Dublin Odyssey

by Michael P. Cooney

  Mickey questions the man’s name. “Mr. Peter Paul?”

  “That’s what we named him. You know. ‘If I Had a Hammer’ Peter, Paul and Mary.”

  Mickey laughs and shakes his head. “I miss this place. I really do.”

  “Remember what you used to say, Boss? ‘Sometimes ya gotta laugh to keep from crying.’”

  “Got that from my Da. The original Officer Devlin.”

  “Smart man.”

  “True story. He and my mom had this whole life thing down to a science. Anyway. Did anybody get an interview from Mr. Paul yet?”

  “Not yet. He was a little under the weather when the guys brought him in. He’s sleeping it off. Want Nick or Howard to grab an interview? Or do you want a crack at him? For old times’ sake.”

  “Love to. But I think I’ll check with Ritchey first.”

  “Sounds good, Boss. Want me to put you on the S and R as an unscheduled check?”

  “Why not? Thanks, Don.”

  Mickey heads down the short hallway, stops at interview room 2 and takes a quick peek through the shoulder-high, wire-enforced window at a sleeping white-haired man. Looks harmless. Further down the hall, the door to room 3 is open, and perched on a small tin box is a lit cinnamon-scented candle. The candle is CDD’s in-house attempt at eliminating the smell of urine and vomit embedded in the small iron floor drain and who knows what on the walls.

  Mickey continues down the hall to the larger rear squad room. Half the fluorescent lights are either out completely or blinking to a four four tempo. Mickey forgot just what a dump Central is to work in. The room is lined with a dozen identical battleship-gray steel desks all with tan case folders spread haphazardly across them. The room and seating arrangement are shared by around forty or so investigators from five different squads.

  Before Mickey can walk to Sergeant Ritchey sitting at one of the desks going over 75-49 reports with his two detectives, he pops up and greets his most productive investigator, ever.

  “Now here’s a sight for sore eyes. How the hell you doing?”

  Mickey shakes hands with his favorite police sergeant of all time. In a police department long, long ago, Sergeant Gunter Ritchey took a rookie detective, Mickey Devlin, under his wing and helped mold him into a detective’s detective. Mickey never forgot the support and encouragement Sergeant Ritchey gave him early on in his investigative career. And he tried to do the same for the “new guys” too. Mickey shined and became a Central Detective star. His blue-collar work ethic and innate knack for getting to the truth by following the evidence eventually got him “noticed” by commanders in Philly’s elite Homicide Unit.

  It was while working Homicide that he teamed up with and befriended Detective Seamus McCarthy. Even as Mickey moved up the ranks and was re-assigned, the two men continued to team up and expand their individual reputations as premiere investigators. Most notable, the 1991 investigation into the so-called “We the People” social club and the racially charged City Hall corruption trials; and again in the ‘93 investigation into the death of a decorated but corrupt narcotics detective. A man “in bed with” the head of the largest and most violent Latino drug cartel trying to take over the “Bog,” a long-established Irish-American community in North Philly.

  “I’m doing fine, Gunt. You haven’t changed a lick. Still pushing those heavyweights around, I see.” Mickey grabs Gunter’s right arm. “Did you register these guns?”

  The sergeant laughs his signature high-pitched laugh. Mickey and the two detectives join in.

  “So big-time CIB Captain, what brings you back to us? Run out of uniforms to harass?”

  “Just trying to spread the harassment around is all.”

  The sergeant again tells Mickey how good it is to see him. Except this time he has a tear in his eye.

  Mickey reacts. “I know, Gunter. Me too.”

  “So how can we help you this fine May morning?”

  “I was interested in what you guys are planning for the bell ringer?”

  “Oh. You mean Mr. Paul.”

  “Let me guess. That was your idea, right?”

  “Can’t take credit for that one. That was Big Jack’s contribution from the ‘Fish Bowl.’”

  “The guy had no ID on him?”

  “Nada! Had a couple of bucks and a set of keys.”

  “Oh well! So how’s Big Jack doing anyway? Haven’t seen him since we gave him a night on the town when he signed his final divorce papers.”

  “He’s good. Now he’s talking about marrying his ex again.”

  “Get out. Well, keep me in mind for his bachelor party.”

  “Hadn’t thought about that. See, that’s why you’re a big boss and I’m a lowly sergeant.”

  “Please. Save it for the next Central reunion.”

  “That reminds me. We’re thinking about doing it again in September. You up for it?”

  “Absolutely. Are we going back to the Parkway House?”

  “Of course. Now that’s settled. You want a crack at Mr. Paul before we decide what to charge him with? Off the record, of course.”

  “What are you gonna charge him with anyway?”

  “Being stupid in a public place. Or we’ll street him once he sobers up.”

  “The Park Rangers aren’t looking for him to be charged?”

  “The four-to-twelve desk man called them. They sent a guy out to check for any damage to the Liberty Bell pavilion. They got back and said they didn’t see any. So they left it up to us.”

  “Is the media on to Mr. Paul yet?”

  “Not really. Big Jack played it down from the Fish Bowl.”

  “So as far as you guys are concerned, Mr. Paul is just another DK armed with a sledgehammer?”

  “More or less. We’ll get him ID’ed. Run him through the system and escort him to the sidewalk. Minus the sledge of course.”

  “In that case. Sure, I’d like a few minutes with him.”

  “No problem. Hey, Howard. Wake up Mr. Paul. Tell him the Supreme Allied Commander wants to talk at him. Tell him if he wants to get out of here by breakfast to play nice.”

  Detective Howard Clob, who’s been working at his computer the whole time, jumps up and heads down the hall.

  “You got it, Boss.”

  “Just give Howard a minute, Cap.”

  Mickey and his favorite sergeant of all time continue shooting the breeze a few minutes.

  Howard returns. “He’s all yours, Captain Devlin.”

  “Thanks, Howard. This won’t take long.”

  Mickey walks back down the hall to interview room 2. Detective Ford has reappeared and is poised to unlock the door for the captain.

  “Ready, Cap?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Ford slides the bolt back to interview room 2.

  “Want me to stand-by, Boss, just in case?”

  Mickey takes a quick look through the observation window at the mysterious Mr. Paul who’s only semi-awake.

  “Unless our Mr. Paul has Houdini genes, I think I’ll be fine.”

  “The only genes this guy has are those wild and crazy genes.”

  Mickey smiles. “Sounds like he’d make a pretty good detective, Don.”

  Ford laughs and responds, “Now that our department doesn’t have an age requirement maybe you can recruit him, Boss. I’m sure we have an application somewhere around here.”

  Mickey smiles. “I’ll do my best. You still looking for a new partner?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Mickey upholsters his Glock 26 and hands it to Ford.

  “Let’s do this by the book, Don. Lock this up for me, will ya?”

  “I’ll lock it in our gun safe in the lieutenant’s room.”

  “Thanks, Don. Hang on to my radio for me, too, will ya. I have myself out here. Checking paperwork.”

  “Okay. Sure thing, Boss.”

  “Oh. And turn off the hall light after I go in. Okay?”

  As Mickey opens the door, Ford smiles and say
s, “You got it, Boss.”

  Mickey pulls the canvas blackout shade down over the small observation window, then slowly walks inside the tiny light-blue room. He leaves the door cracked and hugs the graffiti-filled wall while watching the man in the middle of the room. The man is sitting on a small gray aluminum chair that’s bolted to the center of the concrete floor above the tarnished three-inch brass drain.

  Above the man is a single-wire protected recessed light. He looks to be in his late fifties, early sixties. Both wrists are handcuffed to the arms of the chair and both ankles are secured to the legs of the chair with padded cuffs. Mickey can hear him breathing. The white-haired man hasn’t moved. His head is down with his chin resting on his chest. Mickey standing behind him a few feet away from the man reaches just outside the door and slowly flicks the switch on and off several times. Then he leaves it off and closes the door. The room goes completely dark. After a few seconds, the man reacts.

  “Do I look like a fuckin’ mushroom to you? Turn the fuckin’ light on.”

  Mickey doesn’t respond. He can hear the man moving around in the chair, his Smith & Wesson handcuffs tapping against the cold aluminum chair.

  “Are you deaf? I said turn the light on.”

  Now standing directly behind the man, Mickey still doesn’t respond. After about two minutes of sitting in the dark, the man asks, “Who the hell are you? You a fuckin’ vampire cop? I heard that dickhead out there call you, Boss. Is that what you are? Some higher up boss man? Goddamn it. What do you want?”

  Silence. After about five minutes of sitting in the dark the man asks his mysterious visitor again.

  “What do you want?”

  Mickey breaks his silence and quotes from the CIB S and R sheet. “The Greek is coming.”

  “What? Who the fuck are you? Will you please turn on that light? This is creepy. I’m a retired city employee, ya know.”

  Mickey again quotes from the S and R sheet. “It’s time for the people to take back our country.”

  “This is bullshit, Boss man. What do you want from me?”

  “Name?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name? Is that what all this boogeyman shit is all about? My name? All right already. My name is Jerry Drum. What else you want to know? I’m fifty-seven. I was born in Castleknock, Ireland. It’s a small town just outside Dublin City. What else you want? Tell me what the fuck you want. You gonna turn the light on now? Or what?”

  “What happened to your brogue, Jerry Drum?”

  “My brogue?”

  “When you were whacking the Liberty Bell pavilion and pontificating you had a brogue. Now you don’t. Why?”

  “Shit, man. When I’m drunk, I always have a brogue. When I’m sober, I don’t. You Irish, brudder? You act like one of those fuckin’ Garda from Dublin.”

  “Who’s the Greek?”

  “No, man. I ain’t goin’ there. This ain’t right. I wanta see who I’m talking to. I don’t like sitting in the dark. Turn on the light.”

  “When was the last time you saw the Greek? Where?”

  “If I tell you, will you turn on the light?”

  “We’ll see, brudder.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “Tell me about the Greek.”

  Drum doesn’t answer for almost a full minute. Mickey swears he can feel the guy smiling. Then Drum says two words, “He’s coming.”

  “From where?”

  “Home.”

  Mickey abruptly reaches for the hall switch and turns on the overhead light and leaves the room. By the time Drum blinks his way back to some semblance of normal vision, his visitor was gone.

  “Where are you? Where the fuck did you go? I want my drink now. This is no way to treat an old man. Ya fucker.”

  Detective Ford appears at the door holding a can of cola. He uncuffs Drum’s right wrist and hands him the can.

  “Here ya go, Mr. Drum. Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  Drum takes a couple sips of his cola and says, “Who was that guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The mystery Boss guy.”

  Ford doesn’t answer Drum. Instead he says, “Come on, finish your drink. I ain’t got all night.”

  Drum guzzles the rest of his cola and mumbles, “I’m a dead man.”

  Down the hall Mickey retrieves his Glock from the lieutenant’s gun locker, the same locker and combination Mickey used as detective. Then he gets his radio from Detective Ford. Ford and Sergeant Ritchey are in the front office talking to a wagon crew from the 9th District who just transported two twenty-something Latinos. The men were apprehended as they exited the broken front window of a closed dry cleaning business on Fairmount Avenue at 24th. One of the officers is carrying several plastic-covered men’s suits.

  One of the 9th District officers recognizes Mickey from when he was a detective in Central over ten years ago.

  “Hey, Cap. How ya doin’, Boss?”

  “Hey, Chip. Still locking up bad guys, I see.”

  “It’s what I do. Oh. This is Nancy Harkin, my new partner. She just got out of the Academy eight months ago.”

  “Nice to meet you, Harkin. You’re lucky to have this guy watchin’ your back. He’s legendary around here.”

  “Yes, sir. I am, sir.”

  Mickey turns his attention back to Sergeant Ritchey. As he writes something down on a yellow legal pad he says, “You might want to run this through your system.” When Mickey finishes he hands the pad to Sergeant Ritchey who reads out loud.

  “Jerry Drum. Fifty-seven years old. Retired city employee. Born in Castleknock, Ireland.”

  “Looks like Mr. Peter Paul—” Ritchey takes a quick look at Mickey’s note. “—I mean Mr. Jerry Drum has tweaked the good captain’s investigative juices.”

  Mickey smiles. “Just like old times, ain’t it, Sergeant?”

  “Feels good, don’t it, Cap?”

  “Always.”

  “So what else did you learn about Jerry Drum?”

  “He’s scared of the dark.”

  Ritchey, Ford, the wagon crew, and even the two cuffed men laugh at Mickey’s unexpected analysis.

  Still holding the yellow legal pad Ritchey speaks first. “I’ll take care of this, Captain. I’ll call ya when I got something.”

  “Thanks, Saarg. Here’s my new cell number.”

  “Mickey Devlin has a cell phone? Thought you’d never go cellular. If I remember correctly, ‘They cause cancer’ was your motto.”

  “Brain cancer. They cause brain cancer.”

  “Right. Brain cancer. What made you change your cancer-free mind?”

  “I got promoted. The PC has mandated captains and above to carry a cell phone on duty.”

  “They paying for them?”

  “Yep. The FOP made sure of it.”

  “Anyway, if you find out anything interesting on Drum, get back to me. Otherwise—”

  “You got it.”

  “With that I’m out of here. I’ll let you guys get back to real police work.”

  “Okay, Boss. I’ll try paging ya first. Don’t wanta screw up your gray matter.”

  As Mickey heads out the door he responds, “Don’t want to do that. God knows I need all I can find.”

  Mickey retraces his steps back down to his unmarked car parked on the side lot.

  “C-Charley-32 to Radio.”

  “32?”

  “I’m available.”

  “32. Okay. KGF 5-87 the time is 02:17 hours.”

  Mickey spends the next several hours driving around the city, stopping in at the 3rd, 12th, 17th, and 18th Patrol Districts. He also rides in on a “holdup in progress” at the WAWA on Walnut Street and a “Disturbance in the Cell Room” in the basement of Police Headquarters. Turns out one of the female matrons was assaulted with breast milk by a drug-addicted inmate who recently gave birth. Additional charges were added to the woman’s paperwork.

  After managing the
Cell Room incident at Headquarters, Mickey stops by the CIB room upstairs to grab a hot cup of coffee and shoot the breeze with the Bureau’s West Wing spy, Captain Bennett.

  CHAPTER 4

  “The effects of an evil act are long felt.”

  Irish Proverb

  Inside the CIB room Mickey makes small talk with Tommy Bennett. “Hey, Tom. Anything hot?”

  “Not really. Seems that whole full moon thing is overblown.”

  “Your lips to God’s ears.”

  “Ya made it to Central, I hear.”

  “I did. Had a real interesting conversation with the guy who attacked the Bell pavilion. Real interesting.”

  Mickey jumps when his pager starts to vibrate on his left hip. Without unclipping it, he squints to see the message window. It’s the private number of the phone located in the lieutenant’s room at Central Detectives.

  Ritchey!

  Like his Chief, Mickey still isn’t certain of Tom Bennett’s connection to the 3rd Floor. To be on the safe side, Mickey decides to respond to Sergeant Ritchey’s page using his cell phone out of earshot of the CIB room.

  “Be right back, Tom. Gotta take this.”

  Bennett shrugs. “Okay, Mick. I’ll be here.”

  Mickey walks down the hall and around the corner ending up in front of the undersized empty courtroom the Department uses to “Formally Discipline” cops. Officially it’s called, “The Police Board of Inquiry, PBI.” It’s where cops end up after IA sustains an investigation on them. It’s the cops first shot at a “day in court.” For some it could only be the beginning of court appearances if the PC in his infinite wisdom decides to “suspend with intent to dismiss” him or her “for the betterment of the PPD and all mankind.” Translation, “the Department and the City cannot afford to look weak when it comes to disciplining cops.”

  In many cases the cop and the FOP lawyer appear in front of a three-person board, chaired by a captain who has been ordered to be there. It is also customary to have one board member be the same rank as the defendant. The captain’s appearance is supposedly done on a rotating schedule. Of course there are always the captains who volunteer. It’s a power trip for them and a chance to show the “West Wing” they’re team players.

  In most cases the captain has never chaired the PBI and has probably been a good boy his entire career and never had to appear before the PBI as a defendant. The Board hears testimony and for the first time sees an abridged copy of the IA report. The process is set up like an assembly line. The Board hears the evidence, asks a few questions, has the defendant and FOP lawyer leave the room, makes a “secret decision,” and sends it to the PC for his final action.