Coughlin had witnessed Carlucci’s unwavering defense of Payne that day. He declared that he would not allow the decorated police officer, who risked his life protecting the city, to be sacrificed for what a sanctimonious Finley had called “the greater good.”
In all the time that Coughlin had known Carlucci he could count on one hand, and still have fingers left over, the occasions that Carlucci had backed down from a fight. Now, however, Coughlin realized Carlucci’s tone seemed different, familiar, but in an odd, distant way. And he realized it had been a decade since he had heard that tone of voice—a combination of wariness and resignation.
“What,” Coughlin said, measuring his words, “are you thinking?”
“The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line is headed for the exit. Payne has to go. I’m sorry.”
Coughlin was silent, then blurted, “You cannot fire Matty. He’s done nothing wrong, Jerry. You said it yourself. That will cost the city a fortune. The FOP—and rightfully so, because all Payne’s shootings were found to be righteous—will be all over this.”
The Fraternal Order of Police Lodge No. 5 was the labor union for some fourteen thousand active and retired Philadelphia police officers and sheriffs. It fought to protect and improve the multiyear contract—the collective bargaining agreement—with the city that covered everything from pensions and benefits to working conditions and legal rights.
When, for example, an officer was handed a summons to appear before the Internal Affairs Division, the FOP provided legal representation for the interview. The FOP was damn effective at defending its members—on occasion, too good, getting some cops who the top brass felt did not deserve to wear a badge and gun back on the job.
“In this particular case, all that doesn’t matter,” Carlucci said.
“What? Any of the FOP’s counsel could win the case. But if Matty’s father’s law firm takes it on, that proverbial fecal matter is going to hit the fan in ways unimagined. It’s going to be one helluva mess.”
Carlucci, who was frowning, nodded.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “But we don’t have to fire him. We simply have to help him realize that he would be happier doing something else.”
“You’d railroad him out?” Coughlin said, his tone incredulous.
“This is what’s known as being politically expedient.”
Coughlin stared at Carlucci. He now really saw the pieces snapping together.
“It’s what’s known as a crappy setup, Jerry,” Coughlin snapped, his florid face turning bright red and his voice rising. “Matty’s a damn good cop. From a family of damn good cops. It’s in his DNA. And you, of all people, damn well know it.”
“I do indeed know,” Carlucci said, the exasperation clear in his tone.
Coughlin went on. “Matty wouldn’t take time off to even let that bullet wound fully heal. Hell, he’s probably bleeding blue right now.”
“Denny, I tried. I defended him. I had his back when that miserable little shit Finley first tried last month. But . . .”
Coughlin stared out the window, then nodded to himself, then turned back to look at Carlucci.
“Jerry—” Coughlin began, but his throat caught. He paused, cleared it, and went on, his voice wavering. “You know I have always appreciated your support and trust. And I devoutly believe that I have faithfully earned my three stars—”
“Damn right, you have.”
“But if there’s a sacrificial head to roll, let it be mine. I have my years in. Great years. And I would not—I could not—accept four stars knowing how they came about. Matty stays. I’ll have my written resignation for retirement on your desk within the hour.”
“And I will refuse to accept it. Period.” He paused, then added, “Listen, maybe any other time I could have succeeded keeping Payne on. But after that mail-order preacher called Payne Public Enemy No. 1 and Payne killed that punk who shot him, it put the pressure way over the top. And the record killings for the year did not help. We have to get back the citizens’ trust in our police department, restore what’s been broken.”
They met eyes and were silent for a minute that felt like an eternity.
Coughlin broke the silence with a deep, audible sigh.
“It’s already a done deal, then?” he asked, but the disgust evident in his voice made it a bitter statement.
Carlucci nodded.
“Fact is, Denny,” he said, “even you were worried when Payne first came on. You tried to hide him as a paper pusher under Wohl’s son in Special Operations, true?”
Coughlin, looking resigned, nodded.
“True. I became his godfather after Jack’s death. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to tell his widow that she’d lost another.” He sighed, and added, “Or have to face Mother Moffitt, who hasn’t gotten over Jack and Dutch.”
They again locked eyes.
“Look, Denny, I don’t like it one damn bit. But sometimes we all have to swallow things we don’t like.” He paused to let that sink in, then added, “I knew Jack and Dutch, and I would bet they are looking down through those pearly gates, nodding, saying, ‘Yeah, we paid enough of a price. And Matty’s come close to paying the ultimate price. Get our boy out of harm’s way.’”
“Yeah, maybe . . .” Coughlin began, then sighed again. “Well, I know for certain that parts, if not all, of Matty’s family won’t be disappointed.”
“See? And it could be worse. Payne does have options. A lot of cops who find themselves off the force are lost.”
Coughlin looked off in thought.
“Maybe I’ll get Peter Wohl involved,” he said. “Payne respects him. As his rabbi. And more.”
“I suggest the first thing to do is rein him in, make him unhappy, let him figure out what’s going on. The sooner he does that, the sooner he can make the right decision. With or without Wohl’s help.”
“I’m going to have to think about all this, but I will be shooting straight with him—”
“Not sure that’s the best,” Carlucci interrupted.
Coughlin stared at him, and said, “Maybe in someone’s view. But I want to be able to look myself in the mirror when this is all over.”
Coughlin grasped his armchair and stood up suddenly.
“I’ve had enough here,” he said.
“It’s the right thing, Denny,” Carlucci said, also getting to his feet. “Just make sure it’s done.”
Coughlin met his eyes, then turned and left without another word.
[ TWO ]
Palmer and Beach Streets
Fishtown
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 4:35 P.M.
Two district patrol officers in their early twenties stood beside a marked police Ford Explorer, its light bar flashing red and blue, at the parking lot entrance of the deserted PECO Richmond Power Station. The blue shirts, their breath visible in the cold air, stopped talking and studied the approaching Crown Victoria.
Tony Harris, at the wheel of the unmarked Police Interceptor, hit the switch to light up its wigwags. The officers, in a casual, almost bored manner, motioned for the vehicle to pass through the gate, then crossed their arms over their chest and returned to their conversation.
The old, coal-fired plant—built in 1925 and shut down six decades later—covered more than eight acres on the bank of the Delaware River, adjacent to Penn Treaty Park.
“Did Kennedy give you any background on the scene?” Matt Payne said, looking up at the main plant as they drove toward the river.
“Only that we needed to see it for ourselves,” Harris said. “When I pressed, he said, ‘Words fail me.’”
“And two victims?”
“Uh-huh. Said they found the two dead males where I told him the nine-one-one caller had said. Then they checked the main plant in case there were others. Victims had no ID on the
m. But one did have a burner phone. Hal checked with Krow and confirmed that one of the numbers on the recent-called list belonged to the phone recovered in the shooter’s van.”
“The cell tower dump can show if that phone was at The Rittenhouse at the time of the shooting,” Payne said, adding idly, “I thought that someone had plans to make something out of this place. That Romanesque architecture, even in its run-down state, is still pretty impressive.”
“And maybe a bit spooky.”
“Yeah, but the photos of it back in the day show that the place was really something. You know the enormous area that held the four huge steam turbines? It was designed to resemble the ancient Roman baths.”
“I did not know that, and, frankly, wonder why you do,” Harris said, and pointed out the windshield. “Fresh-cut pipes there. Looks like the metal salvage thieves have been busy again. Steel and copper.”
“Adds to the creepy factor, along with all the broken windows,” Payne said. “Since they shut this place down thirty years ago, there’s been three, maybe four science-fiction movies filmed here. And you know what’s the irony of that?”
“What?”
“They had to bring their own generators for power.”
Harris grunted.
—
After rolling across the rough surface of what had been a parking lot, and bumping over sunken steel rails, they approached the back side of the enormous facility. A fat, long-tailed rodent scampered from the shadows, headed toward the Delaware River twenty yards distant.
“I hate rats,” Payne said.
“Lucky you. You’re apparently about to encounter a couple two-legged ones, too.”
They made the turn at the back of the building and saw a half dozen police vehicles, including a Crime Scene Unit van and another unmarked Crown Vic. They were parked near the foot of a wide concrete pier that jutted out some two hundred feet from the seawall into the river. Another district blue shirt stood at the yellow crime scene tape that roped off the foot of the pier.
Approximately midway on the pier was a fifteen-story-tall masonry tower—bold lettering chiseled in stone across its top read THE PHILADELPHIA ELECTRIC COMPANY—into which vessels had off-loaded the coal that powered the plant.
A weather-beaten conveyor belt, wide as a two-lane street, rose on rusted iron trestles at a steep angle from the foot of the coal tower to the top of the main building, where eight smokestacks stood, stout but long-abandoned.
Harris drove over and parked between the rough-looking Crown Vic and a year-old marked Chevy Impala.
Payne reached to the floorboard and pulled from a cardboard box under the seat two pairs of blue latex gloves. He held out a pair to Harris.
“Don’t say I never give you anything, Detective.”
—
A bitter cold wind blew down the wide river. Payne and Harris approached a gray, rusted steel door next to an industrial overhead roll-up door that was beneath where the massive conveyor belt exited the tower. Both doors were covered in faded graffiti. The overhead door was shut. The smaller gray door had been opened inward and, Payne noticed, had fresh boot prints where someone had kicked it. A battered electrical generator, its noisy gasoline engine running at high speed, had been positioned just to the side of the tower. From it, four yellow extension cords snaked through the doorway.
Inside was dark, damp, and cold, but Payne was grateful to be out of the wind. Twenty feet farther in was another rusted steel door, also open, through which the power cords led. Beyond the door, a brilliant white light filled a cavernous space.
As Payne and Harris walked up to the interior door, they had to take care to let their eyes adjust from the darkness. Payne could not help noticing, above the dank odor of the neglected ancient structure, the distinct smell of decaying flesh.
They went through the doorway.
Plugged into the power cords were ten halogen floodlights that were mounted on top of collapsible tripods. Half were aimed up the soaring interior walls, which were stained by more than a half century’s contact with coal. The other lights pointed toward the center of the tower, illuminating the series of heavy, truss-like iron beams that were spaced approximately every ten feet all the way up to the top.
“Jesus Christ,” Payne said.
“Yeah, I would say that’s an appropriate response,” Harris said after a bit. “They damn sure look crucified. Among other things.”
Payne slowly shook his head.
“The word macabre leaps to mind,” he said. “Looks like a mad scene from some opera.”
“Or one of those sci-fi movies you said was filmed here.”
Two human figures, their arms extended and wrists tied with rope, hung from the lowest iron beam.
Beneath them, the concrete floor was awash in a reddish pink pool of fluid—a great deal of blood diluted with an even greater deal of water—and in the pool directly below each body was a pile of shredded, pulp-like flesh.
A couple yards behind the two piles was an aluminum-framed, single-axle utility trailer, sitting at a nose-down angle. It appeared to be brand-new. Two Crime Scene Unit blue shirts, a male and a female, were working at pulling fingerprints off it.
Strapped to the trailer, also looking new, were a commercial-grade pressure washer powered by a gasoline engine and, beside it, a hundred-gallon polyethylene water tank that appeared almost empty. A sticker affixed to the fuel tank of the washer read SUPER SHOT—4,000 PSI AT 4 GPM.
A familiar voice from behind Payne and Harris said, “Four gallons a minute, spraying at that high water pressure, could probably strip the chrome from a trailer hitch . . .”
They both turned and saw thirty-six-year-old Harold W. Kennedy, Sr., approaching.
“Human skin doesn’t stand a chance,” the enormous black detective finished.
“They look like giant, badly peeled grapes,” Harris said.
Multiple flashes of white light began pulsing as two crime scene photographers, one crouched and moving around the pool, the other halfway up a twelve-foot-tall folding ladder, worked to capture the scene from every angle. The photographer on the ladder let his still camera hang from its strap and began shooting with a video camera.
“Grotesque grapes,” Payne added, taking a quick photograph with his phone.
“Told you that you had to see it,” Kennedy said.
The body on the left was that of a short, small-framed skinny male, maybe in his thirties. The other, looking a bit older and bordering on obese, was an olive-skinned male who had thin dark hair that now partially covered his pockmarked face.
“They could have whacked them anywhere,” Payne said. “There’s a reason someone went to a lot of trouble doing this here. Even hauling in the equipment.”
“We ran the trailer,” Kennedy said, “and it didn’t come up—no registration, no nothing. But when I called the manufacturer with the VIN and the serial number of the pressure washer, they gave me the dealer in Doylestown they’d sold it to. And the dealer, Bucks County Home Improvement, said they reported that it’d been stolen sometime last November.”
Payne looked at Harris.
“And what did you say that male caller told the nine-one-one dispatcher?”
“Almost word for word,” Harris said, “‘You can find the jagoffs that shot up Rittenhouse Square in the tower behind the old Richmond Power Plant.’ When the call came in, from a blocked number, we saw it come up in the ECC. I gave Hal the heads-up, he checked it out, then I put the arm out for you.”
Payne, looking up again at the bodies, said, “My God, that had to hurt.”
“No shit,” Kennedy said.
“You ever use a pressure washer, Matt?” Harris said.
“Yeah, all the time when I was a kid. Cleaning the brick patio at home, the boat at the Shore. Once, I got careless with the wand. I’ll tell you, you let
that jet of water nick you even a little bit and, after you’re finished swearing at the top of your lungs, you make sure you never let it happen again. Took a long time to heal, for the scar to fade.”
“So, then, you’d think someone would’ve heard their screams,” Kennedy said. “Especially since sound travels so well across water.”
Payne glanced around the interior of the enormous space.
“I’d bet that between the noise from that washer’s gas engine,” he said, “and these thick walls muffling it all, the screams were probably hard to hear—or, at least, hard to distinguish as screams. Add to that being closer to the sounds of the city and the traffic noise from the expressway . . .”
“Or, maybe, they just were dead,” Harris said.
“But why make it look like torture?” Kennedy said.
Payne’s mouth went on automatic: “‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?’”
Harris and Kennedy looked askance at him. Payne looked back at them.
“Tankersley, the retired Homicide guy,” he said, looking between them, “just an hour or so ago quoted that a bit of Jeremiah to me. Maybe the doers wanted to make some desperately wicked point.”
“Or just are psychopaths,” Harris said.
“I’m betting both,” Kennedy said. “And speaking of psychopaths making a point, come take a look at this. Just found it.”
Harris and Payne, being careful not to step in the various pools of fluid, followed Kennedy over to a nearby wall. Kennedy pulled a small, black tactical flashlight from his pocket. Its bright, narrow beam cut the dark. They saw that the power washer had been used on the wall, the high-pressure jet of water having cut through the layers of coal residue. The lettering was faint and not well formed but legible.
“Talk about reading the writing on the wall,” Harris said, holding up his phone to photograph it.
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