Special Operations

by W. E. B Griffin

  He had a somewhat immodest thought: if they didn’t like me, to the point where they are willing to give me and Special Operations a chance, they would already have come up with twenty reasons to get themselves fired.

  “Is the Flannery woman still in the hospital?” Washington asked.

  “I don’t know,” Wohl said.

  “She saw more of this guy than any of the others,” Washington said, closing the file. “Can I have this?”

  “No,” Wohl said. “But I’ll get you both a copy. Payne, when we get back to the office, Xerox this in four copies.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah,” Washington said, looking around the room. “Here comes my lunch!”

  The waitress delivered two New York Strip steaks, a filet mignon (to Washington) and a shrimp salad.

  If I had ordered a steak, Matt thought, they would have ordered bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.

  Nobody spoke another word until Washington laid his knife and fork on the plate, and delicately dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

  “We work for you, right?” he asked. “I don’t have to check with Sabara every time I sharpen a pencil?”

  “Mike is the Deputy Commander,” Wohl said.

  “We work for you, right?” Washington repeated.

  “Mike is the Deputy Commander,” Wohl repeated, “but I will tell him that the only job you two have is the Northwest Philly rapist. What have you got against Sabara?”

  “He’s a worrier,” Washington said. “Worriers make me nervous.”

  Wohl chuckled.

  Washington looked at Matt Payne. “You open to a little advice, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Payne said.

  “‘Yes, sir,’” Harris quoted mockingly.

  “That’s a very nice jacket,” Washington said, giving Harris a dirty look, and then turning his face to Matt. “Tripler?”

  “Yes,” Matt said, surprised. “As a matter of fact it is.”

  “If you’re going to wear a shoulder holster, you have to have them make allowance for it,” Washington said. “Cut it a little fuller under the left arm. What you look like now, with the material stretched that way, is a man carrying a pistol in a shoulder holster.”

  Matt, smiling uneasily, looked at Inspector Wohl, whom he found grinning at him.

  “Listen to him, Payne,” Wohl said. “He’s the recognized sartorial authority in the Police Department.”

  “The whole idea of plainclothes is to look like anything but a cop,” Washington said. “What you really should do, in the summer, is get a snub-nose and carry it in an ankle holster. Very few people look at your ankles to see if you’re carrying a gun, and even if they do, unless you wear peg-leg trousers like Harris here, they’re pretty much out of sight on your ankles.”

  Wohl laughed.

  Washington stood up and put out his hand to Wohl.

  “Thank you for the lunch,” he said. “I’ll check in if I come up with anything.”

  “My pleasure,” Wohl said. “Jason, what you have for radios in the car is J-Band and I don’t know what else. It’s arranged with Radio to give you Detectives and Highway, too. I mean, if you take the car there, they’re set up to do the work right away. Tony, you paying attention?”

  “When do I get a car?” Harris asked.

  “As soon as Jason drives you over to get one.”

  Harris grunted.

  “Sabara’s not going to worry if I take the car home with me at night, is he?” Washington asked.

  “No, he’s not,” Wohl said. “You stop worrying. You’re going to be the star of our little operation.”

  “Here comes the horse manure again,” Washington said, and walked out of the room.

  “Nice to meet you, Payne,” Harris said, offering him his hand. “See you around.”

  When they had left the restaurant, Wohl held up his coffee cup to catch the waitress’s attention, and when she had refilled his cup from a stainless steel pot, he turned to Matt.

  “Now we get to you, Officer Payne,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “It is generally accepted as a fact of life in the Police Department that before you do anything else with a rookie, you give him a couple of years in a District. In the case of someone your size, you assign him to a wagon. You know what a wagon is?”

  “Yes, sir, a paddy wagon.”

  “Be careful where you say that,” Wohl said. “To some of our brother officers of Irish extraction, paddy wagon is a pejorative term, dating back to the days when Irishmen were known as ‘Paddys’ and were hauled off to jail in a horse-drawn vehicle known as the ‘Paddy Wagon.’”

  “Sir, I’m half-Irish.”

  “Half doesn’t count. It’s not like being a little pregnant. My mother’s Catholic. But neither you nor I are products of the parochial school system, or alumni of Roman or Father Judge or North Catholic High. Neither are we Roman Catholics. Half-Irish or ex-Roman Catholic doesn’t count.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, smiling. “I’ll say ‘wagon.’”

  “As I was saying, broad-backed young rookies like yourself generally begin their careers in a District with a couple of years in a wagon. That gives them practical experience, and the only way to really learn this job is on the job. After a couple of years in a wagon, rookies move on, either, usually, to an RPC, or somewhere else. There are exceptions to this, of course. Both Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez went right from the Academy to Narcotics, as plainclothes, undercover. The reasoning there was that their faces weren’t known to people in the drug trade, and that, presuming they dressed the part, they could pass for pushers or addicts. But that sort of thing is the exception, not the rule.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Speaking of our Irish-American friends, when was the last time you saw Chief Coughlin?”

  “I had dinner with him one night last week,” Matt said.

  “Would you be surprised to learn that Chief Coughlin sent you to Special Operations?”

  “Chief Matdorf told me that he had arranged for me to be sent to Highway,” Matt said, hesitated, and then went on, “but Chief Coughlin didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “He told me he was sending you over,” Wohl said, “but he didn’t tell me what he expected me to do with you. What would you like to do?”

  The question surprised Matt; he raised both his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I don’t think he had in mind putting you on a motorcycle,” Wohl said. “And since, for the moment at least, I’m not even thinking of any kind of undercover operations, I really don’t know what the hell to do with you. Can you type?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so.”

  “Well, I don’t think Chief Coughlin wants me to turn you into a clerk, either,” Wohl said, “but we’re going to start generating a lot of paperwork to get Special Operations up to speed. More than Sergeant Frizell can handle. More than he can handle while he does things for me, too, anyway. The thought that occurs to me is that you could work for me, as sort of a gofer, until I can sort this out. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds fine, sir.”

  “And, for the time being, anyway, I think in plainclothes,” Wohl said.

  He looked around, caught the waitress’s eye, and gestured for the check.

  He turned back to Matt. “Jason Washington was right,” he said. “You should get yourself a snub-nose and an ankle holster. You’ll have to buy it yourself, but Colosimo’s Gun Store offers an alleged police discount. Know where it is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The-nine-hundred block on Spring Garden,” Wohl said.

  “Sir, I thought you had to qualify with a snubnose,” Matt said.

  “How did you do on the pistol range in the Academy?” Wohl asked.

  “All right, I think,” Matt said. “Better than all right. I made Expert with the .45 at Quantico.”

  “That’s right,” Wo
hl said. “You told me that the night I first met you, the night of Dutch’s wake. You were planning to be a Marine, weren’t you? And then you busted the physical.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that why you came on the cops? To prove you’re a man, anyway?”

  “That’s what my sister says,” Matt said. “She says I was psychologically castrated when I flunked the physical, and that what I’m doing is proving my manhood.”

  “Your sister the psychiatrist?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you get the feeling that Tony Harris is not too impressed with psychiatrists?” Wohl asked.

  “Yes, sir, that came through pretty clearly.”

  “Or did you come on the job because of what happened to Dutch? And/or your father?” Wohl asked, picking that up again.

  “That’s probably got something to do with it,” Matt said. “It probably was impulsive. But from what I’ve seen so far—”

  “What?”

  “It’s going to be fascinating,” Matt said.

  “You haven’t seen enough of it to be able to make that kind of judgment,” Wohl said. “All you’ve seen is the Academy.”

  “And Washington and Harris,” Matt argued gently.

  “You’re a long way, Matt, from getting close to guys like those two. The folklore is that being a detective is the best job in the Department; and that being a Homicide detective is the best of detective jobs. Washington and Harris, in my judgment, are the best two Homicide detectives, period. But that does trigger a thought: it would be a good idea for you to hang around with somebody, some people, who know what they’re doing. I’m talking about McFadden and Martinez. I’ll tell them to show you the ropes. That’ll mean a lot of night work, overtime. How do you feel about overtime?”

  “I really don’t have anything better to do,” Matt said, honestly. “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “The eyes of the average police officer would light up when a supervisor mentioned a lot of overtime,” Wohl said.

  “Sir?” Matt asked, confused.

  The waitress appeared with the check on a small plastic tray. Matt had to wait until Wohl had carefully added up the bill and handed her his American Express card before he got an explanation.

  “Overtime means extra pay,” Wohl said. “Washington and Harris take home as much money as I do. More, probably. Supervisors get, at least, compensatory time, not pay for overtime. To most cops, overtime pay is very important.”

  “I wondered why you kept mentioning to them they could have all the overtime they wanted,” Matt said.

  “My point is that you weren’t thinking about the money, were you? Money isn’t much of a consideration for you, is it? You remember, you told me about that the night we met.”

  “I don’t think that will keep me from doing my job,” Matt said.

  “I don’t think it will, either,” Wohl said. “But I think you should keep it in mind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “About the snub-nose,” Wohl said, as he signed the American Express bill, “I don’t think anyone will challenge you, but if that happens, the paperwork will come through me, and I’ll handle it. But don’t buy a Smith & Wesson Undercover, or a Colt with a hammer shroud.”

  “Sir?”

  “An Undercover comes with a built-in shroud over the hammer; it’s intended to keep you from snagging the gun on your clothing, if you should ever need to get at it in a hurry. And they sell shrouds for Colts. The problem is you can’t carry a gun with a shroud in an ankle holster; there’s no place for the strap on the holster to catch.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “The odds that you will ever have to use your revolver, which I hope they told you at the Academy, are about a thousand to one. But as the Boy Scouts say, “Be Prepared!”

  He smiled at Matt and got up and walked out of the restaurant with Matt at his heels.

  When Peter Wohl walked into what had been Mike Sabara’s office as Acting Commanding Officer of Highway Patrol, and was now his, it was empty; all of Mike’s photographs and plaques were gone from the walls, and so were the pistol shooting and bowling trophies Sabara had had on display on top of filing cabinets and other flat surfaces. Wohl walked to the desk, pulled drawers open, and saw that they too had been emptied.

  He walked to the door.

  “What happened to Captain Sabara?” he asked Sergeant Frizell.

  “He and Captain Pekach moved in there,” Frizell said, pointing to a door.

  Wohl walked to it and pulled it open. He had been unaware of the room’s existence until that moment, and now that he saw it, he realized that it was really too small for two captains, and felt a moment’s uneasiness at having the relatively large office to himself. He hadn’t had an office when he had been just one more Staff Inspector. He had shared a large room with all of his peers, and he had not had a Sergeant to handle his paperwork.

  I guess it goes with the territory, he decided, but I don’t like it.

  “We’re going to have to do better than that,” he said, to Sergeant Frizell. “In your planning, did the subject of space come up?”

  “Space is tight, Inspector.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “There’s an elementary school building at Frankford and Castor,” Frizell said. “Not being used. The Department’s been talking to the Board of Education about that.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a school building,” Frizell said. “There’s no detention cells, nothing but a bunch of classrooms. Not even much space for parking.”

  “And there’s no room in this building to move in fifty, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred cops,” Wohl said. “Find out what’s being said, and to whom, about us getting it, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Frizell said. “There was some discussion about giving Special Operations, if it grows as large as it might with the ACT Grants, Memorial Hall.”

  “At Forty-forth and Parkside in Fairmount Park?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That would be nice. Keep your ears open and keep me advised,” Wohl said.

  Frizell nodded. “Inspector, what do you want me to do about these?” He held up the Northwest Philadelphia rape files.

  “I told Payne to Xerox them in four copies.”

  “Our Xerox is down.”

  “What about the machine in the District?”

  “Well, they’re not too happy with us using theirs,” Frizell said. “They’ll do it, but they make us wait.”

  I will be damned if I will go find the District Captain and discuss Xerox priorities with him.

  “Sergeant,” Wohl said, his annoyance showing in his voice, “high on your list of priorities is getting us a new Xerox machine. Call Deputy Commissioner Whelan’s office and tell them I said we need one desperately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frizell said. “And in the meantime, sir, what do I do with this?”

  “Payne,” Wohl ordered. “Go get that Xeroxed someplace. You’re a bright young man, you’ll find a machine somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  “There’s one more thing, Inspector,” Sergeant Frizell said, and handed him a teletype message.

  GENERAL: 0698 06/30/73 FROM COMMISSIONER

  PAGE 1 OF 1

  ************CITY OF PHILADELPHIA************

  *************POLICE DEPARTMENT*************

  THE FOLLOWING WILL BE ANNOUNCED AT ALL ROLL CALLS: EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION MOTOR VEHICLES (EXCEPT HIGHWAY PATROL) ARE ASSIGNED RADIO CALL SIGNS W-1 THROUGH W-200, AND WILL USE THE PHONETIC PRONOUNCIATION “WILLIAM.”

  Jesus! I just got here, and they’re already changing things.

  “William”? That’s awkward. Why not “Whiskey”?

  Obviously, “Whiskey” wouldn’t work.

  And “Wine” and “Women” wouldn’t work, either. But “William”?

  In two or three days, if not already, that will be “Willy” and I will get an inter
departmental memorandum crisply ordering me to have my men follow official Department Radio procedures.

  “Did you get the word out?” Wohl asked Frizell.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wohl, without thinking about it, handed the teletype to Matt Payne. Then he saw Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez coming into the outer office.

  “Wait a minute, Payne,” he said, as he walked into the outer office.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Martinez said.

  “I hope you’re here to report that you have seen Miss Peebles, and that she now loves the Police Department and all we’re doing for her,” Wohl asked.

  “I don’t know if she loves us or not,” McFadden said, smiling. “But she made us a cup of coffee.”

  “What’s going on over there?” Wohl said, gesturing for the two of them to go into his office, and then adding, “You, too, Matt. I want you in on this.”

  Wohl sat in the upholstered chair and indicated that Martinez, McFadden, and Payne should sit on the couch.

  “Okay, what happened? What’s going on with Miss Peebles?”

  “She’s all right,” McFadden said. “A little strange. Rich. Scared, too.”

  “Explain all that to me,” Wohl said. “Did Captain Sabara explain that she has friends in high places?”

  “Yes, sir,” Martinez said. “Well…do you want to hear what I think, Inspector?”

  “That would be nice,” Wohl said, dryly.

  “She’s a nice lady, with a fag for a brother,” Martinez said. “I don’t even know if she knows the brother is a fag, she’s that dumb. I mean, nice but dumb, you follow me?”

  “I’m sure that you’re going to tell me what her brother’s sexual proclivities have to do with the burglary. Burglaries.”

  “She knows all right,” McFadden said.

  “Anyway, the brother brought a guy home. An actor.”

  “Going under the name Walton Williams,” McFadden said. “Nothing in criminal records under that name.”

  “That was in the report I told you to read,” Wohl said.

  “Anyway, the way we see it,” Martinez went on, “the fag took one look around the place, saw all the expensive crap—what do you call it, ‘bric-a-brac’?”

  “If it’s worth more than fifty dollars, we usually say, ‘objets d’art,’” Wohl said.