The unspoken rules were scrupulously observed by both sides. The White Shirts would indeed get back to Mickey O’Hara first as soon as they could. And on his part, even if Mr. O’Hara himself uncovered the answers to the questions-on-hold, he would not print them without at least asking for the reasons he should not, and in nine occasions of ten, having been given a reason, would sit on the story until he was told it would be appropriate to publish it.
The White Shirts were aware that no manner of stern admonition to lower-ranking police officers would stop them from furnishing Mr. O’Hara with facts they thought would interest him. Ninety-five percent of the uniformed police officers of the Philadelphia Police Department thought of Mr. O’Hara as one of their own.
In each of Philadelphia’s police districts, the day-to-day administrative routines are under the supervision of a corporal. The corporal is always assisted by a “trainee,” which is something of a monumental misnomer, as the term would suggest to the layman a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, very young police officer.
Quite the reverse is true. Many trainees are veteran police officers with many years on the job, who for a variety of reasons, but often their physical condition, are not up to walking a beat, or riding around in a radio patrol car for eight hours. They don’t wish to go out on a pension, and being designated a trainee both gives them something important to do and gives the district the benefit of their long experience.
Michael J. O’Hara knew every trainee in the Philadelphia Police Department by his first name, and just about every trainee felt privileged to consider himself a friend of the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist.
When Mickey O’Hara went into the 1st District Headquarters at 24th and Wolf streets in Southwest Philadelphia, he caught the attention of the corporal behind the plate-glass window and mimed drinking from a coffee cup. The corporal smiled, gave Mickey a thumbs-up, and pushed the button that activated the lock on the door that carried the caveat, ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE—POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY.
Mickey went into the room, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and put a dollar bill into the coffee kitty.
“Shit, Mickey, you don’t have to do that!” the trainee, a portly, florid-faced fifty-year-old with twenty-six years on the job, said.
“I am simply upholding the reputation of those of Gaelic extraction as perfect gentlemen,” Mickey replied.
(In truth, this was not entirely a benevolent gesture. The dollar would be reported on Mr. O’Hara’s expense account as “Coffee and Doughnuts for three, 1st Police District, $8.50.”)
The corporal and the trainee laughed, then laughed even louder when Mickey told them the story of the cop in the 19th District who, after he’d had a couple of belts on the way home, realized it was not only three A.M. when he got there, but that he probably smelled of perfume which was not that of his wife. Knowing that if he tried to take a shower, his wife would hear the water and wake up for sure, he needed a better idea, and found one. He tiptoed into the bathroom, remembering not to turn on the lights, because that would wake the wife. Then he stripped and sprayed himself liberally all over with deodorant. When he sniffed himself, he thought he could still smell perfume, so he sprayed himself again, and then tiptoed into the bedroom and eased himself into bed without waking his wife.
“That took him about ninety seconds,” Mickey finished. “Just long enough for the wife’s hair spray—what he thought was deodorant—to glue his wang to his left leg and his balls to the other.”
The laughter emanating from the office was of such volume as to attract the attention of the district commander and the tour lieutenant, who looked into the office, saw Mr. O’Hara, and entered the office to say hello.
Mickey repeated the story for their edification and amusement, and they chatted about mutual acquaintances for several minutes. The district captain told Mickey he and the lieutenant were going to ride around—which he knew meant take a look around the 1st District—and invited him to join them.
He declined with thanks. They shook hands, and the White Shirts left the office.
Neither the corporal nor the trainee thought it out of the ordinary—or inappropriate—when Mickey went to a clipboard containing the most recent communications from the Roundhouse, took it off its nail, and started reading them.
He found one of interest.
A Locate, Do Not Detain had been issued on one Ronald R. Ketcham, white male, twenty-five, five-ten, brown hair, 165 pounds, of an address on Overbrook Avenue, which Mickey recognized as being near the Episcopal Academy. The bulletin said he might be driving a Buick coupe, and gave the license number. The cooperation of suburban police departments was requested.
What attracted Mr. O’Hara’s attention was that the Locate, Do Not Detain ordered that any information generated on Mr. Ketcham be immediately furnished directly to ChInsp. Coughlin or Insp. Wohl or Sgt. Washington—it gave their telephone numbers—rather than be reported through ordinary channels.
Mickey carried the clipboard to the trainee.
“Pat, what’s this, do you think?”
“Yeah, I noticed that. The last I heard, Denny Coughlin wasn’t running Missing Persons. I don’t have a clue.”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell?”
Pat shook his head, “no.”
“Probably some ambulance chaser took off for Atlantic City with his squeeze, and the wife came home from Mama’s before she was expected.”
“Probably,” Mickey said, although he didn’t think so.
He thought about it a minute, then decided he would not call Denny Coughlin and ask him what it was all about.
Paragraph 11.B. of the Unspoken Rules required that, in a situation like this, he make inquiries of the senior White Shirt whose name he had, to avoid putting the subordinates on the spot about what to tell him. Denny Coughlin would tell him, of course. But that would use up a favor, and Mickey liked to have Denny Coughlin in his debt, rather than the other way around.
So Mickey didn’t call Chief Inspector Coughlin, but instead filed Ronald R. Ketcham away in a corner of his mind, to be retained until he heard something else.
Officer Tommy O’Mara put his head into Captain Michael Sabara’s office.
“Sir, there’s a civilian who wants to talk to you.”
“To me, personally?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did this civilian say what he wants?”
“No, sir.”
Sabara picked up the telephone, punched the flashing button, and, somewhat impatiently announced: “This is Captain Sabara. How can I help you?”
“My name is Phil—Philip—Chason, Captain. Does that ring a bell?”
Sabara quickly searched his memory.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chason. How may I help you?”
“I was with you last night, Captain, at Captain Beidermann’s retirement party. I was hoping you’d remember.”
“Oh, of course,” Sabara lied kindly. “My memory is failing.”
“I used to be a detective,” Chason said. “I went out on medical disability after twenty-six years on the job.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Chason?”
“Karl and I went to the Academy together. I just found out that he meant it when he told us last night he was going to Florida in the morning. Otherwise, I would have gone to him.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve stumbled onto something that bothers me. And I don’t want to go to Narcotics with it. Or Major Crimes. Or Intelligence.”
“Stumbled onto what?” Sabara asked, a trifle impatiently.
“I was hoping you’d have fifteen minutes to hear me out.”
“This concerns Narcotics? This is Special Operations, we don’t deal—”
“Narcotics and the mob,” Phil said. “I really think I wouldn’t be wasting your time.”
“You want to see me now, is that it?”
“I’d like to, yes.”
“You know where I am?”
“Frankford and Castor?
”
“Right. I’ll be expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
Sabara hung up and then raised his voice: “Tommy!”
Officer O’Mara appeared.
“Just for your general information, Officer O’Mara, that unnamed civilian who called me has a name.”
“Yes, sir?”
“His name is Chason,” Sabara said. “And he’s coming to see me. When he comes in, bring him right in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Chason is actually Detective Chason, Retired, Tommy.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you know where your father was last night, Tommy?”
“Yes, sir. He was at Captain Beidermann’s retirement party. They were classmates at the Academy.”
“Then your father was also a classmate of Detective Chason, Tommy. And he was also at Captain Beidermann’s retirement policy. Now, don’t you think you could have at least picked up a little bit of that information regarding Detective Chason before you told me a nameless civilian was on the phone?”
Officer O’Mara considered that.
“Yes, sir. I suppose I should have.”
“Good boy!” Sabara said.
“Thank you, sir,” Officer O’Mara said, pleased to have been complimented.
“Thank you for seeing me, Captain,” Phil said when Officer O’Mara—after telling Chason who his father was, and that he understood they were Academy classmates—had taken him into Sabara’s office.
“Any friend of Karl’s . . .” Sabara said. “He and I went to Wheel School together. He was a sergeant . . .”
He waved Chason into an upholstered chair.
“Now that I’m here,” Chason said, “I’m beginning to wonder if this was such a hot idea.”
“You said you wanted fifteen minutes. You’ve got it.”
“All I’ve really got is that a guy I suspect—can’t prove—has ties to the mob wants—is willing to pay a thousand dollars for—the names of some narcs, and told me a complicated bullshit story to explain why.”
“Who’s the guy you think has ties to the mob?”
“Joey Fiorello,” Phil said. “He runs a car lot on Essington Avenue—”
“I know who Joey is,” Sabara interrupted. “Why does he want the names of the narcs?”
“I don’t know, but the story he gave me is bullshit.”
“You want to start at the beginning?” Sabara said. “How did you come into contact with Joey Fiorello?”
“Well, I went out on medical disability. I got bored, so I got myself a private investigator’s license and put an ad in the yellow pages. About a year ago, Fiorello called me, said he saw the ad.”
“Called you to do what?”
“What I guess you could call a background investigation. He said he was thinking of offering a guy a job as a salesman, sales manager, and wanted to know about him. I checked out the first one, he was a solid citizen. A couple of months later, same story. Another solid citizen. And he called me a third time, just a little while ago. This time the guy was a real sleazeball, a stockbroker named Ketcham.”
“What was that name?”
“Ketcham, Ronald R. You know it?”
“Tommy!”
Officer O’Mara put his head in the door.
“See if Sergeant Washington is upstairs, will you? If he is, here, now, Tommy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s Sergeant Washington?” Phil asked.
“Great big black guy? Used to work Homicide? The Black Buddha?”
“Jason’s here, and a sergeant?”
“I don’t how he feels about being a sergeant, but he doesn’t like being here.”
Officer O’Mara reported that Sergeant Washington was not in the building but Detective Harris was.
“Ask him to join us, please, Tommy,” Sabara said.
“Tony Harris, too?” Phil asked.
“Equally unhappy at not being in Homicide,” Sabara said.
Tony Harris came into the office two minutes later.
“Jesus, look what the tide washed up. The poor man’s Sam Spade.”
“Fuck you, Tony!” Phil replied.
Sabara was pleased. Obviously, Harris and Chason were friends. That spoke well for Chason, who had spent twenty-six years on the job, but whom Sabara could not remember ever having seen before he walked into his office.
“Mr. Chason was just telling me that he was engaged just a few days ago to investigate Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham,” Sabara said.
“No shit?” Tony asked, looking at Phil.
Phil nodded.
“How did you know we’re looking for him?”
“I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. He’s a sleazeball.”
“You didn’t see the Locate, Do Not Detain?” Sabara asked, just to be sure.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Who hired you to check Ketcham out?” Tony asked.
“Joey Fiorello,” Phil said.
Tony grunted.
“You don’t happen to know where he is, do you, Phil?”
“Sorry.”
“The other interesting thing Mr. Chason had to say, Tony, was that Fiorello is also interested in learning the names of some other narcotics officers.”
“Narcotics Five Squad officers?” Tony asked quietly.
“I don’t know about that, but there was a drug bust at the Howard Johnson motel last Thursday. . . .”
“That’s interesting,” Sabara said.
“Can I ask what’s going on?” Phil asked.
“That’s a tough one,” Sabara began. “Mr. Chason, we’re working on something—I can’t answer that question. You understand.”
“Horseshit,” Tony Harris said. “Mike, I’ve known Phil for twenty years. If there are two honest cops in the whole department, Phil’s the other one. The more he knows about what we’re trying to do, the more useful he’s going to be.”
That was a clear case of insubordination. Not to mention using disrespectful language to a superior officer. And, for that matter, Harris was clearly guilty of being on duty needing a shave and a haircut.
But on the other hand . . .
“The other honest cup? You mean you and him?”
“Well, maybe Washington and Wohl, too,” Harris said. “That would make four, but I’m not so sure about Wohl. . . .”
“For the record, Tony, I told you not to tell him . . .”
“So report me.”
“. . . so I will tell him,” Sabara finished. “With the understanding none of this leaves this room, Mr. Chason?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vincenzo Savarese’s granddaughter is in the psychiatric ward of University Hospital, in pretty bad condition,” Sabara began. “Somebody called up there and said she had been orally raped.”
“I don’t get the connection,” Phil said.
“Ronald R. Ketcham is the girl’s boyfriend,” Tony said. “And no one seems to know where he is.”
“Ketcham must be a ladies’ man,” Chason said. “What I heard was he was carrying on hot and heavy with a Main Line—Bala Cynwyd—princess named Longwood.”
“Same girl, Phil,” Tony Harris said.
“And she’s Savarese’s granddaughter? And this guy raped her? Don’t hold your breath until you find him, Tony,” Phil said and then had a chilling thought.
“Oh, shit! And I told Joey Fiorello, who told Savarese . . .”
“How were you to know?” Tony Harris said. “Phil, let’s start at the beginning again. Maybe there’s something there.”
“About a year ago,” Phil began.
Despite his intention to rise at noon, Detective Harry Cronin had woken a little after three P.M. to the sound of cooking utensils banging in the kitchen. He rose from the couch and went into his kitchen.
“Hi, baby!” he said to Mrs. Cronin.
She gave him a sadly contemptuous look but did not reply.
“I’m sorry about last night, honey. What happen
ed was I went by the Red Rooster—”
“And got plastered,” Patty finished for him.
He accepted the accusation with a chagrined nod.
“Just because you’re back on nights, Harry,” Patricia said, “does not mean you’re going to start going to the Red Rooster and—”
“It was a one-time thing, baby.”
“It better have been, Harry,” Patty said, then closed the conversation by adding, “You better take a shower and a shave. It’s time for you to go to work.”
“Right,” Harry agreed.
When he came back downstairs, shaved, showered, and ready both to go to work and apologize, sincerely, to Patty for his lapse, she wasn’t in the house.
So there had been nothing to do but go to work, and he had done so.
It turned out to be a slow night, and there had been a chance for him about ten o’clock to go into a drugstore and buy Patty a large box of assorted Whitman’s chocolates as sort of a let’s-be-friends-again peace offering.
Patty was always pleased when he bought her a box of Whitman’s. She might forgive him. On the other hand, for the next two weeks or whatever, until the chocolates were gone, whenever she ate one, she would be reminded of why he had given them to her.
What the hell, he decided. She has a right to be pissed. Buy the chocolates anyway.
Later, he was pleased with his decision. There was no place he could have conveniently bought flowers—which would last only a couple of days—and flowers would have been a confession he had really fucked up, not only had a couple more drinks than he should have had.
At five minutes after midnight, he got into his four-year-old Chevrolet full of resolve not to go to the Red Rooster, but home, where he would fix things up with Patty.
His route took him past a deserted NIKE site.
He slowed and took a good long look. There was nothing. No lights. No sign of activity. Zilch.
But Harry Cronin knew that something was going on in that goddamn NIKE site.
He had absolutely nothing to support this belief except the intuition that comes to intelligent men with nineteen years on the job, thirteen of them as a detective.
He had had this feeling about the NIKE site from the time the Army had moved out, although at that point it was more a logical suspicion that—deserted buildings attract illegal activity—some kind of illegal activity would take place in the future.
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