Men In Blue

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Thank you very much,” Stanford Fortner Wells III said, and went out and got back in the limousine. He fished in his pockets and then swore.

  “Something wrong, sir?” the chauffeur asked.

  “Take me back to the hotel. I left my daughter’s address on the goddamned dresser.”

  ****

  Mickey O’Hara sat virtually motionless for three minutes before the computer terminal on his desk in the city room of the Philadelphia Bulletin. The only thing that moved was his tongue behind his lower lip.

  Then, all of a sudden, his bushy eyebrows rose, his eyes lit up, his lips reflected satisfaction, and his fingers began to fly over the keys. He had been searching for his lead, and he had found it.

  SLUG: Fried Thug

  By Michael J. O'Hara

  Gerald Vincent Gallagher, 24, was electrocuted and dismembered at 4:28 this afternoon, ending a massive, citywide, twenty-four-hour manhunt by eight thousand Philadelphia policemen.

  Gallagher, of a West Lindley Avenue address, had been sought by police on murder charges since he eluded capture following a foiled robbery at the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Boulevard yesterday afternoon. Highway Patrol Captain Richard C. “Dutch” Moffitt happened to be in the restaurant, in civilian clothes, with WCBL-TV Anchorwoman Louise Dutton. Police say Captain Moffitt was shot to death in a gun battle with Dorothy Ann Schmeltzer, whom police say was Gallagher's accomplice, when he attempted to arrest Gallagher.

  At 4:24 p.m. Charles McFadden, a 22-year-old Narcotics plainclothesman, spotted Gallagher, at the Bridge & Pratt Streets Terminal in Northeast Philadelphia. Gallagher attempted escape by running down a narrow workman's platform alongside the elevated tracks toward the Margaret-Orthodox Station. Just as McFadden caught up with him, he slipped, fell to the tracks, touched the third rail; and moments later was run over by four cars of a northbound elevated train.

  Mickey O’Hara stopped typing, looked at the screen, and read what he had written. The thoughtful look came back on his face. He typed MORETOCOME MORETOCOME, then punched the send key.

  Then he stood up and walked across the city room to the city editor’s desk, and then stepped behind it. When the city editor was finished with what he was doing, he looked up and over his shoulder at Mickey O’Hara.

  “Punch up ‘fried thug,’ “ Mickey said.

  The city editor did so, by pressing keys on one of his terminals that called up the story from the central computer memory and displayed it on his monitor.

  As the city editor read Mickey’s first ‘graphs, O’Hara leaned over and dialed the number of the photo lab.

  “Bobby, this is Mickey. Did they come out?”

  “Nice,” the city editor said. “How much more is there?”

  “How much space can I have?”

  “Pictures?”

  “Two good ones for sure,” Mickey said. “I got a lovely shot of the severed head.”

  “I mean ones we can print, Mickey,” the city editor said. He pointed to the telephone in Mickey’s hand. “That the lab?” Mickey nodded, and the city editor gestured for the phone. “Print one of each, right away,” he said, and hung up.

  “I asked how much space I can have,” Mickey O’Hara said.

  “Everybody else was there, I guess?”

  “Nobody else has pictures of the cop,” Mickey said. “For that matter, of the tracks when anything was still going on.”

  “And you’re sure this is the guy?”

  “One of the Fifteenth District cops recognized the head,” Mickey said.

  “Give me a thousand, twelve hundred words,” the city editor said. “Things are a little slow. Nothing but wars.”

  Mickey O’Hara nodded and walked back to his desk and sat down before the computer terminal. He pushed the COMPOSE key, and typed,

  SLUG: Fried Thug

  By Michael J. O’Hara

  Add One

  ****

  Sergeant Tom Lenihan stepped into the doorway of the office of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, who commanded the Special Investigations Bureau, and stood waiting until he had Coughlin’s attention.

  “What is it, Tom?”

  “They just got Gerald Vincent Gallagher, Chief,” Lenihan said.

  “Good,” Coughlin said. “Where? How?”

  “Lieutenant Pekach just phoned,” Lenihan said. “Two of his guys—one of them that young plainclothes guy who identified the girl—went looking for him on their own. They spotted him at the Bridge Street Terminal. He ran. Officer McFadden chased him down the elevated tracks. Gallagher slipped, fell onto the third rail, and then a train ran over him.”

  Denny Coughlin’s face froze. His eyes were on Lenihan, but Lenihan knew that he wasn’t seeing him, that he was thinking.

  Dennis V. Coughlin was only one of eleven chief inspectors of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia. But it could be argued that he was first among equals. Under his command (among others) were the Narcotics Unit; the Vice Unit; the Internal Affairs Division; the Staff Investigation Unit; and the Organized Crime Intelligence Unit.

  The other ten chief inspectors reported to either the deputy commissioner (Operations) or the deputy commissioner (Administration), who reported to the first deputy commissioner, who reported to the commissioner. Denny Coughlin reported directly to the first deputy commissioner.

  Phrased very simply, there were only two people in the department who could tell Denny Coughlin what to do, or ask him what he was doing: the first deputy commissioner and the commissioner himself. On the other hand, without any arrogance at all, Denny Coughlin believed that what happened anywhere in the police department was his business.

  “Tom, is Inspector Kegley out there?”

  “Yes, sir, I think so.”

  “Would you tell him, please, unless there is a good reason he can’t, I would like him to find out exactly what happened?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean right now, Tom,” Coughlin said. “He doesn’t have to give me a white paper, just get the information to me.” Coughlin looked at his watch. “I’ll be at Dutch’s wake, say from six o’clock until it’s over. Are you going over there with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lenihan said, and departed.

  Two minutes later, Lenihan was back.

  “Inspector Kegley’s on his way, sir. He said he’d see you at Marshutz & Sons,” he reported.

  “Good, Tom. Thank you,” Coughlin said. Staff Inspector George Kegley had come up through the Detective Bureau, and had done some time in Homicide. He was a quiet, phlegmatic, soft-eyed man who missed very little once he turned his attention to something. If there was something not quite right about the pursuit and death of Gerald Vincent Gallagher, Kegley would soon sniff it out.

  Coughlin returned his attention to the file on his desk. It was a report from Internal Affairs involving two officers of the Northwest Police Division. There had been a party. Officer A had paid uncalled-for personal attention to Mrs. B. Mrs. B had not, in Officer B’s (her husband’s) judgment, declined the attention with the proper outraged indignation. She had, in fact, seemed to like it. Whereupon Officer B had belted his wife in the chops, and taken off after Officer A, pistol drawn, threatening to kill the sonofabitch. No real harm had been done, but the whole matter was now official, and something would have to be done.

  “I don’t want to deal with this now,” Dennis V. Coughlin said, although there was no one in his office to hear him.

  He stood up, took his pistol from his left desk drawer, slipped it into his holster, and walked out of his office.

  “Come on, Tom,” he said to Sergeant Lenihan, “let’s go.”

  FOURTEEN

  Patrick Coughlin, a second-generation Irish-American (his father had been born in Philadelphia three months after his parents had immigrated from County Kildare in 1896) had spent his working life as a truck diver, and had been determined that his son Dennis would have the benefits of a college education.

  But in 1946, desp
ite an excellent record at Roman Catholic High School, Dennis V. Coughlin had been suspended from LaSalle College for academic inadequacy after his second semester. He had been on academic probation after the first semester.

  Once Denny Coughlin had flunked out of LaSalle, life at home had been difficult, and he had enlisted in the navy for four years, in exchange for a navy promise to train him as an electronics technician. He was no more successful in the navy electronics school than he had been at LaSalle, and the navy found itself wondering what to do with a very large young man for the forty-two months remaining on his enlistment.

  Shortly after reporting aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Coral Sea as an engineman striker, the Coral Sea’s master at arms had offered him a chance to become what was in effect a shipboard policeman. That had far more appeal than long days in the hot and greasy bowels of the ship, and Denny jumped at it.

  It wasn’t what he thought it would be, marching into waterfront bars and hauling drunken sailors back to the ship, after beating them on the head with a nightstick. There was some of that, to be sure, and once or twice Denny Coughlin did have to use his nightstick. But not often. A sailor had to be both foolhardy as well as drunk to take on someone the size of Coughlin. And Denny learned that a kind word of understanding and reason was almost always more effective than the nightstick.

  He found, too, that often the sailors were the aggrieved party to a dispute, that the saloonkeepers were in the wrong. And he found that he could deal with the saloonkeepers as well as he could with sailors. He sensed, long before he could put it into words, that the cowboys really had used the right word. He was a peace officer, and he was good at it.

  After eighteen months of sea duty aboard the Coral Sea, he was assigned as a shore patrolman attached to the U.S. Naval Hospital, Philadelphia. He worked with the Philadelphia police, and came to the attention of several senior officers, who saw in him just what the department was looking for in its recruits: a large, healthy, bright, pleasant hometown boy with an imposing presence. The police department was suggested to him as a suitable civilian career when his navy hitch was up. With his navy veteran’s preference, he had no trouble with the civil service exam. Once that was out of the way, Captain Francis X. Halloran had a word with the Honorable Lawrence Sheen, M.C., and shortly after that Bosun’s Mate Third Class Dennis V. Coughlin was honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy or the convenience of the government to accept essential civilian employment—law enforcement.

  Three weeks after taking off his navy blues, Dennis V. Coughlin reported to the police academy for training.

  On his first day there, he met John X. Moffitt, just back from a three-year hitch in the marines. They were of an age, they had much in common, and they became buddies. When they graduated from the academy, they were both assigned downtown, Denny Coughlin to the Ninth District, Jack Moffitt to the Sixth/Without much trouble, they managed to have their duty schedules coincide, so they spent their off-duty time together, drinking beer and chasing girls, except for Tuesday nights, when Jack Moffitt went to meetings of the marine corps reserve.

  He needed the money, Jack Moffitt argued, and there wasn’t going to be a war anyway; Denny should join up too. Denny did not. Jack was called back to the Marines on seventy-two-hours’ notice, a week after they had both learned they had passed the detective’s exam, in August 1950.

  Jack was back in just over a year, medically retired as a staff sergeant for wounds received in the vicinity of Hangun-Ri, North Korea, where he also earned the Silver Star. He went back to work in the West Detective Division; Denny Coughlin was then in the Central Detective Division.

  But things weren’t the same between them, primarily because of Patricia Stevens, whom Jack had met when she went with the girls from Saint Agnes’s to entertain the boys in the navy hospital. Denny was best man at their wedding, and Patty used to have him to supper a lot, and she helped the both of them prepare for the sergeant’s examination.

  A month after Jack Moffitt died of gunshot wounds suffered in the line of duty, a month before Matt was born, Denny Coughlin had made a rare visit to his parish rectory, for a private conversation with Monsignor Finn. It took some time before Finn realized what Denny Coughlin really wanted to talk about, and it was not his immortal soul.

  “You don’t want to marry the girl, Denny,” Monsignor Finn said, “because you feel sorry for her, or because she’s your friend’s wife; nor even to take care of the baby when it comes. And you sure don’t want her to marry you because she needs someone to support her and the baby. Now you’ll notice that I didn’t say you don’t want to marry the girl. What I’m saying to you is, have a little patience. Time heals. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Patty Moffitt saw in you the same things she saw in Jack, God rest his soul. But you want to be sure, son. Marriage is forever. You don’t want to be jumping into it. What I’m saying is just keep being what you are, a good friend, until Patty gets over both her grief and the baby. Then if you still feel the same way ...”

  Dennis V. Coughlin had still felt the same way six months later, and a year later, but before he could bring himself to say anything, Patty Moffitt had gone to work, trying to work her way up to be a legal secretary, and then she’d taken Matt for a walk in his stroller, and she’d run into Brewster Cortland Payne II taking his motherless kids for a walk, and then it had been too late.

  Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin had been at Dutch Moffitt’s wake at the Marshutz & Sons Funeral Home for about an hour when he saw Matt Payne, standing alone, and called him over. He shook his hand, and then put his arm around his shoulders.

  “I’d like you to meet these fellows, Matt,” he said. “Gentlemen, this is Matt Payne, Dutch’s nephew.”

  Matt was introduced to two chief inspectors, three inspectors, two captains, and a corporal who had gone through the academy with Dutch Moffitt and was being tolerated by the brass for being a little drunk, and just a shade too friendly.

  “When you get a moment, Uncle Denny, could I talk to you?”

  “You bet you can,” Denny Coughlin said. “Excuse us, fellows.” He took Matt’s arm and led him far down a wide corridor in the funeral home. Finally, they found an empty corner.

  “I joined the police department,” Matt announced.

  “How’s that again?”

  “I said I’m going to be a policeman,” Matt repeated.

  “And when did this happen?”

  “Today.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Dennis V. Coughlin said. “Let me get adjusted to that, Matt.”

  “So far only my dad knows,” Matt said.

  “Your dad is dead,” Coughlin said, and was immediately contrite. “Ah, Christ, why did I say that? I’m proud to claim Brewster Payne as a friend, and you couldn’t have had a better father.”

  “I understand,” Matt said. “I have trouble with my real father, too. Keeping them separate, I mean.”

  “Matt, I’m going to say something to you and I don’t want you to take offense, son, but I have to say it—”

  “I flunked the marine corps physical,” Matt said. “I was thinking about becoming a cop before Uncle Dick was killed.”

  “If you flunked the marine corps physical, what makes you think you can pass the police department physical?”

  “I passed it,” Matt said. “And I even had a talk with the shrink. Today.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What’s your mother going to say?”

  “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re a long way from yelling ‘Whoopee, good for you!’ ?”

  “Because I’m not entirely sure it’s a good idea, for you, or the department,” Coughlin said, evenly.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” Coughlin said. “Gut feeling, maybe. Or maybe because I buried your father, and we’re about to bury your uncle. Or maybe I’m afraid your mother will think I talked you into it.”

  “My father, my adoptive father, understands,” Matt said.

 
“Then he’s one up on me,” Coughlin said. “Matt, you’re not doing this because of what you think the police are like, from watching them on TV, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” Matt said, simply.

  “But you will admit that you have no idea what you’re getting into?”

  “I was going into the marines, and I had no idea what I was getting into there, either.”

  Sergeant Tom Lenihan and Staff Inspector George Kegley appeared in the corridor, waiting for Coughlin’s attention. Coughlin saw them, and motioned them over.

  “You met Sergeant Lenihan yesterday,” Coughlin said. “And this is Staff Inspector Kegley. George, this is Matt Payne. He’s Dutch’s nephew.”

  They all shook hands.

  “What have you got, George?” Coughlin asked.

  Kegley seemed momentarily surprised that Coughlin was asking for a report to be delivered before what he thought of as a “civilian relative,” but he delivered a concise, but thorough report of what had transpired at the Bridge & Pratt Streets Terminal, including the details of Gerald Vincent Gallagher’s death and dismemberment.

  “Did they get in touch with Peter Wohl?” Coughlin asked. “Matt Lowenstein said they wanted him to get an identification of Gallagher as the man in the diner from that TV woman.”

  “Nobody seems to know where either of them are, Chief,” Kegley said.

  Coughlin snorted, and then his face stiffened in thought.

  “Thank you, George,” Coughlin said. “I appreciate this. Tom, get the car, we’re going for a ride.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lenihan said.

  “You’re coming,” Dennis Coughlin said to Matt Payne.

  ****

  “Are you all right, Matthew?” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked when Sergeant Tom Lenihan had eased the Oldsmobile up on the curb before the row house on Fitzgerald Street in South Philadelphia.

  Matt had thrown up at the medical examiner’s, not when Coughlin expected him to, when they pulled the sheet off the remains of Gerald Vincent Gallagher, but several minutes later, outside, just before they got back into the Oldsmobile. Tom Lenihan had disappeared at that point for a couple of minutes, and Coughlin wasn’t sure if he had done that to spare Matt embarrassment, or whether Lenihan had gone behind a row of cars to throw up himself.