, you could see that,” Washington said, and then continued: “I then instructed a Highway officer to report to Police Radio that I had come upon evidence of a double homicide. I then secured the scene of the crime, pending the arrival of someone from the Homicide Unit. No one but Detective Payne and myself have entered the scene. And unless there is some other question you would like to ask of either of us, Detective Payne and myself will now be on our way. Barring stringent objections, we will prepare statements regarding our involvement in this incident, and have them at Homicide Unit before noon tomorrow. Do you have any questions, Wally?”
“No, Jason,” Milham said, smiling. “That covers everything neatly.”
The day Wally had reported for duty as a Homicide detective, during his “welcome aboard” interview with then Lieutenant Quaire, Quaire had pulled a Homicide Investigation binder from the file and handed it to him.
“Don’t let him know I showed you this, Milham, his ego is bad enough as it is, but this is what you should try for.”
“What is it, sir?”
“It’s a real Homicide report, Detective Jason Washington’s, of a homicide in the course of an armed robbery, but it’s also a textbook example of what a completed Homicide binder should be. Everything is in it, in the right sequence, there’s no ambivalence, there’s no duplication, there’s no procedural errors, no spelling or grammatical mistakes, and if there are any type-overs, I can’t find one.”
“That being the case, Wally, I leave this matter in your capable hands. Shall we be on our way, Matt?”
“I got to get medical attention,” Mr. Atchison said. “My goddamned leg is starting to hurt.”
“We regret the delay, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “But I am sure that you are even more interested than we are in apprehending the people who murdered your wife and business associate, and it was necessary for me to put what information I have regarding this tragic incident in the hands of the police officer who will be in charge of the investigation.”
“Yeah. I want those bastards caught. And fried.”
“Good night, sir,” Washington said. “Thank you for your patience.”
He turned, and met Wally Milham’s eyes. Then he wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something rotten.
“Good night, Detective Milham,” he said, and took Matt’s arm and propelled him out of the room.
There were well over a dozen police vehicles of all kinds, among them Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein’s Oldsmobile sedan, parked on the street and on the sidewalk in front of the Inferno Lounge, when Captain Quaire and Sergeant McCarthy arrived.
Captain Thomas Curran of the Central Detective Division was standing on the sidewalk with Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach and Captain Alexander Smith of the Ninth Distri
ct, but neither Chief Lowenstein nor his driver was anywhere in sight.
“The Chief is inside,” Curran explained. “Enter at your own risk. He told us to wait out here, and Weisbach was with him when he drove up. He is not in a good mood.”
“Washington’s in there?” Quaire asked.
“Which may explain his mood.” Curran nodded. “Washington, and that kid, Payne, who shot the rapist. And Milham. Milham just got here.”
“You better wait, too, Mac,” Quaire said, and walked to the entrance of the Inferno Lounge, where a uniform pulled the door open for him.
Quaire found Chief Lowenstein not where he expected to find him, wherever the bodies were, but in the restaurant area of the Inferno, sitting at a table with Sergeant Jason Washington and Detective Matthew M. Payne.
“Good evening, sir,” Quaire said.
“Sergeant Washington’s sole function in this has been to keep Highway from walking all over the evidence,” Lowenstein said. “The bodies are downstairs. Milham’s down there.”
“Who are the victims?” Quaire asked.
“One white female, Alicia Atchison,” Washington answered. “The wife of the proprietor, one Gerry Atchison. And Mr. Atchison’s business partner, one Anthony J. Marcuzzi. Mr. Atchison contends that two white males shot them in the course of a robbery, during which he was himself shot, as he bravely attempted to defend his wife, his property, and his friend and business associate.”
He pinched his nose with his thumb and his index finger, which might have been a simple, innocent gesture, or might have been an indication that he believed Mr. Atchison’s version of what had transpired smelled like rotten fish.
“I’ll go have a look,” Quaire said.
“Take Detective Payne with you,” Lowenstein said. “He might be useful-he was first on the scene-and he might learn something.”
Matt Payne, looking a little surprised, stood up.
Chief Lowenstein waited until Quaire and Payne were out of earshot, then turned to Washington.
“Jason, we’ve been friends for a long time.”
“‘Uh-oh,’ the Apache warrior said, aware that he was about to be schmoozed by the Big Chief,’” Washington said.
Lowenstein smiled, and then the smile vanished.
“I know what you’re doing, Jason.”
“Excuse me?”
“And for what it’s worth, if I had to pick somebody to do it, it would be you. Or Peter Wohl. Or the both of you, which is the way I hear it is.”
“Chief, we have been friends a long time, and what you’re doing is putting me on a hell of a spot.”
“Yeah, and I know it. But goddamn it…”
Washington looked at him, met his eyes, but said nothing.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. If you feel you can answer them, answer them. If you feel you can’t, don’t.”
Washington didn’t reply, but after a moment, nodded his head.
“How bad is it?”
Washington, after ten seconds, which seemed like much longer, said, “Bad.”
“How high does it go?”
“There’s a captain involved.”
“Suspicion, or something that can be proved?”
Washington thought that question over before replying.
“There will be indictments.”
Lowenstein met his eyes and exhaled audibly.
“Anybody I know?”
“Chief, you know a lot of people.”
“If I ran some names by you, would you nod your head?”
“No.”
“Mike Weisbach heard some talk abut Vito Cazerra.”
Washington didn’t reply.
“He’s working on it. Weisbach’s a damned good investigator.”
Washington remained silent, his face fixed.
“The name of Seymour Meyer also came up.”
“Chief, we’re not having this conversation,” Washington said. “If we were, I’d have to report it.”
Lowenstein met Washington’s eyes.
“How much time do I have?”
Washington shrugged, then said, “Very little.”
“Are you going to tell the Mayor I cornered you and we had this little chat?”
“What little chat?”
“OK, Jason,” Lowenstein said. “Thanks.”
Washington made a deprecating gesture.
Lowenstein stood up and looked down at Washington.
“Does Denny Coughlin know what’s going on?” he asked.
It was a moment before Washington, just perceptibly, shook his head no.
Lowenstein considered that, nodded his head, and turned and walked out of the Inferno Lounge.
Wally Milham was not surprised to see Captain Henry Quaire come into the basement office of the Inferno Lounge. Quaire routinely showed up at the scene of an interesting murder, and this double murder qualified. Wally was surprised and annoyed, however, to see Detective Payne with him.
“What have we got, Wally?” Quaire asked.
Wally told him, ending his synopsis with the announcement that he was about to have Mr. Atchison transported to Hahnemann Hospital for treatment of his leg wound.
“You’re ready for the technicians?” Quaire asked. “They’re here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll go get them,” Quaire said. “We want to do this by the book. Chief Lowenstein’s here, too. Keep me posted on this one, Wally.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since Detective Payne had arrived with Captain Quaire, Detective Milham reasonably presumed that he would leave with him. He didn’t.
What the hell is he hanging around for?
“I’ve been thinking that maybe I better talk to my lawyer,” Mr. Atchison said. “With something like this happening, I’m not thinking too clear.”
“Certainly,” Wally said. “I understand.”
“How long do you think it will take at the hospital?” Mr. Atchison asked.
“No telling,” Wally replied. “An hour, anyway. There’d be time for him to meet you there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“And I’m going to need a ride home,” Mr. Atchison said. “I can’t drive with my leg like this.”
“Have you got his number? Would you like me to call him for you?” Wally asked solicitously.
“I’ll call him,” Atchison said, and, grunting, sat up and moved toward the desk.
“It would be better if you didn’t use that phone, sir,” Matt said, and when Atchison looked at him, continued: “We’d like our technicians to see if there are any fingerprints on it. That would be helpful, when we find the men who did this to you, to prove that they were here in this room.”
What’s this “we” shit? This is my job, pal, not yours. Butt the hell out.
“Yeah, sure.”
“There will be a telephone in the hospital, I’m sure,” Matt went on. “Or, if you would like us to, we can get word to him to meet you at Hahnemann Hospital.”
More of this “we” shit! Just who the hell do you think you are, Payne?
“That’s very nice of you,” Atchison said. “His name is Sidney Margolis. I got his number here in the card file.”
He started to reach for it, and Matt stopped him.
“It would be better, Mr. Atchison, if you didn’t touch that, either, until the technicians have done their thing. Is he in the phone book? Or is his number unlisted?”
“I remember it,” Atchison said, triumphantly calling it forth from his memory.
“If you give that to me again,” Matt said, “I’d be happy to call him for you.”
“Would you, please? Tell him what happened here, and ask him to meet me at Hahnemann.”
Matt took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote the number down.
“Can I see you a minute, Payne?” Wally said, and took Matt’s arm and led him out of the office. “Be right with you, Mr. Atchison.”
He led Matt a dozen steps down the corridor, then stopped.<
br />
“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Payne,” he snapped. “But shut your fucking mouth. This is my job. When I want some help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Sorry,” Matt said. “I was just trying to help.”
“Do me a favor. Don’t.”
“OK. Sorry.”
Wally’s anger had not subsided.
“I’ll tell you what I do want you to do,” he said. “First, give me that lawyer’s phone number, and then get your ass down to the Roundhouse and wait for me there. I want your statement. I may have to put up with that ‘I’ll get my statement to you in the morning’ shit from Washington, but I don’t have to put up with it from you.”
Matt, his face red, tore the page with the phone number from his notebook and handed it to Wally. Wally took it and went back down the corridor.
Matt watched him a moment, then went up the stairs, as two uniformed officers, one carrying a stretcher, came down them.
Chief Lowenstein was gone. Jason Washington, alone at the table where they had been sitting, stood up when he saw Matt.
“Well, did you learn anything?”
“A,” Matt replied, “Detective Milham has all the charm of a constipated alligator, and B, he wants my statement tonight, not tomorrow.”
Washington’s right eyebrow rose in surprise.
“Shall I have a word with him?”
“No. No, thanks. Now that I think of it, I’d just as soon get it over with now. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
“All right. Walk me back to your place, and I’ll drop you off at the Roundhouse on my way home. Or you can get your car.”
“I’ll take the ride, thanks. And catch a cab home later.”
Jason Washington was surprised and just a little alarmed when he quietly let himself into his apartment to see that there were lights on in the living room.
Not only is the love of my life angry, but angry to the point where she has decided that marital justice demands that she wait up for me to express her displeasure personally, immediately, and in some detail.
As he walked down the corridor, he heard Martha say, somewhat formally, “I think that’s him.”
Someone’s with her. Someone she doesn’t know well. Who? And who else would it be at this hour of the morning?
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