Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

  When Matt walked into Liberties, the drivers of these vehicles were sitting around two tables pushed together along the wall, across from the ornately carved, century-old bar. They were Deputy Commissioner Coughlin, Chief Inspector Lowenstein, Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant Washington, Detective Harris, and Michael J. O’Hara, Esq.

  There was a bottle of Old Bushmills Irish whiskey, a bottle of Chivas Regal, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and two bowls, one with cashews, the other with stick pretzels, on the table.

  “What’s going on?” Matt asked, slipping into a chair at the table beside Harris.

  “I am interrogating a witness to the Roy Rogers job,” Harris said, nodding at O’Hara. “And getting nothing out of him.”

  “Jesus, Tony,” Mickey said. “The bastards took a shot at me!”

  Matt poured scotch into a glass.

  “It would behoove you to go easy on that tonight, Detective Payne,” Wohl said. “Which is the reason we put the arm out for you. We didn’t want you to go off somewhere and get smashed by yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, and picked up the drink and took a sip. Then he took his father’s badge from his apartment and slipped it to Denny Coughlin.

  “Mom found that, and said to give it to you,” he said.

  Coughlin looked at the badge, then laid it on the table.

  “What’s that?” Lowenstein asked.

  “Jack Moffitt’s sergeant’s badge,” Coughlin replied. “I remember the day he got it.” He looked at Matt and said, “I don’t want to hand this to your mother a second time. You understand me?”

  Matt’s mouth ran away with him.

  “Color me careful.”

  “Watch your lip, Matty!” Coughlin said.

  “That would make a good yarn,” Mickey O’Hara said. “ ‘New Sergeant Gets Hero Father’s Badge.’ ”

  “Which you won’t write, right?” Lowenstein said.

  “Okay,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the bottle of Old Bushmills.

  “I loved Jack like a brother,” Coughlin said. “And he had a lot of balls. But he wasn’t a hero. His big balls got him killed. He answered a silent alarm without backup…”

  “I remember,” Lowenstein said. “I had North Detectives when it happened.”

  “Jack knew better,” Coughlin said. “He could still be walking around if he’d done what he was trained-ordered-to do.”

  “Dennis, how would you judge Dutch Moffitt’s behavior?” Jason Washington’s sonorous voice asked.

  Coughlin looked at him, obviously annoyed at the question.

  “Was that an excess of male ego-‘I’m Dutch Moffitt of Highway Patrol. I can handle this punk by myself’?” Washington pursued. “Or a professional assessment of the situation in which he found himself, with the same result?”

  Coughlin looked at him for a long moment before deciding if and what to answer.

  “Dutch said, ‘Lay the gun on the counter, son. I don’t want to have to kill you. I’m a police officer.’ Was that the right thing to do? I think so. I would like to think that’s what I would have done. I would also like to think I would have looked around for a second doer. Dutch didn’t, and the junkie girlfriend shot him.”

  “I worked with Dutch,” Peter Wohl said. “I can’t believe he didn’t look for a second doer. He had trouble keeping his pecker in his pocket, but he was a very good street cop.”

  “Your mother never told you, ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ Peter?” Coughlin said. “Especially in front of the deceased’s nephew?”

  Wohl shrugged, unrepentant. Coughlin had another thought.

  “Your grandmother’s going to be in the mayor’s office tomorrow, Matty. I thought she had a right to be.”

  “Oh, shit!” Matt blurted.

  Coughlin glared angrily at him.

  “I was going to tell her later,” Matt said, somewhat lamely. “Maybe even go by.”

  “She’s your grandmother, Matt,” Coughlin said, on the edge of anger.

  “I don’t like the way she treats my mother,” Matt said.

  “Don’t tell me she’s still pissed that Jack’s widow married Payne?” Lowenstein asked.

  “It’s a religious thing, Matt,” Coughlin said. “Patricia raised Matt as an Episcopal after Payne adopted him.”

  “You Christians do have your problems, don’t you?” Lowenstein asked. “How many angels can fit on the head of a pin?”

  Coughlin gave him the finger.

  “I don’t agree with her, Matty,” Coughlin said. “You know that. But she’s still your grandmother.”

  “Does my mother know she’s coming?”

  “If your mother knew, she would, being the lady she is, not go.”

  “Jesus-”

  “Before you two continue with what is sure to be an indeterminable discussion of Mother Moffitt,” Washington interrupted, “may I finish with my profound observation?”

  Matt realized-wondering why it had taken him so long-that while no one at the table was drunk, it was also obvious that no one was on their first-or third-drink, either. He looked at the bottles. The Chivas Regal was half empty; the Jack Daniel’s and the Old Bushmills were almost dry.

  And Washington had even called Coughlin by his first name.

  What the hell is this all about? Why are all these people sitting around here getting smashed?

  “How could we stop you?” Mickey O’Hara asked.

  Washington continued, “With the given that Sergeant Jack Moffitt was a good street cop, that Captain Dutch Moffitt was a good street cop, and that Officer Charlton had survived almost to retirement as a street cop, what mistake-indeed, what fatal mistake-did all three of them make?”

  “They weren’t as good as they thought they were?” Mickey asked.

  “Close, Michael,” Washington said.

  “Oh, shit, not that ‘they didn’t turn over the rock under the rock’ crap again,” Tony Harris said.

  “Yes, indeed,” Washington said. “That ‘turn over the rock under the rock’ crap again. If Sergeant Moffitt had looked around the gas station one more time, if Dutch had looked around the Waikiki Diner one more time, if Charlton had taken one more look…”

  “I don’t think that’s such a profound observation, Jason,” Coughlin said.

  “More like self-evident,” Lowenstein said.

  “I was trying to make the point for Matt’s edification,” Washington said.

  Coughlin looked at him, then at Matt.

  “He’s right, Matty,” he said. “Pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  “Would you like to see how your names will appear in tomorrow’s Bulletin?” Mickey asked. “Or shall we go back to discussing Mother Moffitt?”

  He took several sheets of paper from his inside jacket pocket and swung them back and forth.

  “Curiosity underwhelms me,” Wohl said, and held his hand out for the sheets of paper.

  Slug-Mayor Forms Double Murder Task Force

  (Jack, don’t bury this with the underwear ads. These slimeballs need catching. AND USE THE PICTURES)

  By Michael J. O’HaraBulletin Staff Writer

  Photos by Jack WeinbergBulletin Photographer

  Philadelphia-Mayor Alvin W. Martin, surrounded by the heavy hitters of the Philadelphia Police Department, and standing not far from where the body of Officer Kenneth Charlton lay in state in the Monti Funeral Home in the 2500 block of South Broad Street, this afternoon announced the formation of a special police task force to bring the two men who murdered Charlton and Mrs. Maria M. Fernandez during the robbery Sunday evening of the Roy Rogers restaurant on South Broad Street.

  “Both a citizen-a single mother of three-and a police officer have lost their lives as a result of a brutal attack that affects not only their grieving survivors but every citizen of Philadelphia,” the mayor said, adding: “This sort of outrage cannot be tolerated, and it will not be.”

  (Photo 1 L-R, Lowenstein, Mari
ani, Martin, Coughlin) Flanked by Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani, Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin, and Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein, Martin announced that Inspector Peter F. Wohl, the highly regarded commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, would head the task force.

  (Photo 2 L-R, Washington, Wohl, and Harris) Speaking to this reporter later, Inspector Wohl said it was not his intention to take over the investigation from Lieutenant Jason Washington, “who is beyond question the most skilled homicide investigator I know of,” but rather to “ensure that Lieutenant Washington and his able team leader, Detective Anthony Harris, get whatever assistance they need from not only Special Operations, but the entire police department, so these criminals can be quickly removed from our streets.”

  (Photo 3 L-R, Sabara, Wohl, Pekach, Sgt M. M. Payne, and Capt F. X. Hollaran) Wohl’s deputy, Captain Michael J. Sabara, and Captain David R. Pekach, commanding officer of the elite Highway Patrol, nodded their agreement with both Wohl’s cold determination and with his explanation of the difficulty sometimes encountered-as now-in identifying the perpetrators of a crime.

  “The patrons of the Roy Rogers restaurant were terrorized by the cold brutality of these criminals. Shots were fired. Two people were killed, and everyone else’s life was in danger. It’s regrettable, but I think very understandable, that the horrified witnesses can’t really agree on a description of the men we seek.

  “This is not to say that we won’t apprehend them, and soon, but that it will take a bit longer than we like.”

  Wohl went on to say that “it’s only in the movies that a fingerprint lifted from the scene of a crime can be quickly matched with that of a criminal whose identity is unknown. There are hundreds of thousands of fingerprints in our files, millions in those of the FBI, and the prints we have in our possession will have to be matched to them one at a time until we get a match.”

  Wohl went on to explain that once the people sought are in custody, their fingerprints can be used to prove they were at the scene of the crime, “but until that happens, fingerprints won’t be of immediate use to us.

  “And once we have these people in custody, and can place them in a police lineup, there is no question in my mind-experience shows-that the witnesses to their crime will be able to positively identify them. This crime will not go unpunished.”

  Wohl said that police are already running down “a number of leads,” but declined to elaborate. End

  Wohl slid the two sheets of paper across the table to Coughlin. Lowenstein leaned over so that he could read it, too.

  “Magnificent story, Mickey,” Wohl said. “There’s just one little thing wrong with it. All those quotes from me are pure bullshit.”

  “Is the Black Buddha the most skilled homicide investigator you know of, or not?” O’Hara challenged.

  “Of course I am,” Washington said. “Let me see that when you’re finished, Dennis, please.”

  “He is, but I didn’t tell you that,” Wohl said.

  “But if I had asked, you would have said so, right? And I’m right about the fingerprints, right?”

  “But I didn’t even talk to you at the goddamn funeral home!”

  “But if you had, you would have said what I said you said, more or less, right?”

  “This’ll be in the paper tomorrow, Mick?” Lowenstein asked.

  “It will, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was on page one.”

  “Pity you couldn’t have put in there that we had a late-night conference,” Lowenstein said. “Martin would have loved that.”

  “I didn’t know about the ‘late-night conference’ until I walked in here,” O’Hara said. “When I heard on the command band that everybody was headed to the 700 block of North Second, I thought there was a war on here.”

  “Commissioner Coughlin and myself were conferring privately with Inspector Wohl,” Lowenstein said, “when these underlings coincidentally felt the need for a late-night cup of coffee at this fine establishment.”

  There were chuckles.

  “Nice story, Mickey,” Coughlin said.

  “Presuming the conference is over,” Wohl said, as he got to his feet, “I am going home.” He looked at Matt. “And so are you.”

  Coughlin stood up.

  “Are we square with the tab here?”

  “I’ll get the tab,” Mickey O’Hara said. “My pleasure.”

  “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and at the mayor’s office at quarter to nine, Matty,” Coughlin ordered. “And I expect you to be nice to your grandmother.”

  “I have, as always,” Jason Washington said, getting to his feet, “thoroughly enjoyed the company of my colleagues. And I am sure you have all profited greatly from the experience. ”

  Detective Harris shook his head, then chuckled, then giggled, and then laughed. That proved contagious, and each of them was smiling, or chuckling, or laughing as they filed out the door onto North Second Street.

  SIX

  The Hon. Alvin W. Martin looked up from his desk when his executive assistant, Dianna Kerr-Gally, a tall, thin, stylish, thirtyish black woman, slipped into his office. thin,

  "It’s ten past nine, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Is everybody in the conference room?”

  “Just about, but Commissioner Mariani has someone he wants you to meet.”

  She nodded toward the outer office.

  “Sure, send him in,” the mayor replied, with an enthusiasm he really didn’t feel. He had things to do, and the less time spent on the promotion ceremony the better.

  It wasn’t only Commissioner Mariani. He had with him Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and a tall, lean, stern-faced, gray-haired woman in a simple black dress and the young detective who had scored number one.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” Mariani said.

  “Good morning, Ralph.”

  The mayor smiled at the woman, who returned it with a barely perceptible curling of her lips.

  She looks like that farmer’s wife in the Grant Wood painting.

  What’s that on her dress? Miniature police badges. Three of them.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “I thought before the program begins that you’d like to meet Mrs. Gertrude Moffitt…”

  “I’m delighted. How do you do, Mrs. Moffitt?”

  She nodded, her lips curled slightly again, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Mrs. Moffitt is the widow of a police officer, and two of her sons died in the line of duty as police officers…,” Coughlin said.

  Well, that explains the three badges.

  “… Sergeant John X. Moffitt and Captain Richard C. Moffitt…” Coughlin went on.

  “That’s a proud tradition, Mrs. Moffitt,” the mayor said. “I’m honored to meet you.”

  She nodded again.

  “… and she is Detective Payne’s grandmother,” Coughlin finished.

  “The tradition continues, then,” the mayor said. “This must be a proud moment for you.”

  “If my grandson still carried his father’s name, it would be,” she said.

  What the hell does that mean?

  Detective Payne looked pained.

  Whatever the hell it is, I’m not going to get into it here and now.

  “Since you know full well, Mrs. Moffitt, that police work never ceases, I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I ask the commissioner if there have been any developments in the Roy Rogers case.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Mayor…”

  Damn! The press will be in the conference room. It would have been a perfect place and time to announce the cops have finally bagged those animals.

  “… but Commissioner Coughlin tells me there was a meeting last night of all the principals of the task force, plus Chief of Detectives Lowenstein.”

  “Really? Well, I hope something good will come from it.”

  “I feel sure that it will, Mr. Mayor,” Coughlin said. “We all feel there will be developments in the very near future.”

/>   “I hope you’re right, Commissioner,” the mayor said. “Mrs. Moffitt, when we go into the conference room”-he looked at his watch-“and we’re going to have to do that right now, I think it would be very appropriate if you were to pin his new badge on your grandson.”

  And a picture like that will certainly make the evening news.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Here it is, Mother Moffitt,” Coughlin said. “That’s Jack’s badge.”

  “That’s Jack’s badge?” she asked, looking at the badge Coughlin was holding out to her.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You told me, Dennis Coughlin, that it had been buried with him.”

  “I was wrong,” Coughlin said.

  “And where was it all these years? She had it, didn’t she?”

  “Patricia’s Jack’s widow, Mother Moffitt.”

  She snatched the badge out of his hand.

  “Well, at least she won’t have it now,” Mother Moffitt said.

  “If you will all go into the conference room now?” Dianna Kerr-Gally asked, gesturing at a door. “We can get the ceremony under way.”

  When the mayor tried to follow the procession into the conference room, Dianna Kerr-Gally held up her arm, palm extended, to stop him.

  He stopped.

  Dianna Kerr-Gally, using her fingers and mouthing the numbers, counted downward from ten, then signaled the mayor to go into the conference room.

  He walked briskly to the head of the table, where a small lectern had been placed. He looked around the room, smiling, attempting to lock eyes momentarily with everyone.

  There were five promotees, all of whom looked older than Detective Payne, and all but Payne were in uniform. Two of the promotees were gray-haired. All the promotees were accompanied by family and/or friends. Dianna Kerr-Gally had put out the word no more than four per promotee, and apparently that had been widely ignored. The large room was crowded, just about full.

  There were three video cameras at the rear of the room, and at least half a dozen still photographers. One of them was Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin.

  I’ll have to remember to thank him for that front-page story about the task force.

  Jesus, is that who I think it is? It damn sure is.