The Assassin boh-5

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Well, there's nothing I know of, sir, that would keep us from giving Dignitary Protection all the wheels they want."

  Highway Patrol, as its name suggested, had been formed before World War II, as "The Bandit Chasers." That had evolved into the " Motor Bandit Patrol" and finally into the Highway Patrol. It had originally been equipped with motorcycles ("wheels") only, and its members authorized a special uniform suitable for motorcyclists, breeches, leather boots, leather jackets, and billed caps with an unstiffened crown.

  It had evolved over the years into an elite unit that, although it patrolled the Schuylkill Expressway and the interstate highways, spent most of its effort patrolling high-crime areas in two-man RPCs. Other RPCs in the Department were manned by only one police officer, and patrolled only in the district to which they were assigned.

  The evolution had begun when command of Highway had been given to Captain Jerry Carlucci, and had continued under his benevolent, and growing, influence as he rose through the ranks to commissioner, and continued now that he was mayor.

  Applying for, being selected for, and then serving a tour in Highway was considered an almost essential career step for officers who had ambition for higher rank. Peter Wohl had been a Highway sergeant before his promotion to lieutenant and assignment to the Organized Crime Intelligence Unit.

  Highway still had its wheels, and every man in Highway was a graduate of the Motorcycle Training Program (known as "Wheel School"), and continued to wear, although months often passed between times that a Highway Patrolman actually straddled a motorcycle, the special Highway uniform.

  Dignitary Protection was ordinarily an inactive function; a sergeant or a lieutenant in the Intelligence Division of the Detective Bureau performed the function and answered that phone number in addition to his other duties.

  When a dignitary showed up who needed protection, a more senior officer, sometimes, depending on the dignitary, even a chief inspector, took over and coordinated and commanded whatever police units and personnel were considered necessary.

  "What I've been thinking, Peter," Commissioner Czernick said, "is that Dignitary Protection should really be under you. I mean, really, it's a special function, a special operation, am I right? And you have Special Operations."

  Carlucci strikes again, Peter Wohl thought. Czernick might even have come by himself to the conclusion that Dignitary Protection should come under Special Operations, but he would have kept that conclusion to himself. He would not have done anything about it himself, or even suggested it to the mayor, because the mayor might not like the idea, or come to the conclusion that Czernick was getting a little too big for his britches.

  "Yes, I'm sure you're right," Wohl said. "Dignitary Protection is a special function, a special operation."

  "And there's something else," Czernick went on. "I don't think it would be a bad idea at all to show the feds where all that ACT money is going."

  "Yes, sir."

  "What I thought I'd do, Peter…Do you know Sergeant Henkels?"

  "No, sir. I don't think so."

  "He's the man in Chief Lowenstein's office who handles Dignitary Protection. I thought I'd ask Lowenstein to get the paperwork going and transfer him and his paperwork out to the Schoolhouse."

  When the Special Operations Division had been formed from the Special Operations Unit, there had been no thought given to providing a place for it to exist. Since there was no other place to go, Peter Wohl had set up his first office in what had been the Highway Patrol captain's office in a building Highway shared with the 7^th District at Bustleton Avenue and Bowler Street in Northeast Philadelphia.

  There really had not been room in the building for both the District and Highway, and the addition of the ever-growing Special Operations staff made things impossible. His complaints had fallen on deaf ears for a long time, but then, somewhat triumphantly, he had been told that the City was willing to transfer a building at Frankford and Castor Avenues from the Board of Education to the Police Department, and Special Operations could have it for their very own.

  There was a slight problem. The reason the Board of Education was being so generous was that the Board of Health had determined that the Frankford Grammar School (built A.D. 1892) posed a health threat to its faculty and student population, and had ordered it abandoned. There were, of course, no funds available in the Police Department budget for repairs or rehabilitation.

  But since a building had been provided for Special Operations, Staff Inspector Wohl was soon led to understand, it would be considered impolite for him to complain that he was no better off than he had been. It was also pointed out that the health standards that applied to students and teachers did not apply to policemen.

  And then Staff Inspector Wohl's administrative assistant, Officer M. M. Payne, who apparently had nothing more pressing to do at the time, read the fine print in the documents that outlined how the ACT funds could be spent. Up to $250,000 of the federal government's money could be expended for emergencyrepairs to, but notreplacement of, equipment and facilities. He brought this to Wohl's attention, and Wohl, although he was not of the Roman Catholic persuasion, decided that it was time to adopt a Jesuit attitude to his problem:The end justifies the means.

  Replacingbrokenwindowpanes was obviously proscribed, and could not be done. But emergencyrepairs to windows (which incidentally might involve replacing a couple of panes here and there) were permissible. Similarly,replacing shingles on the roof was proscribed, butrepairing the roof was permissible.Repairing the walls, floor, and plumbing system as a necessary emergency measure similarly posed no insurmountable legal or moral problems vis-a-vis the terms of the federal grant.

  But the building's heating system posed a major problem. The existing coal-fired furnaces, after seventy-odd years of service, were beyond repair. In what he seriously regarded as the most dishonest act of his life, Peter Wohl chose not to notice that therepairs to the " heating system" consisted of "removing malfunctioning components" (the coal furnaces) and "installing replacement components" (gas-fired devices that provided both heat and air-conditioning).

  He had also circumvented the City's bureaucracy in the matter of awarding the various contracts. On one hand, his experience as a staff inspector had left him convinced that kickbacks were standard procedure when the City awarded contracts. The price quoted for services to be rendered to the City included the amount of the kickback. On the other hand, he knew that the law required every contract over $10,000 to be awarded on the basis of the lowest bid. He was, in fact, consciously breaking the law.

  He had come to understand, further, that it wasn't a question of if he would be caught, but when. He didn't think there would be an attempt to indict him, but there had been a very good chance that he would either be fired, or asked to resign, or, at a minimum, relieved of his new command when the Department of Public Property finally found out what he had done.

  That hadn't happened. The mayor had visited the Schoolhouse and liked what he found. And from a source Peter Wohl had in the Department of Public Property, Peter learned that the mayor had shortly thereafter visited the Department of Public Property and made it clear to the commissioner that he didn't want to hear any complaints, to him, or to the newspapers, about how the old Frankford Grammar School building had beenrepaired.

  There were several reasons, Wohl had concluded, why the mayor could have chosen to do that. For one thing, it would have been politically embarrassing for him had there been a fuss in the newspapers. He had appointed Wohl to command Special Operations, and look what happened!

  Another possibility was that it was repayment of a debt of honor.

  Peter didn't know all the details, or even many of them, but he had heard enough veiled references to be sure that when Jerry Carlucci had been an up-and-coming lieutenant and captain and inspector, Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl had gone out on the limb a number of times to save Carlucci's ass.

  Another obvious possibility was that since Carlucci had s
aved his ass, he was now deeply in Carlucci's debt.

  The last possibility was the nicest to consider, that the mayor understood that while Peter was bending, even breaking, the law he was not doing it for himself, but for the betterment of the Department. Peter didn't like to accept this possibility; it let him off the hook too easily.

  The road to hell, or more precisely to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania's penal system, was paved, his experience had taught him, if not entirely with good intentions, then with good intentions and the rationalization you aren't doing something really crooked, but rather something that other people do all the time and get away with.

  "Is that all there is, Commissioner, one sergeant?"

  "He just holds down the desk until there's a dignitary to protect," Czernick said. "You didn't know?"

  "No, sir. I didn't."

  "You don't have any objections to this, Peter, do you?"

  "No, sir. If you think this makes sense, I'll give it my best shot."

  "If you run into problems, Peter, you know my door is always open."

  "Yes, sir. I know that, and I appreciate it, Commissioner."

  The commissioner stood up and offered his hand.

  "Always good to see you, Peter," he said. "Ask my girl to send Inspector Porter and Captain Quaire in, will you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  ****

  There was a Plymouth station wagon in the driveway of Evelyn Glover's ranch house in Upper Darby when Matt turned into it in the Porsche.

  "You've got a visitor," he said.

  Evelyn tried to make a joke of it. "That's no visitor, that's my husband."

  As Matt stopped the car, a man, forty years old, tall, skinny, tweedy, whom Matt vaguely remembered having seen somewhere before, and who had apparently been peering into the kitchen door, came down the driveway.

  Evelyn fumbled around until she found the tiny door latch, opened the door, and got out.

  Matt felt a strong urge to shove the stick in reverse and get the hell out of here, but that, obviously, was something he could not do. He opened his door and got out.

  He heard the tail end of what Evelyn's husband was saying: "…so I called the library, and when they said they had no idea where you were, I got worried and came here."

  He looked at Matt with unabashed curiosity.

  "Mr. Payne," Evelyn said, "this is my husband. He saw my car at Darby Plymouth."

  Professor Glover offered his hand to Matt.

  "Harry, this is Detective Payne," Evelyn said. "He's been helping me. We just came from Darby Plymouth."

  "How do you do?" Professor Glover said, and then blurted what was on his mind: "That's quite a police car."

  "It's my car," Matt said. "I'm off duty."

  "Oh," Professor Glover said.

  "Well, if there's nothing else I can do for you, Mrs. Glover…"

  "You've already done more for me than I had any right to expect," Evelyn said, and offered him her hand. "I don't know how to thank you."

  "Don't mention it," Matt said. "Sorry you had the trouble. Nice to meet you, Professor."

  "Yes," Professor Glover said.

  Jesus Christ, he knows!

  Matt got back in the Porsche, and backed out of the driveway. He glanced at the house and saw Professor Glover following his wife into the house.

  ****

  Officer Paul O'Mara dropped Staff Inspector Wohl at a door over which was carved in stone, GIRLS' ENTRANCE, at the former Frankford Grammar School, and then drove around to the cracked cement now covering what at one time had been the lawn in front of the building and parked the Ford.

  Captain Michael Sabara, a swarthy, acne-scarred, stocky man in his forties, who was wearing a white civilian shirt and yellow V-neck sweater, and Captain David Pekach, a slight, fair-skinned man of thirty-six, who was wearing the special Highway Patrol uniform, were both waiting for Wohl when he walked into his (formerly the principal' s) office.

  Captain Mike Sabara was Wohl's deputy. He had been the senior lieutenant in Highway, and awaiting promotion to captain when Captain Dutch Moffitt had been killed. He had naturally expected to step into Moffitt's shoes. Dave Pekach, who had been in Narcotics, had just been promoted to captain, and transferred to Special Operations.

  Enraging many of the people in Highway, including, Wohl was sure, Mike Sabara, he had named Sabara his deputy and given Highway to Pekach. But that had been almost a year ago, and it had worked out well. It had probably taken Sabara, Wohl thought, no more than a week to realize that the alternative to his being named Wohl's deputy was a transfer elsewhere in the Department, and probably another month to believe what Wohl had told him when he took over Special Operations, that he would be of greater usefulness to the Department as his deputy than he would have been commanding Highway.

  Wohl understood the Highway mystique. He still had in his closet his Highway sergeant's leather jacket and soft-crowned billed cap, unable to bring himself to sell, or even give them away, although there was absolutely no way he would ever wear either again. But it had been time for Sabara to take off his Highway breeches, and for Pekach, who had worn a pigtail in his plain-clothes Narcotics assignment, to get back in uniform.

  "Good morning, Inspector," they said, almost in chorus.

  Wohl smiled and motioned for them to follow him into his office.

  "I hope you brought your notebooks," he said. "I have just come from the Fountain of All Knowledge."

  "I don't like the sound of that," Sabara said.

  Pekach closed the office door behind him.

  "What did the Polack want, Peter?" he asked.

  Wohl did not respond directly.

  "Is Jack Malone around?" he asked. "I'd rather go through this just once."

  "He went over to the garage," Sabara said, stepping to Wohl's desk as he spoke and picking up a telephone. "Have you got a location on Lieutenant Malone?" He put the phone back in its cradle. "He just drove in the gate."

  Wohl sat down at his desk and took the Overnight from his IN box. He read it. He raised his eyes to Pekach.

  "We have anybody in on the shooting at the Acme?"

  "One car, plus a sergeant who was in the area."

  "Did you talk to them? Was it a good shooting?"

  "It looks that way. They shot first. The lieutenant-what the hell is his name?-"

  Wohl and Sabara shrugged their shoulders.

  "-not only identified himself as a police officer, but used an electronic megaphone to do it. One of the doersthen shot at him and another Stakeout guy. When he was down, the other doer started shooting. It looks to me like it was clearly justified."

  "The commissioner seemed a little unsure," Wohl said. "Open the door, Dave, and see if O'Mara's out there. If he is, have him lasso Jack."

  "I'll tell you who was also at the Acme, Peter, in case you haven' t heard. Matt Payne."

  "I heard. I saw Henry Quaire in the Roundhouse."

  "This time he was a spectator," Sabara said.

  Pekach came back into the office, followed by a uniformed lieutenant, John J. "Jack" Malone, who showed signs of entering middle age. His hairline was starting to recede; there was the suggestion of forming jowls, and he was getting a little thick around the middle.

  "Good morning, sir," he said.

  "Close the door, Jack, please," Wohl said. "Gentlemen, I don't believe you've met the new commanding officer of Dignitary Protection?"

  Malone misinterpreted what Wohl had intended as a little witticism. The smile vanished from his face. It grew more than sad, bitter.

  "When did that happen, sir?" he asked.

  Wohl saw that his little joke had laid an egg, and he was furious with himself for trying to be clever. Malone thought he was being told, kindly, that he was being transferred out of Special Operations. And with that came the inference that he had been found wanting.

  "About ten minutes ago, Jack," Wohl said, "which is ten minutes after the commissioner told me we now have Dignitary Protection. Have you
got something against taking it over?"

  "Not here," Malone said, visibly relieved. "I thought I was being sent to the Roundhouse."

  Well, that's flattering. He likes it here.

  "Do you know a sergeant by the name of Henkels?"

  "Yes, sir, I know him."

  "There is something in your tone that suggests that you are not especially impressed with the sergeant."

  "There used to be a Sergeant Henkels in Central Cell Room," Pekach volunteered. "If it's the same guy, he has a room temperature IQ."

  "That's him, Captain. I guess they moved him upstairs," Malone said.

  The Central Cell Room was in the Police Administration Building.

  "Well, Sergeant Henkels and his Dignitary Protection files are about to be transferred out here. Into your capable command, Lieutenant Malone."

  "Oh, God. He's a real dummy, Inspector. God only knows how he got to be a sergeant."

  "Well, I'm sure you will find a way to keep the sergeant usefully occupied."

  "How about sending him to Wheel School and praying he breaks his neck?" Malone suggested.

  "I don't think there will be time to do that before the Vice President comes to town," Wohl said.

  "I saw that in the papers," Malone said. "We're going to have that? There's not a hell of a lot of time…"

  "We'll have to manage somehow."

  "Who are they going to move into command?" Malone asked. "Did the commissioner say?"

  Wohl shook his head, no. He was more than a little embarrassed that he hadn't considered that.

  "One of the chiefs probably," Mike Sabara said. "It's the Vice President."

  "They're not going to move anybody in," Peter Wohl said, softly but firmly. "If this is a Special Operations responsibility, we'll be responsible."

  "You'd be putting your neck on the line, Peter," Mike Sabara said. "Let them send somebody in, somebody who's familiar with this sort of operation."

  "Let them send someone in here with the authority to tell our people what to do?" Wohl replied. "No way, Mike. We'll do it. Discussion closed."