“A few minutes before two this morning, Miss Williamson’s neighbor called 911, reporting that her mirror had fallen off the wall. Two patrol cars-not just one-of the Thirty-fifth District responded, and were here in just under four minutes. They listened to what the neighbor said, that she suspected that something had happened in Miss Williamson’s apartment that had caused her mirror to fall off the wall. The officers rang Miss Williamson’s doorbell and knocked at the door. They did that at both the front and rear doors. And they looked for signs of a forced entry and found none. There were no lights on in the apartment, and they could hear no sounds. They concluded there was no one in the apartment.”
“And left?”
“And left.”
“Why didn’t they go in the apartment?”
“Because that would be against the law,” Coughlin said. “Without sufficient cause, police have no right to break into anyone’s home.”
“The neighbor said, you said, that she thought something had happened in the apartment. That’s not sufficient cause?”
“If there had been any sound, even any lights burning, any indication of forced entry, I’m sure they would have entered the apartment. There wasn’t, and they didn’t.”
“And how do you think her family will react to that explanation? ”
“This is Detective Lassiter,” Coughlin said. “She can answer that better than I can.”
“I’ve spoken to Miss Williamson’s mother and brother,” Olivia said. “They both told me they understand why the police did not break into the apartment. Mrs. Williamson said all that she wants is for the police to find whoever did this to her daughter before the same sort of thing happens to someone else.”
“And what exactly did this guy do to her?”
“At this point, we don’t even know it was a guy,” Olivia said. “We just started the investigation. Commissioner, may I be excused?”
“Yes, you can, Detective, and I am about to excuse myself,” Coughlin said. “Whenever we learn more, we will make it available to the press. Thank you.”
“He’s very good at that,” Lowenstein said, in the apartment. “We look a lot better than we did five minutes ago.”
Everyone agreed, but no one said anything.
Lowenstein looked around and found Jason Washington.
“You know O’Hara’s cell phone number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think it would be a very good idea for you to meet with him, now. Take Payne and Lassiter with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for the rest of you, one or two at a time, not all at once, get out of here and let the Homicide people do their job.”
There were nods of understanding and a few “Yes, sir”s.
Chief Inspector of Detectives Lowenstein had two more thoughts:
“If you don’t mind a suggestion, Sergeant Payne,” he said. “I think that you personally should try to run down connecting the camera with the doer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I think it might be useful if you asked Dr. Payne to look at those pictures. Do you think she would be willing to do that?”
“I’m sure she would, sir.”
“Chief,” Captain Durwinsky said, “I’d like to have copies of those pictures as soon as I can have them. We may be dealing with the same doer.”
“How can that be done, Payne?”
“All I need is access to a computer with a digital photo program and a color printer,” Matt said.
“We’ve got one at Special Victims,” Durwinsky said. “That’s not far.”
“Okay,” Lowenstein said. “There it is. O’Hara, Special Victims, your sister and running down the doer via the camera. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
"O’Hara first, Chief?” Captain Durwinsky asked.
“Yeah, Helene,” Lowenstein said. "O’Hara first. I would like to see at least one story in the newspapers that doesn’t gleefully point out our many failures and all-around stupidity. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Now everybody get to work.”
Lowenstein walked out of the apartment.
In the hope that it wouldn’t be seen, Michael J. O’Hara of the Philadelphia Bulletin parked his Buick Rendezvous behind the Oak Lane Diner at Broad and Old York Road. The Rendezvous, with its array of antennae, was known to other members of the Philadelphia press corps, and some of his colleagues were even bright enough to be able to spot an unmarked car, and wonder what O’Hara was up to with the cops.
Mickey entered the diner and, after looking around, found Lieutenant Jason Washington, Sergeant Matt Payne, and that good-looking detective who’d come out of the crime scene with Denny Coughlin to face the press, at a banquette in the rear, drinking coffee.
He walked to them and slid in beside Washington.
“Well, isn’t this a coincidence!” O’Hara said. “Mind if I sit down?”
“I hoped you parked that conspicuous vehicle of yours where it will not attract the attention of the Fourth Estate?” Washington asked.
“Jesus!” Mickey said, his tone suggesting that Washington should have known the question was unnecessary. He smiled at Detective Lassiter. “I’m Mickey O’Hara.”
“Yes, sir, I know who you are,” Olivia said.
Mickey shook his head sadly, gave out a long sigh, and turned to Matt.
"You’re in luck, Matthew,” O’Hara said. “This beauty-this young beauty-calls me ‘sir,’ which means she has decided I am too old to merit her interest.”
“As obviously you are,” Washington said.
“Then, speaking with the wisdom of a senior citizen, my beauty, let me advise you to beware of this young man. While some think of him as the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line, others more accurately describe him as the Casanova of Center City.”
“That’s not funny, Mick,” Matt flared.
“Which part?”
“The Wyatt Earp part,” Matt said. “As a matter of fact, both parts.”
“One day, my beauty…”
“My name is Lassiter,” Olivia said.
"One day, Lassiter, my beauty,” O’Hara went on, “not so long ago, in an alley of our fair city, Wyatt Earp here put down a very bad guy who was shooting at both of us with a. 45. I meant nothing but respect in dubbing him Wyatt Earp.”
“As disassociated as I am from the realities of life,” Washington said, “I actually thought you would be interested in learning what has transpired at 600 Independence.”
“I know what happened at 600 Independence. A citizen called 911 when she heard strange noises in the next apartment. Two uniforms responded, and they all stood around chatting and not taking the door while the doer worked his wicked way on the victim. What else do I need to know?”
“You know why they didn’t-couldn’t-take the door?”
“This is not at all what I expected when you called, Jason, my oversized old pal,” Mickey said.
“Excuse me?” Washington said.
“When you summoned me, I expected to find you, Tony Harris, and that black kid from the Roy Rogers-you do recall asking if I would mind going over the whole thing from Step One once again with the aforementioned?”
“That’s at five o’clock this afternoon. That’s when you said you’d be free and when the kid gets off work,” Washington said.
“Then you called again, Jason, twenty minutes ago, and asked if I was free to come here now, and I said yes, and I walk in here, and not only do I get Wyatt Earp and the beauty here, instead of the expected aforementioned, but you ask me the really dumb question ‘do I know why Hyde and Cubellis didn’t take the victim’s door?’ ”
“How’d you know their names?” Olivia blurted.
“I wouldn’t want this to get around, my beauty, but some of my friends are cops.”
“And?” Washington asked.
“What you’ve got are two nice young cops who are sick about maybe being outside doing nothing while thi
s critter was doing what he did to the girl-that’s their first reaction- and second, they are naturally a little worried that the mayor is going to hang them out to turn in the wind. I don’t intend to let that happen. I’m going to do one of my famous think pieces. My working slug is ‘A tough call, but the right one.’ ”
“Thanks, Mick,” Washington said. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
“It would help if I knew a little about the doer, or maybe what he did to her.”
“All we really know about him is that he is unquestionably a psychopath,” Washington said.
“Isn’t that a given with a rapist?”
“This guy is sick, Mick,” Washington said.
“How do you know that?”
Washington hesitated just perceptibly.
“Not for publication?”
“Agreed.”
“Show him the pictures, Matt,” Washington ordered, and added: “He left his camera behind.”
Matt took his laptop from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
“You know how to work Photo Smart?”
“Another unnecessary question.”
"The pictures are in ’Wilifoto,’ ” Matt said.
O’Hara turned the laptop on and started the Photo Smart program.
“This fellow is a bit odd, isn’t he?” Mickey said, looking at the first picture, and then, as he ran through the images, twice added: “Jesus H. Christ!”
“May I see those?” Olivia asked.
“No,” Mickey said. “You really don’t want to see them.”
"I’m a cop, Mr. O’Hara,” she said.
"Of that I have no doubt, my beauty,” O’Hara said, as he turned the computer off and closed the lid, “but you are also indisputably a very nice young woman. My sainted mother would never forgive me if I showed those images to a very nice young woman.”
He slid the laptop back across the table.
“You going to get him?” he asked.
"Still off the record?” Washington asked. O’Hara nodded. “All we have right now is the camera. They’re serially numbered, and we’re going to try that.”
"Good luck,” O’Hara said, getting to his feet. “This guy needs bagging, and soon.”
“I’ll keep you posted, Mick,” Washington said.
"I’m counting on that,” O’Hara said. He looked at Olivia. “Remember what I said about the Casanova of Center City, my beauty.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mickey!” Matt said.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow,” O’Hara proclaimed, and walked out of the diner.
“We have a transportation problem,” Washington said. “I rode out here with Captain Quaire. I have to get back…”
Matt reached into his pocket and handed him the keys to his unmarked car.
“I’ll ride with Lassiter,” he said.
“I’m going to have to give my car back to Northwest,” she said.
“You are very bright youngsters,” Washington said. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sort this out.” He slid across the banquette and stood up, and added: “You can have your car back later-sometime after I meet with Tony, O’Hara, and the kid from the Roy Rogers. Okay if I leave it at the Roundhouse, the keys with the uniform in the lobby?”
“Fine,” Matt said.
“Welcome to Homicide, Detective Lassiter,” Washington said. “And I wouldn’t worry too much about Sergeant Payne. His Lothario reputation is really far darker than the facts justify.”
He walked away from the table.
After a moment, Olivia asked, “Special Victims?”
"I’m thinking,” Matt said. “Sometimes that takes a little time.”
“And I’d like to see those pictures.”
He didn’t reply.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
She watched as he walked to a pay telephone booth in the front of the diner and looked in the yellow pages telephone book. He punched at the keys of his cellular for a moment, then returned to the table.
“What?” Olivia asked.
“Watch,” he said, and pushed the Call button on his cellular phone.
“Center City Photo? I need to talk to someone about Kodak digital cameras.”
Getting the correct number at Kodak from Center City Photo was like pulling teeth. The Eastman Kodak Company in Rochester, New York-once Matt had identified himself as Sergeant Payne of the Philadelphia police department Homicide Unit-was very cooperative. It would take them a little time to run the serial number down-was there a number where he could be reached?
Their call came as Olivia was pulling up before the Special Victims building at the Frankford Arsenal.
Their records indicated that a digital camera with that serial number had been shipped, as part of an order for a dozen identical cameras, five months before, to Times Square Photo amp; Electronics, 17 West Forty-second Street, New York City.
"That camera comes with an overnight FedEx replacement, right?”
“That’s right, Sergeant, it does. And I checked to see if that program had been activated for that camera. It hadn’t.”
Oh, shit. But what did I expect? That this critter was going to leave a trail for me?
“But that sometimes happens,” the lady from Kodak went on. “People sometimes don’t activate the program until they have problems with the camera.”
Am I going to get lucky?
“You don’t have a phone number of Times Square Photo, by any chance, do you?”
She gave it to him.
“Thank you very much,” Sergeant Payne said. “I really appreciate your cooperation.”
The two people at Times Square Photo with whom Sergeant Payne spoke on his cellular were not nearly so cooperative. The first person, a male, spoke only a few words of English, and the second, a female he finally managed to get on the line, had only a few more words of English than did her male colleague.
These were sufficient, however, to make Sergeant Payne understand that she couldn’t do nothing like consult her records of sale for just anybody, that she was trying to run a business, for Christ’s sake, and at that moment she had customers she had to take care of. For Christ’s sake.
“Did you understand me when I said this is Sergeant Payne of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia police department? ”
“No shit? Good for you. Good luck. Have a nice day.”
And at that point she hung up.
“Sonofabitch!” Matt said, then, to Olivia, “Sorry.”
“I have heard the expression before,” Detective Lassiter said.
Matt held the key that automatically dialed the office of Amelia S. Payne, M.D. He was informed that Dr. Payne was with a patient.
“This is Sergeant Payne. This is official police business. Get her on the phone, please.”
Dr. Payne came on the line thirty seconds later.
“Matt, this had better really be police business.”
“It is. I’m working a murder.”
“Not the one where the cops stood around outside her apartment shooting the breeze while the girl was murdered and raped?”
“I didn’t know you listened to Philadelphia Phil, Amy.”
“My secretary does. And it’s Phil’s Philly.”
“That’s not exactly the way it happened, Amy.”
“Of course not,” she said, sarcastically.
“Are you scrapping with Peter again, or is there some other reason you’re being such a bitch?”
“What do you want, Matthew?”
“The doer left his digital camera at the scene. With pictures of the act. Chief Lowenstein wants you to look at them.”
“Just Chief Lowenstein?”
“Me, too, Amy, okay?”
“Okay. Bring them by. I’ll take a look.”
“I’m about to print them. I’ll be there in thirty, thirty-five minutes.”
“Okay,” Amy said, and hung up.
The Special Victims Unit did not have a color printer the q
uality of the one Mickey O’Hara had had the Bulletin buy for him. It was slow, there were eight images, and Matt made what he quickly realized was an error when he pushed the button that caused the printer to make three prints of each image.
He needed a set for Amy, of course. And the price of using their printer was a set for Special Victims, and a third set was necessary for Jason Washington, both for his edification and to make sure there was no screwup when the Forensics lab finally got the flash memory card and made the official prints.
The result of this was that it took thirty-six minutes for the printer to do the job, and as they came slowly out of the printer Detectives Lassiter and Domenico had the opportunity to take good, long looks at all of them. Matt didn’t give a damn about Domenico, but he was made uneasy by Detective Lassiter’s reaction. Her face made it evident that she was trying and failing to examine the photographs with calm professionalism.
When they were finally outside, in Detective Lassiter’s more than a little beat-up unmarked car, she looked at him for orders.
“We’re a little pressed for time-What do I call you? ‘Olivia’ all right?”
“Fine, Sergeant.”
“We’re a little pressed for time, Olivia. I think you should meet my sister; you’ll probably have to see her again, so we’ll go to the university first. Then, since Washington grabbed my car, we’ll go to my place so I can pick up my car. I’m going to New York. Then I want you to drop a set of pictures off at Homicide. If Lieutenant Washington is there-or Captain Quaire-give them to one of them. If not, seal the envelope and give it to the man on the wheel for Washington. Then I think you’d better go call on the Williamsons again. Get their statements.”
“What do I do about getting this car back to Northwest Detectives?”
“We’ll deal with that later,” Matt said. “The priorities right now, I think, are to see if I can run this critter down through the camera store, and to keep the Williamsons happy.”
“Happy?” she asked, sarcastically.
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, what did you think of my sister?” Matt asked when they were back in the unmarked car outside the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
“She’s nice,” Olivia said. “And she’s a professor of psychiatry?”
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