Men In Blue

by W. E. B Griffin

  Mickey O’Hara nodded. And had his second unkind thought: We? We got the turd? In a pig’s ass, we did. A nice lad named Charley McFadden got him, and is sick about getting him, and you didn’t have a fucking thing to do with it, Ed DelRaye. Not that it’s out of character for you to take credit for something the boys on the street did.

  “So I heard,” Mickey replied. “You were in on that, were you?”

  “I made my little contribution,” DelRaye said.

  “Is that so?”

  “A plainclothesman from Narcotics actually ran him down; I’m trying to think of his name—”

  “How are you doing with the Nelson murder?” Mickey O’Hara asked, as his John Jamison’s with beer on the side was delivered.

  “You wouldn’t believe how many nigger faggots there are in Philly,” DelRaye said.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Off the record, Mickey?” DelRaye asked.

  “No,” Mickey said. “Let’s keep this on the record, Ed. Or change the subject.”

  “I think we better change the subject, then,” DelRaye said. He raised his glass. “Mud in your eye.”

  “I’m working on that story, is what it is,” Mickey said. “And if we go off the record, and you tell me something, and then I find it out on my own and use it, then you would be pissed, and I wouldn’t blame you. You understand?”

  “Sure, I understand perfectly. I was just trying to be helpful.”

  “I know that, and I appreciate it,” Mickey said. “And I know what kind of pressure there must be on you to come up with something, his father being who he is and all.”

  “You better believe it,” DelRaye said.

  “What can you tell me about Nelson and the TV lady?” Mickey asked. “On the record, Ed.”

  “Well, she came home from work, half in the bag, and walked in and found him,” DelRaye said.

  “She was his girl friend?”

  DelRaye snorted derisively.

  “I take it that’s a no?”

  “That’s neither a no or anything else, if we’re still on the record,” DelRaye said.

  “I could, I suppose, call you an ‘unnamed senior police Officer involved in the investigation,’ “ Mickey offered.

  “I wouldn’t want you quoting me as saying Nelson was a faggot,” DelRaye said. “Because I didn’t say that.”

  “Jesus Christ, was he?”

  “If we’re still on the record, no comment,” DelRaye said. “We’re still on the record?”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Mickey O’Hara said, and then went for the jugular. “If I asked you, on the record, but as an ‘unnamed senior police officer involved in the investigation’ if you are looking for a Negro homosexual for questioning in the Nelson murder investigation, what would you say?”

  “You’re not going to use my name?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Then I would say ‘that’s true.’ “

  “And if I asked you how come you can’t find him, what would you say?”

  “There are a number of suspects, and we believe that the name we have, Pierre St. Maury—”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the one we want to question most. He lived with Nelson. We don’t think that’s his real name.”

  “Colored guy?”

  “Big black guy. That description fits a lot of people in Philadelphia. It fits a lot of people who call themselves ‘gay.’ But we’ll get him.”

  “But he’s not the only one you’re looking for?”

  “There are others who meet the same description. The rent-a-cops on Stockton Place told us that Nelson had a lot of large black men friends.”

  “And you think one of them did it?”

  “When people like that do each other in, they usually do it with a vengeance,” DelRaye said.

  “The way Nelson was done in, you mean?”

  DelRaye did not reply. He suspected that he had gone too far.

  “Mickey,” he said, “I’m getting a little uncomfortable with this. Let’s get off it, huh?”

  “Sure,” Mickey O’Hara said. “I got to get out of here anyway.”

  ****

  Ten minutes later, Mickey O’Hara walked back into the city room, walked with elaborate erectness to his desk, where he sat down at his computer terminal, belched, and pushed the COMPOSE button.

  SLUG: Fairy Axman?

  By Michael J. O'Hara

  According to a senior police officer involved in the investigation of the brutal murder of Jerome Nelson, a “large black male,” in his twenties, going by the name of Pierre St.Maury, and who reportedly shared the luxurious apartment at 6 Stockton Place, is being sought for questioning.

  The police official, who spoke with this reporter only on condition of anonymity, said that it was believed the name Pierre St.Maury was assumed, and suggested this was common practice among what he described as Philadelphia's “large 'gay' black community.”

  Mickey stopped typing, found a cigarette and lit it, and then read what he had written.

  Then he typed, “Do you have the balls to run this, or am I wasting my time?”

  Then he moved the cursor to the top of the story and entered FLASH FLASH. This would cause a red light to blink on the city editor’s monitor, informing him there was a story, either from the wire services, or from a reporter in the newsroom, that he considered important enough to demand the city editor’s immediate attention. Then he pushed the SEND key.

  Less than a minute later, the city editor crossed the city room to Mickey’s desk.

  “Jesus, Mickey,” he said.

  “Yes, or no?”

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me who the cop who gave you this is?”

  “I always protect my sources,” Mickey said, and burped.

  “It’s for real?”

  “The gentleman in question is a horse’s ass, but he knows what he’s talking about.”

  “The cops will know who talked to you,” the city editor said.

  “That thought had run through my mind,” Mickey O’Hara said.

  “You’re going to put his ass in a crack,” the city editor said.

  “I have the strength of ten because in my heart, I’m pure,” Mickey O’Hara said. “I made it perfectly clear that we were on the record.”

  “It will be tough on Mr. Nelson,” the city editor said.

  “Would we give a shit if he didn’t own the Ledger?” Mickey countered.

  The city editor exhaled audibly.

  “This’ll give you two by-lines on the front page,” he said.

  “Modesty is not my strong suit,” Mickey said. “Yes, or no?”

  “Go ahead, O’Hara,” the city editor said.

  FIFTEEN

  It had been the intention of Lieutenant Robert McGrory, commanding officer of Troop G (Atlantic City) of the New Jersey State Police, to take off early, say a little after eight, which would have put him in Philly a little after nine-thirty, in plenty of time to go by the Marshutz & Sons Funeral Home for Dutch Moffitt’s wake.

  But that hadn’t proved possible. One of his troopers, in pursuit of a speeder on U.S. 9, had blown a tire and slammed into a culvert. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been; he could have killed himself, and the way the car looked it was really surprising he hadn’t. But all he had was a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and some bad cuts on his face. But by the time he had that all sorted out (the trooper’s wife was eight-and-a-half months gone, and had gotten hysterical when he went by the house to tell her and to take her to the hospital, and he had been afraid that she was going to have the kid right there and then) it was almost nine.

  By then, the other senior officers going to Captain Dutch Moffitt’s funeral had not elected to wait for him; a major and two captains could not be expected to wait for a lieutenant. Major Bill Knotts left word at the barracks for Lieutenant McGrory that Sergeant Alfred Mant (who was coming from Troop D, in Toms River, bringing people from there a
nd further north) had been directed to swing by Atlantic City and wait at the Troop G Barracks for McGrory, however long it took for him to get free.

  The senior state police officers in Knotts’s car were all large men. They all had small suitcases; and they were, of course, in uniform, with all the regalia. The trunk of Knotts’s Ford carried the usual assortment of special equipment, and there was no room in it for two of the three suitcases; they had to be carried in the backseat. When they were all finally in it, the Ford was crowded and sat low on its springs.

  “I think you’d probably make better time on Three Twenty-two,” Knotts said, as he settled into the front seat, beside Captain Gerry Kozniski, who was driving.

  “Whatever you say, Major,” Captain Kozniski said, aware that he had just been given authority, within reason, to “make good time” between Atlantic City and Philadelphia. There were two major routes, 322 and 30, between the two cities. U.S. 30 was four-laned nearly all the way, from Atlantic City to Interstate 295, just outside Camden. Only some sections of U.S. 322 were four-laned. Consequently, 30 got most of the traffic; there would be little traffic on 322 and it would be safer to drive faster on that road.

  Captain Kozniski hit sixty-five, and then seventy, and then seventy-five. The Ford seemed to find its cruising speed just under eighty. They would still be late, but unless something happened, they could still at least put in an appearance at the wake.

  “Word is,” Captain Kozniski said, “that Bob McGrory’s going to be a pallbearer.”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Moffitt asked for him,” Knotts said.

  “Dutch Moffitt and he went way back. They went to the FBI National Academy together.”

  He did not add, wondering why he didn’t, that the Moffitts and McGrorys, having made friends at the FBI Academy in Quantico, had kept it up. They visited each other, the Moffitts and their kids staying at the McGrory house in Absecon for the beach in the summer, and the McGrorys and their house apes staying with the Moffitts in Philly for, for example, the Mummers’ parades, or just because they wanted to go visit.

  The wives got on well. Lieutenant Bob McGrory had told Knotts he had heard from his weeping wife that Dutch had stopped a bullet before he heard officially. Dutch’s Jeannie had called McGrory’s Mary-Ellen the minute she got back from the hospital. Mary-Ellen had parked the kids with her mother and gone right to Philly.

  “I met him a couple of times,” Captain Stu Simons, riding alone in the backseat, said. “VIP protection details, stuff like that. He was a nice guy. It’s a fucking shame, what happened to him.”

  “You said it,” Bill Knotts said.

  “They catch him yet, the one that got away?”

  “I think so,” Captain Simons said. “I think I heard something. They canceled the GRM (General Radio Message) for him.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Knotts said. “It was a busy night.”

  “I hope they fry the sonofabitch,” Captain Kozniski said.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Captain Simons said. “He’ll get some bleeding-heart lawyer to defend him, and they’ll wind up suing Moffitt’s estate for violation of the bastard’s civil rights.”

  Major Bill Knotts suddenly shifted very quickly on his seat, and looked out the window.

  Captain Kozniski looked at him curiously.

  “That shouldn’t be there,” Knotts said, aloud, but as if to himself.

  “Whatever it was, I missed it,” Captain Kozniski said.

  “There was a Jaguar back there, on a dirt road.”

  “Somebody taking a piss,” Captain Kozniski said.

  “Or getting a little,” Simons said.

  “You want me to call it in, Major?” Captain Kozniski said.

  “We’re here,” Knotts said simply.

  Captain Kozniski eased slowly off on the accelerator, and when the car had slowed to sixty, began tapping the brakes. The highway was divided here by a median, and he looked for a place to cross it. The Ford bottomed out as they bounced across the median.

  “Jesus Christ, Gerry!” Simons called out. “All we need is to wipe the muffler off!”

  Captain Kozniski ignored him. “Where was it, Major?” he asked.

  “Farther down,” Knotts said. “Where the hell are we? Anybody notice?”

  “We’re three, four miles east of State Fifty-four,” Captain Kozniski replied with certainty.

  It took them five minutes to find the car, and then another two minutes to find another place to cross the median again.

  “Stay on the shoulder,” Knotts ordered, as they approached the dirt road.

  Captain Kozniski stopped the car, and Knotts got out. Kozniski followed him, and then Simons. There was the sudden glare of a flashlight, and then Simons walked back to the car and got in the front seat and turned on the radio.

  Knotts, carefully keeping out of the grass-free part of the road so as not to disturb tire tracks, approached the car, which was stopped, headed away from the highway, in the middle of the road.

  “Give me a flashlight, please,” he said, and put his hand out. Kozniski handed him his flashlight. Knotts flashed the light inside the car. It was empty. He moved the beam of the light very slowly around the front of the car.

  “Major!” Captain Simons called. “It’s a hit on the NCIC computer. NCIC says it was reported stolen in Philadelphia.”

  “Bingo,” Captain Kozniski said.

  “Get on the radio, please, Stu,” Knotts said, “and have a car meet us here. And see if Philadelphia has any more on it.”

  “There was another car,” Kozniski said. “You can see where they turned around.” He used his flashlight as a pointer.

  “If it was a couple of kids who ‘borrowed’ it, and then had second thoughts,” Knotts said, “why get rid of it out here in the sticks?”

  Kozniski went to the bumper and carefully examined it with his flashlight.

  “It wasn’t pushed in here, either,” he said. “That rubber stuff on the bumper doesn’t have a mark on it. I mean, I was thinking maybe it broke down, and they had to leave it.”

  “If they were going to dismantle it, there wouldn’t be anything left by now but the license plate,” Knotts said.

  Captain Simons walked up to them.

  “If the driver is apprehended,” he said, formally, “he is to be held for questioning about a homicide.”

  “Double bingo,” Captain Kozniski said. “You telepathic, Major?”

  “Absolutely,” Major Bill Knotts said. “You mean you didn’t know?”

  He walked to the Ford, switched the radio frequency to the statewide frequency, established communication with state police headquarters in Trenton; and, after identifying himself and reporting they had located a car NCIC said was hot, and which the Philadelphia police were interested in for a homicide investigation, asked for the dispatch of the state police mobile crime lab van.

  “And first thing in the morning, I think we had better get enough people out here to have a good look at the woods,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll need somebody to guard the site. I pulled a car off patrol, but I’d like to get him released as soon as possible.”

  They all got back in the Ford and waited for the patrol car to come to the scene.

  Captain Kozniski, without really being aware he had done it, switched on the radar. A minute or so later, it came to life, and a car headed for Atlantic City came down the highway twenty-five miles an hour faster than the posted limit.

  “You want to ticket him, Major?” Kozniski asked.

  “God no, if we pulled him over and a major and two captains got out of the car, we’d give him a heart attack,” Knotts said.

  The car was filled with chuckles and laughter.

  Two minutes later, Kozniski saw in his rearview mirror the flashing lights on top of a patrol car.

  “Here comes the car,” he said. Knotts got out of the Ford, explained the situation to the trooper, and then got back in.

  He looked at his watch as Kozniski
got the Ford moving.

  “Christ, we’re going to be late for the wake,” he said. “You better step on it, Gerry.”

  ****

  The Wackenhut rent-a-cop on the Arch Street entrance to the Stockton Place underground garage stooped over and looked into the Ford LTD. Recognizing Louise Dutton, he smiled, went back to his little cubicle, and pushed the button raising the barrier.

  Once inside the garage, Peter Wohl parked the LTD beside her yellow Cadillac convertible, and they got out.

  She met him at the back of the LTD.

  “If you find the time, dear, you might do the ironing,” Louise said as she dropped the keys to her apartment in his hand. “But don’t wear yourself out.”

  “What I think I’ll do is call Sharon,” Peter said.

  “You bastard!” she said, and kissed him quickly and got in her Cadillac convertible.

  He waited until she had driven out of the underground garage and then walked through the tunnel to the elevators. The call button for the elevator required a key to function, and he had to work his way through half a dozen before he found the right one. And then he had trouble getting into the apartment itself.

  He felt strange, once he was inside and had snapped on the lights, and wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable or excited. There was something very personal, very intimate, in being here alone. He took off his jacket and threw it on an overstuffed chair, and then changed his mind and hung it in a closet by the door. There were two fur coats in there, a long one, and one so short it was almost a cape.

  That reminded him that his uniform and other things were still in the LTD, so he retraced his steps and carried them up. He carried everything into the bedroom. The bedroom smelled of Louise. There was a display of perfume bottles on her dressing table and he walked to them and squirted a bulb, and then it really smelled like her.

  He found the bathroom, voided his bladder, and then took a good look around. The bathtub looked like a small black marble swimming pool. He wondered if it contained a Jacuzzi, and looked for controls, but found none.

  What he needed, he decided, was a drink. He went back in the living room and opened doors and found her liquor supply. He carried a bottle of scotch into the kitchen and found ice cubes and made himself a drink. Then he said aloud, “You goddamned voyeur, Wohl,” and went back in the bedroom and opened the drawers of her dresser, one at a time. He found the array of underwear erotic; but a rather diligent—one might say professional—search of the premises failed to come up with a photograph or any other evidence, of any other male, young, old, handsome, ugly, or otherwise.