“I’m Special Agent Bendick of the Mobile office of the FBI, Lieutenant…”
“So you said.”
“And inasmuch as this case crosses state lines, the FBI-”
“I don’t believe this case meets the necessary criteria for the unsolicited involvement of the FBI, Mr. Bendick,” Steve Cohen said.
“And may I ask who you are?”
“My name is Steven Cohen. I’m an assistant district attorney in Philadelphia.”
“I don’t really understand your attitude,” Special Agent Bendick began.
“They’re understandably a little pissed, J. Edgar Junior, that you tried to steal their pinch for the glory of the FBI. Unfortunately, you picked the wrong guys,” Mickey said.
He quickly snapped another photograph.
“If you will excuse us, Mr. Bendick,” Washington said. “We have an appointment with the chief.”
“Right this way, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Kenny said, waving them toward one of the steel doors.
“Mr. O’Hara,” Washington said. “This is official police business, to which, unfortunately, I cannot make you privy at this time. Perhaps you’d like to stay here and continue your conversation with Mr. Bendick?”
Sergeant Kenny waited until Cohen and Matt had gone through the steel door, then followed them through it.
Special Agent Bendick looked at the closed door, then at Mickey O’Hara, who was again raising his camera, and then, mustering what dignity he could, marched out of the building.
“I have a confession to make,” Washington said. “I was not overjoyed when Commissioner Coughlin told me Mickey was coming with us. But now?”
“He was magnificent,” Cohen said.
“What did Mickey call him, ‘J. Edgar Jr.’?” Matt asked, laughing.
“I don’t think we’ve heard the last of him,” Cohen said.
“Fuck him,” Washington said, coldly.
Matt was surprised. Washington very rarely used vulgar language.
Washington turned to Sergeant Kenny and offered his hand.
“My name is Washington, Sergeant,” he said.
“How are you?” Kenny said. “Payne said you were about as big as me.”
“And this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney.” They shook hands.
“Detective Lassiter was supposed to tell you we would be here as soon as we got ourselves settled…”
“She’s in with the chief. Come on, I’ll take you in.”
“Thank you.”
“You got any kin down this way, Lieutenant?” Kenny asked.
“Not so far as I know, but a first glance at the genetic evidence does seem to make that a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed-in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit-man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sensed his secretary’s presence at his office door and raised his eyes to her from the documents on his desk.
“Yes, Helen?” he asked, a slight tone of impatience in his voice. He had asked not to be disturbed if at all possible.
“I know, I know. But it’s Burton White, the SAC in Mobile…”
“Put him through. Thank you, Helen.”
Walter Davis had known Burton White since they had been at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and they had crossed paths often since. They had risen through the ranks together. Not quite as high together, as Philadelphia was a more important post than Mobile.
It is always pleasant, Davis thought, as he waited for the light on his telephone to illuminate, to touch base with a peer who has not risen quite as far as oneself.
The light came on, and Davis grabbed the phone.
“Burton, you old sonofabitch! How are you, buddy? How’s things down there in the sunny South?”
“It’s raining, and this is the Heart of Dixie, Walt. It says so on our license plates.”
“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, buddy. What can Philadelphia do for our outpost in the Heart of Dixie?”
“I’m having a little problem with the local cops. Your local cops. I thought you might be able to help me-the Bureau- out on this.”
“Do whatever I can, you know that. My local cops? What are they doing way down there?”
“You had a murder up there…”
“We have a lot of murders up here.”
“This one was of a young woman raped and murdered in her apartment. It was on the NCIC, looking for a similar modus operandi.”
“That one made the front pages. It seems like the cops were actually on the scene, but couldn’t take the door because there was no sign of forced entry. They took a beating for a while in the press.”
“Well, one of my agents heard about the case, and then there was a similar modus operandi in a little village across the bay from here, and he went to check it out…”
“And it was the man the locals here are looking for? Good for you, Walt! A little favorable publicity never hurts the Bureau, does it? You’re sure you’ve got the right man?”
“When he got over there, your locals were already there.”
“You don’t say. That’s odd. I had lunch with the Commissioner-Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani-yesterday, and he didn’t say anything to me.”
The sonofabitch! There’s no way Philadelphia cops would go all the way to Alabama without Mariani knowing all about it. And he didn’t say a goddamn word!
“There were Philadelphia Homicide cops there, plus an assistant D.A.”
“Well, your man took over, didn’t he, Burton?”
“He ran into a stone wall, Walt. I was hoping you could speak to somebody up there.”
“You didn’t get any names, by chance?”
“There was a Lieutenant Washington, a Sergeant Payne, and a female detective-I don’t have a name on her-an assistant D.A. named Cohen, and some wiseass of a reporter named O’Hara, who accused my agent of shamelessly trying to steal the arrest. Do you think you could say a word in the appropriate ear up there?”
Of course I could. And then Mariani would shove it down my throat. With great joy.
“No. I don’t think I could, Burton.”
“ ‘No’? Just like that? ‘No’?”
“Let me tell you about the locals you’re dealing with, Burton,” Davis said. “Starting with the sergeant. You remember a couple of months ago, when one of my people had to put down a terrorist?”
“The guy with the machine gun? A real O.K. Corral shoot-out? ”
“That’s the case. Well, he had with him a local cop who, it has been reliably reported to me, said, ‘Some of my best friends are FBI agents, but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one.’ ”
“A real wiseass, eh?”
“Whose father is a senior partner in what is probably our most important law firm. That’s the sergeant. The lieutenant is probably Jason Washington. Is he a great big black fellow? ”
“That’s the man. My agent says he’s enormous.”
“Who is married to a lady who moves in the same exalted arty circles as our mayor, and incidentally is the best Homicide investigator I’ve ever known.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Cohen is one of our two-hundred-odd assistant district attorneys. He specializes in the prosecution of homicides. He is generally held in high esteem-on a scale ranging upward from one to two hundred, he would be mighty close to two hundred, in other words-by those who know him. Including me.”
“Well, they didn’t behave with anything like professional courtesy, no matter who they are. They stood right there while this belligerent reporter-”
“And that would be Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, Burton, the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter of the Philadelphia Bulletin,” Davis interrupted, “whom I have been assiduously attempting to cultivate since they made me the SAC here. Without conspicuous success. I can only hope your agent didn’t antagonize him.”
There was silence on the line for a long moment, before Davis continued.
“So, for the reasons mentioned, Burton, no, I cannot say a word in the appropriate ear here. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to stay away-far away-from these people unless they ask for your assistance, in which case I suggest you be the spirit of cooperation.”
“Chief Yancey,” Jason Washington said, “I would be very grateful if there were someplace private where I could confer with Mr. Cohen and Sergeant Payne for a few minutes before we talk to Mr. Daniels.”
“You’re welcome to use this,” the chief said.
“You are very kind, sir,” Washington said, and waited for the others to leave.
“What’s this, Jason?” Cohen asked the moment the door closed.
“With the caveat that what I suggest would have to have your approval-not implied approval, and certainly not grudging approval-I am going to suggest a scenario for the initial interview.”
“Shoot.”
“Sergeant Kenny will handcuff and shackle Mr. Daniels in his cell, and bring him… here, I suppose, inasmuch as they do not have an interview room as such, would be as good a place as any, and I think the chief would make it available to us-and handcuff him to a heavy and, it is to be hoped, uncomfortable chair, if such can be located.
“Here, for ten minutes, he will wait-with Sergeant Kenny standing out of his sight behind his chair-while absolutely nothing happens. It will, I think, in his frame of mind, seem like much longer.
“It is possible that he will feel the call of nature, and I hope this indeed happens, because it will give Sergeant Kenny the opportunity to lead him-after he takes, say, five minutes getting permission to do so, while another silent officer stands behind the chair-back to his cell, and then back here, all the time in handcuffs and shackles. The ten-minute time clock will start again, if this happens, on his return here.
“I think his only experience with being either handcuffed or shackled was when he was first detained by the concerned citizens. There is a feeling of both helplessness and humiliation when one is shackled and handcuffed.”
“You don’t want to go too far with that, Jason,” Cohen said.
“Handcuffs and shackles are a normal security precaution. Nothing will take place that could possibly be construed as a threat of physical violence.
“His attorney will next appear. Mr. Daniels will almost certainly ask him what’s going on, to which Mr. Bernhardt will give the only reply he knows, that they are waiting for the police-I hope the word ‘homicide’ is used-and another ten minutes will pass.
“Then Sergeant Payne will enter the room and prepare to begin the first interview-”
“Sergeant Payne?” Cohen asked, incredulously, “and where am I?”
“Pray indulge me. I will be grateful for any objections or suggestions you might have, but let me finish, please, first.”
“Go ahead.”
“Payne will unlimber a recording device, not hurrying at all. One with two microphones would be good, and if we can find one with four, that would be even better.”
“A little theater, Jason?”
Washington nodded.
“When the recording device is set up, Matt will respectfully summon you from the corridor. When you come in, Matt will say, ‘Mr. Daniels, this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney for Philadelphia, who specializes in prosecution of those charged with murder.’
“And then he will turn on the tape recorder, and go through the routine there… ‘This interview of Mr. Homer C. Daniels, in connection with the murder of Cheryl Williamson,’ et cetera. You both know the routine.”
Both nodded.
“And then Matt will say, ‘Mr. Daniels, I understand that you have been advised of your rights as established by the United States Supreme Court, commonly called ‘the Miranda Decision,’ but just to make sure that you are fully aware of your constitutional rights in this situation, I’m going to go over them again with you in the presence of your attorney.”
“And re-Miranda-ize him?” Cohen said. He was now smiling.
Washington nodded.
“And then Matt will say something to this effect: ‘Mr. Daniels, I’m Sergeant Matthew Payne, Badge Number, of the Homicide Unit of the Philadelphia-’ ”
“Won’t he have already said that?” Cohen interrupted.
“Possibly, but redundancy is sometimes useful,” Washington said, and went on: " ’-and what I am going to do now is tell you why we believe, beyond any reasonable doubt, that in taking the life of Miss Cheryl Williamson you are in violation of Paragraph 2502(b) of the Criminal Code of Pennsylvania; that, in other words, you are guilty of Murder of the Second Degree.’
“At this point, I really hope Mr. Daniels will think he sees a slight glimmer of hope. ‘Second Degree? That can’t be as bad as First. Maybe I’m not going to be executed after all.’ ”
“I think I see where you’re going, Jason,” Cohen said.
“At this point, Steve, you will disabuse him of this hope by interrupting Matt and handing Mr. Bernhardt a xerox of page thirty-four of the Crime Codes, and saying, one lawyer to another, ‘I didn’t know if this was readily available to you, Counselor, you might want to look it over.’ And when he has had a moment to do so, you will add, collegially, ‘You’ll see that the only difference between Murder of the First Degree and of the Second, is that the First is premeditated, and Second while the accused was engaged in the perpetration of a felony. A little farther down the page, you’ll see that perpetration of a felony is defined as-’ ”
" ’- engaging in, or being an accomplice in the commission of,’ ” Cohen picked up, quoting from memory, “ ‘or an attempt to commit, or flight after committing, or attempting to commit robbery, rape, or deviate sexual intercourse, by force or threat of force, arson, burglary, or kidnapping.’ ”
“So by now he understands he’s really in trouble,” Matt said.
“Which understanding you will then buttress,” Washington said, “by proceeding something like this: ‘Mr. Daniels, I’m not going to be asking you, right now, many questions, because frankly I don’t have to. What I’m going to do is run through what we know right now, and then give you the opportunity to confer with your attorney, and after that you and he, and Mr. Cohen, can confer, if you like.’ ”
“And then I go down what we do have,” Matt said. “Starting with what?”
“I would suggest the camera. ‘We have the camera you left at the scene, Mr. Daniels, and the images it contained. We know that you bought the camera at Times Square Photo and Electronics, on…’ Do you have the date?”
“It’s in here,” Matt said, indicating his laptop.
Washington nodded.
“… ‘and we have your signature on the sales slip. Among the images in the camera are those of the knife you used, and which the police took away from you here. One of the images shows sperm on the blade of the knife. We think it’s reasonable to believe it’s yours, and that we can convince a judge there is sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant, which will give us a sample of your tissue so that a DNA comparison can be made’…”
“I get the picture,” Matt said.
“Overconfidence is dangerous, as I’ve tried to point out to you before,” Washington said. “That is especially true of someone like you, who has an abundance of confidence in himself that is not entirely justified.”
Matt looked at him but didn’t say anything.
“Does this scenario have any appeal at all to you, Counselor? ” Washington said.
“It might even work, Jason,” Cohen said.
“I will accept that as meaning it has your full approval,” Washington said, but it was more a question than a statement.
Cohen thought this over for a moment, then nodded.
“Matt, you go someplace quiet-Mickey’s car, perhaps- with your laptop, and refresh your memory about the details. Your performance will be more effective if you can readily recite from memor
y, for example, the date he bought the camera.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t have to tell you, do I, not to have your laptop with you? I don’t want it subpoenaed.”
“No, sir.”
“Refreshing your memory should take no more than ten minutes, and during that time, I will set the stage in here and give Sergeant Kenny an understanding of his role-and how important it is-in our theatrical production.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
Cohen waited until he was gone and the door had closed behind him.
“Jason, you and I have marched down this path together for a long time,” he said. “And you know I’ll go to the wire and beyond for you. But will you tell me why you’re sending Matt to do this? He’s a nice kid, and I really like him, but…”
“Primarily, Steve, for the educational aspects of it. This is his first homicide job.”
“And if he blows it?”
“I don’t think he will. He’s smart, he can think on his feet, et cetera.”
“But if he does?”
“Then we will both-Matt and I, I mean-know he doesn’t belong in Homicide, won’t we?”
“Then it’s sink or swim time, right?”
“I shall have to make note of that phrase,” Washington said. “It is so profound.”
“What about Daniels, if Matt blows it?”
“Then, psychologically guided interrogation having proven ineffective, I fear I shall be forced to revert to the rubber hose system.”
Cohen chuckled.
“That’s really not so funny,” Washington said. “I really would like to work that walking obscenity over with a rubber hose.”
NINETEEN
When Sergeant Kenny led Homer C. Daniels from what the Daphne police department called the detention area into the administrative area and toward the chief’s office, Daniels was even more firmly cuffed and shackled than Jason Washington thought he would be.
The chief of police had gone into his supply room and come out with a white canvas bag labeled “Prisoner Restraint System.” It held three belts made of thick saddle leather and heavy canvas, a Y-shaped chain, and some other accessories. The system looked as if it was rarely used, if it ever had been.
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