Investigators

by W. E. B Griffin

  He consulted a pocket notebook:

  “. . . that ‘Cynthia Longwood was stripped naked and orally raped by a policeman under circumstances that were themselves traumatic.’ Dr. Payne believes this is consistent with Miss Longwood’s physical condition. The question then becomes, Who made the telephone call to Dr. Payne, and how did he come into possession of the knowledge of the rape?”

  “Vincenzo Savarese,” Mr. Walter Davis said.

  Sergeant Washington looked at Mr. Davis in such a manner as to make clear he did not like to be interrupted, then went on:

  “I think it is reasonable to believe that Mr. Savarese, whose deep concern for his granddaughter has been made obvious, wondered if her gentleman acquaintance, Mr. Ketcham, might have information bearing on the situation. We must keep in mind here that Mr. Savarese had to move carefully. His relationship to Miss Longwood has been carefully concealed, and if Mr. Ketcham was not involved in the assault . . .”

  Wohl and Coughlin grunted, accepting Washington’s theory.

  “I think it bears on the equation,” Washington went on, “that Mr. Ketcham has not come to the attention of either Intelligence or the Drug Unit. Neither by name or by physical description. It is possible that Mr. Savarese’s contacts on the street, or within the drug community, came up with his name, but I have the feeling that was not the case, and even if it was, his acquiring that knowledge would have been after Miss Longwood required medical attention.”

  “Okay,” Coughlin agreed.

  “But it is reasonable to assume that Mr. Savarese heard—probably from his daughter—that his granddaughter was involved with a man named Ketcham.”

  “Yeah,” Wohl said.

  “Mr. Savarese naturally wondered, I theorize,” Washington went on, “if perhaps Mr. Ketcham had knowledge of the cause of Miss Longwood’s mental stress. Even, perhaps, if Mr. Ketcham forced himself on his granddaughter. Dr. Payne told Peter that Mr. Ketcham had not been to see Miss Longwood. It seems reasonable that Mr. Savarese would have learned this, too, from the girl’s mother.”

  “And had Joey Fiorello,” Coughlin interjected, “hire Phil Chason to make discreet inquiries regarding Mr. Ketcham . . .”

  “Which discreet inquiries,” Peter Wohl chimed in, “re vealed exactly what kind of an upstanding citizen Ketcham is. And Chason told Fiorello.”

  “Precisely,” Washington said. “What I don’t understand, since we may presume it did come to Mr. Savarese’s attention that his granddaughter was keeping company with someone who uses controlled substances—and probably introduced her to the use of them—is why Mr. Ketcham is not, to use that lovely euphemism, ‘swimming with the fishes.’ ”

  Wohl grunted in agreement.

  “Once Mr. Savarese had learned that—what shall I say?—Mr. Ketcham was not a really nice fellow,” Washington continued, “I think it is reasonable to presume that he ordered his minions to find Mr. Ketcham and to transport him to a place where he could be interrogated—the NIKE site—both at length and, should it turn out that Mr. Ketcham had no knowledge of what had transpired, in such a manner that there would be no connection Mr. Ketcham could make with him. I mean, in the sense that he is Miss Longwood’s loving grandfather, the Mafia don.”

  “That constitutes kidnapping,” Mr. Walter Davis interjected, “and makes it a federal offense.”

  Washington ignored him.

  “I further postulate,” he went on, “that the interrogation revealed the exact circumstances—‘that were themselves traumatic’—of Miss Longwood’s rape.”

  “The drug bust at the Howard Johnson motel,” Coughlin said.

  “Yes. Mr. Ketcham—who, incidentally, I don’t think has any idea of the relationship between the girl and her grandfather—almost certainly told—”

  “Told who, Sergeant?” Walter Davis interrupted.

  “Excuse me?” Washington said in strained courtesy, making it again clear he did not like being interrupted, even by the Special Agent in Charge of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “This interrogation you’re talking about. Who conducted it?”

  “I have no idea,” Washington said.

  “You think Vincenzo Savarese was there?” Davis pursued.

  “Interesting question,” Washington said. “Given Mr. Savarese’s demonstrated ability to distance himself from criminal activity conducted for him by others, I am tempted to say no, of course not. But this is a different circumstance. And we know of his deep concern. So my answer is, I just don’t have an opinion.”

  “Dennis, I’d really like to get Savarese on unlawful abduction,” Davis said.

  “May I continue?” Washington asked.

  “Go on, Jason,” Coughlin said.

  “At the very least, I think we can reasonably presume that Mr. Ketcham told his interrogators that Narcotics officers were present at the Howard Johnson motel. Since Mr. Ketcham didn’t have any names to give him . . .”

  “Back to Joey Fiorello and Phil Chason,” Wohl said.

  “So goes my theory,” Washington said. “The reason that Mr. Fiorello knew about the drug bust at the motel was that Savarese had learned about it from Ketcham.”

  “And to go by the message he left for Amy,” Wohl said, “Ketcham must have convinced Savarese that one of the Five Squad raped the girl; in other words, that he didn’t.”

  “Yes,” Washington said. “And now Mr. Savarese wishes to discuss the incident with the officers involved. Hence, he needs their names.”

  “That doesn’t explain why Ketcham is still alive,” Danny the Judge said. “It seems to me that just getting his granddaughter in a situation like that would be enough for Savarese to—what did Jason say?—send Ketcham ‘swimming with the fishes.’ ”

  “After first cutting him in small pieces with a dull saw,” Coughlin agreed.

  “I read somewhere,” Wohl said softly, “that death by starvation is one of the more painful ways to die.”

  “You mean Savarese was just going to leave him there?” Walter Davis asked, visibly shocked.

  “Now that Peter has raised the point, I believe that is entirely possible,” Washington announced. “Imaginative forms of retributive homicide are consistent with the Sicilian code of honor. Dishonoring the females of the tribe is really a no-no.”

  “That makes it attempted murder, too,” Walter Davis said.

  “That would not be easy to prove,” Coughlin said. “I’m not even sure we have enough to get an indictment, much less a conviction.”

  No one said anything, and then Coughlin had another thought. “I got the impression, Jason, that Ketcham not only has no idea who grabbed him, but didn’t even get a look at them?”

  Washington nodded.

  “I, for one, feel that nothing has been uncovered so far that should cause us to deviate from our original plan,” Washington said.

  He looked at Chief Coughlin for an answer.

  Wohl spoke first.

  “What do you think we should do, Jason?”

  “I think we should show Mr. Ketcham the photographs,” Washington said. “There will be a certain shock to them. So far we haven’t even touched on the fringes of the rape. If we know about that, he will reason, what else do we know?”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Coughlin said. “Go do it, Jason.”

  “Just a minute,” Walter Davis said.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “We have a chance here to prosecute Vincenzo Savarese for kidnapping and attempted murder,” he said. “I would hate to lose that opportunity.”

  “I would prefer to strike, to coin a phrase, while the iron is hot,” Washington said.

  “I really would like to bring the U.S. Attorney in on this now,” Davis insisted.

  “Walter, what we’re talking about here is the prosecution of a police officer who committed a felony—the oral rape—while acting under the shield of his office,” Coughlin said.

  “Dennis, I’m wholly sym
pathetic to your desire to uncover corruption in the Five Squad, but an opportunity like this, vis à vis Savarese . . .”

  “Walter, you don’t really think that slime in there is going to get up in court and testify against Savarese, do you?” Wohl said.

  “I think we should discuss the whole situation with the U.S. Attorney before we take any further action.”

  “Go do it, Jason,” Coughlin ordered, then looked at Walter Davis. “Sorry, Walter.”

  Davis’s face was white, but he said nothing.

  Wohl handed Washington a large manila envelope.

  He walked out of the room and into the interview room.

  Wordlessly, he took a dozen eight-by-ten-inch photographs from it and spread them on the table before Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham.

  Ketcham did his best to appear to be confused by the photographs.

  “Where’s my clothing?” he asked. “You said someone had gone for my clothing.”

  “Would you please examine the photographs, Mr. Ketcham, and identify the police officer who committed oral rape upon the person of Miss Cynthia Longwood?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The time has come, Mr. Ketcham, for you to disabuse yourself of the notion that you are intellectually equipped to parry with me, and that you will somehow be able to dig yourself out of the hole you dug for yourself.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  “We know, Mr. Ketcham. All you are doing is wasting time.”

  “You know what?”

  “Please examine the photographs, Mr. Ketcham, and identify the police officer who, following your detention in connection with illegal trafficking in controlled substances, committed oral rape upon the person of Miss Cynthia Longwood.”

  “I have never been arrested in my life, and neither has Cynthia. Where the hell are you coming from?”

  “If you are willing to cooperate with us in the prosecution of this police officer, which would require your testimony in a court of law, on our part we will do whatever is necessary to protect you, and additionally will not bring narcotics charges against you.”

  “Protect me from what? Who?”

  “The same persons who took you to the NIKE site and left you there to die of starvation.”

  “Oh, come on. I told you the whole thing is a case of mistaken identity.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” Washington said. “Mr. Savarese knew precisely whom he ordered be taken to—and left to die a painful death by starvation at—the NIKE site.”

  “Mr. who?”

  “Mr. Vincenzo Savarese.”

  “The gangster?”

  “It has been alleged that Miss Longwood’s maternal grandfather has a connection with organized crime.”

  “You’re not actually trying to tell me that gangster is Cynthia’s grandfather?”

  “You seem surprised. You really didn’t know?”

  “No. I didn’t know, and I don’t believe it now.”

  “In other words, you decline to identify the rapist and cooperate with us in his prosecution?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “We all must make decisions in our lives,” Washington said. “I must in all honesty tell you I think you have just made the wrong one. But I’m sure you have your reasons. If you will wait here, Mr. Ketcham, I’ll inform the FBI agent that we’re through with you. Perhaps they’re finished with your clothing by now.”

  “What does the FBI want with me?”

  “Your being taken to the NIKE site against your will constitutes kidnapping. That’s a federal offense. They will ask your help in identifying the people who committed this crime against you.”

  “And I will tell them the same thing I told you. I have no idea. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity.”

  “You don’t really believe that will make any difference to Vincenzo Savarese, do you?” Washington asked. “You are the man who not only introduced his beloved granddaughter to the use of cocaine, but put her in a dangerous situation where she was brutally raped.”

  Washington walked to the door, put his hand on the knob, and then turned to look at Ketcham.

  “Shortly after the FBI releases you—Mickey O’Hara of the Bulletin is outside, convinced that his many readers will be fascinated to learn about the stockbroker who was found in a deserted NIKE site wearing nothing but an overcoat—Mr. Savarese will learn you are still alive. The next time he abducts you, it will be to a place where no one will find you.”

  Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham looked at Detective Jason Washington, licked his lips, and announced, “The bastard that did that to Cynthia is the one on the top.”

  Washington said nothing.

  Ketcham picked up the photograph of Officer Herbert Prasko of the Five Squad of the Narcotics Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department and held it up for Washington to see.

  “He was dressed like a bum when he did it, but that’s the son of a bitch!”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Goddamn it, of course I’m sure. He handcuffed me to the toilet, and then did that to Cynthia. The filthy bastard!” Ketcham said, and then self-righteous outrage overcame his discretion. “And he stole twenty thousand dollars from me!”

  “Nice job, Jason,” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said to Sergeant Washington when Washington came back into the room adjacent to the interview room.

  “The question, Chief,” Washington said, not quite able to convincingly pretend he was not interested in the compliment, “is now that we know, what are we going to do?”

  “Who did he pick out?” Inspector Wohl asked.

  “Officer Prasko,” Washington said as if he had something distasteful in his voice.

  “What do we have on Prasko?” Wohl asked.

  “The pertinent personnel documents are in my briefcase,” Washington said. “If memory serves, there was nothing significant—”

  He stopped in midsentence when the door opened.

  “I’ve taken my walk,” Mickey O’Hara said, “and am not in a receptive mood for a suggestion to take another one.”

  “Mickey, what would it take for you to go home and call me in the morning?” Chief Coughlin replied. “With the understanding that I would fill you in completely then?”

  “A blare of celestial trumpets, and a voice even deeper than Jason’s saying, ‘Mickey, my son, do what the nice old man asks you to do.’ Failing that . . .”

  Wohl and Washington chuckled, which earned them a dirty look from Chief Coughlin.

  “You agree to sit on it, right?” Coughlin said.

  O’Hara nodded.

  “Where’s Amy . . . Dr. Payne?” Coughlin asked.

  “She has a rather touching faith in you to do the right thing,” O’Hara said. “But she is showing signs of impatience.”

  Coughlin went to the door, located A. A. Payne, M.D., and waved her into the room.

  “Amy, honey, you realize that you really have no business here—” Coughlin began.

  “Uncle Denny, you know I love you,” Amy interrupted. “But right now, I think it had better be ‘Chief’ and ‘Doctor.’ ”

  “Uncle Denny,” O’Hara said highly amused, “what the good doctor means is ‘cut the crap.’ ”

  “That man wouldn’t be in there if it wasn’t for me,” Amy said gesturing through the one-way mirror at Ronald R. Ketcham. “I need the answer to two questions, and then you’ll be rid of me.”

  “Fair enough,” Coughlin said after a just-perceptible pause. “What are the questions?”

  “Did that man tell you what happened to my patient?”

  “Yes, he did,” Coughlin said. “The information in your message is apparently the fact.”

  “Do you have the name of the animal who did that to her?”

  “What animal?” O’Hara asked. “Did what to who?”

  Coughlin held his hand out to indicate Mickey should wait.

  “Y
es, we do,” Coughlin said.

  “Can I tell my patient that he is about to be arrested?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” Amy snapped. “And don’t even think of telling me I’ve had my two questions.”

  “Honey,” Peter Wohl began, and instantly realized that Coughlin and everybody else had instantly picked up on the term of endearment. He plunged ahead. “There are several investigations going on here . . .”

  “You can call me ‘Doctor,’ too, Inspector Wohl,” Amy said.

  “Look at him blush,” O’Hara said. “I will be damned. Cupid’s finally managed to—”

  “Shut up, Mickey,” Coughlin said.

  “And the doctor, too,” O’Hara went on, unabashed. “It’s not every day you see a doctor blush—”

  “Goddamn it, Mickey,” Coughlin flared. “For once in your goddamn life, put a lid on it.”

  O’Hara, recognizing genuine anger, fell silent.

  “As you were saying, Inspector?” Amy said.

  “Honey,” Wohl replied, heard himself with disbelief and horror repeating the term of endearment, and then decided to hell with it. “Everybody in this room wants to see Officer Prasko in a cell. But what we’ve got right now is just one person who can testify in court against him.”

  “What exactly did Officer Prasko do?” O’Hara asked.

  Wohl glowered at O’Hara, then looked to Coughlin for guidance.

  Coughlin shook his head in resignation.

  “Okay, Mickey,” he said. “This is what you sit on. Prasko committed the act of oral rape upon a young woman during a drug bust. The boyfriend, the man in the interview room, just identified him from a selection of photographs. He said that Prasko first handcuffed him to a toilet and then attacked the girl.”

  “Nice fellow,” O’Hara said. “Where does Officer Prasko work?”

  “Narcotics. Five Squad,” Coughlin said.

  “If you know who he is, have a witness, and know where he works, why don’t you arrest him?” Amy demanded.

  “I’m coming to that,” Wohl said somewhat impatiently. “And that witness, if we manage to keep him alive until we can get him into court, is not going to be a credible witness.”