As Tony Harris walked away from the motel room window, he realized that pulling out the phone wasn’t exactly a charade. He needed to make a call.
Like all major city police departments, the Philadelphia Police Department was a complex organization. Just its uniformed police numbered nearly 7,000, making it the fourth-largest force in the United States.
The top cop was the commissioner. An appointed position, the commissioner served at the pleasure of the mayor. Under the commissioner were his deputies. Each was responsible for various bureaus—narcotics, special operations, internal affairs, among others—which in turn were commanded by a chief inspector.
There were six patrol divisions, each led by an inspector. And each of the twenty-three patrol districts, commanded by a captain, had four platoons made up of a lieutenant, a pair of sergeants, and some forty officers.
The upper ranks—lieutenant to commissioner—were referred to as “white shirts” because that was the color of their uniform. Likewise, the lower ranks—police recruit to sergeant—were the “blue shirts.”
Their insignia more or less followed that of the military’s. Among the white shirts, the commissioner wore four gold stars, his deputy had three stars, and so on, down to a lieutenant’s single golden bar. And the shoulder of a blue shirt sergeant would bear a patch showing three blue chevrons outlined in silver, while a corporal’s would have two chevrons.
Thus, keeping absolute order was absolutely critical for such a large and complicated department to operate efficiently and effectively. That of course meant the faithful and rigorous following of various protocols and systems and rules, many of which had been in place, or certainly improved upon, since the first foot patrol in the late 1600s.
One such system was the manner in which detectives in the Detective Bureau were assigned a job. The Detective Bureau, as its name suggested, included all the department’s Detectives Units around the city—Central, South, East, et cetera. It also included Special Victims Unit (what in pre-politically correct times had been called Sex Crimes), Major Crimes Unit, and so on.
And it included the Homicide Unit.
The system, known as “The Wheel,” was designed to distribute equitably the jobs that came in to a particular unit. Philadelphia had far more murders than most big American cities. Averaging a killing a day—the wee hours of weekends and full-moon Fridays being especially bloody—there was plenty of Homicide work to go around. Sure as hell, no one wanted to be unfairly assigned another job when they may already have more on their plate than the next guy.
The Wheel wasn’t an actual wheel. It was, instead, a roster listing the detectives on duty at the moment. The detective at the top of the roster was assigned to “man the desk.” When a telephone call came in with a job to investigate, the detective “deskman” got it. Then he consulted the roster to see whose turn it was “next up on the Wheel,” and that detective became the next “deskman.”
It was a logical system. One faithfully followed.
And Detective Tony Harris was about to throw a wrench in the Homicide Unit’s Wheel.
Harris had gone around the corner of the Philly Inn to the line of rooms along the motel’s south side. Next door, near the All-Nite Diner, he could see a large number of the people who’d been evacuated from the motel during the fire.
And that’s where Matt Payne said he is.
And he said he’s got information on this?
What the hell is that all about?
He pressed the key on his cellular phone that caused the device to speed-dial the Homicide office on the second floor of the Roundhouse.
The deskman finally answered the phone on its fifth ring.
“Homicide,” he said with no enthusiasm. “Detective Bari.”
Tony Harris did not dislike Aldo Bari—a heavyset thirty-five-year-old of Italian descent who wore cheap suits with his necktie always loosened and the shirt collar unbuttoned—but he was far from his biggest fan.
Bari was a strict by-the-book type who could quote chapter and verse of police department procedure. It had carried him along just fine on the force. No one could ever accuse Aldo Bari of straying outside the lines of any policy.
Nor, Tony Harris knew, would anyone ever suggest that Bari actually stuck his squat fat neck out for anything. Bari found comfort within the established boundaries. He put in his hours, and not a nanosecond more than he absolutely had to.
“Good morning, Al. Tony Harris.”
“Hey, Harris. What can I do you out of?”
“You’re up on the Wheel?”
“Yeah. Lucky me. I’m off the clock in under two hours, though. What cha got?”
“There’s a job coming in. I’m already on the scene—”
“That’s not exactly kosher, is it?” Bari interrupted.
“—I’m on the scene watching from a distance the guys from the Medical Examiner’s Office. This one’s really got my attention.”
“Really. What is it?”
“You know the Philly Inn on Frankford?”
“That old motel?”
“Right. A meth lab blew up in a room on the back side of the place about two o’clock this morning. The blast rocked my house, damn near blowing me out of bed.”
“An alleged meth lab? No fooling?”
“Alleged” my ass, Harris thought. Go ask the HazMat guys what toxic soup of caustic chemicals they had to clear out of there, Bari.
But Harris ignored him and went on: “When I looked out the window, I saw the glow of flames. So, I drove over to see what’d happened.”
“And?”
“And cutting a long story short, a white female got nailed outside the room that went ‘boom.’ She’d been waiting in one of those really fancy Mercedes SUVs. Apparently she’s hurt pretty badly.”
“Damn drugs.”
“Yeah. Then, as the fire department was battling the blaze, a white male, surprising hell out of everyone, came staggering out of the burning motel room. He and the girl were taken to the Temple ER.”
“That’s it?”
“No. When they got the motel room fire put out, inside they found two bodies, white Hispanic males, charred to a crisp.”
“Nice.”
“One of the critters had his throat slit.”
“Ah. Very nice. But wait. The white guy was the doer? Then he torched the place?”
“I don’t know, Al. If he did, it sure as hell backfired on him.”
Bari chuckled. “ ‘ Backfired.’ ”
Harris ignored him again. “Anyway, Al, there’s a lot of very interesting questions, all unanswered. Which is why I want the job.”
There was a perceptible pause as Bari considered what he’d just heard.
Tony Harris imagined Aldo Bari checking the black Casio watch on his fat wrist, looking at its oversize digital readout to see how close it now was to quitting time and wondering if he could dodge this bullet of a complicated case.
Bari’s probably breaking into a sweat trying to decide which desire to go with—play by the rules, or avoid a new job.
After a moment, Bari said, “Gee, I don’t know, Harris.”
Harris could hear real ambivalence in Bari’s tone.
Bari went on hesitantly: “I’d have to get it cleared first. And the Black Buddha won’t be here for another hour. Or more.”
Lieutenant Jason Washington—the highly respected, articulate, superbly tailored, and very black detective who stood six-foot-three and 225 pounds—was known in Homicide, usually behind his back, as the Black Buddha.
Harris shook his head, more in disappointment than disgust. The clock already was ticking on the first forty-eight hours; outside that window, homicides got harder and harder to solve.
“I understand, Al. Look, the call itself probably won’t come in for at least another hour, anyway. I just need someone to wind up the machine—get the paperwork started for a search warrant, run the pair who’re in Temple Hospital for priors, get their backgrounds. You
know, the usual. I just want to get moving on this while it’s fresh.”
Aldo Bari now did indeed check his watch. And he thought: With any luck, that call won’t come till after eight, and then it won’t be my problem.
It’ll belong to the next guy up on the Wheel.
Bari cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, sure. Let me get back to you when either the Black Buddha gets here or the call comes in on the job. We’re talking only an hour, right?”
Tony Harris shook his head again.
Jesus! He’s stalling, which means he’s playing by the rules and avoiding the job.
What a chickenshit.
After a moment, he said, “Okay, Al. Just let me know either way, right away, okay?”
“Absolutely,” Bari said a little too eagerly.
Tony Harris shook his head a final time as he looked at the phone and angrily broke off the call with a stab of his thumb.
I won’t hear from him again for a month of Sundays. . . .
To hell with it. And him.
Tony Harris decided to proceed as if he had the job, if only by starting with making notes on the small spiral-top pad he kept in his blazer’s inside pocket.
He put his phone back in its belt clip, then pulled out the pad.
As he looked up and glanced across the parking lot, he saw a familiar face approaching the POLICE LINE yellow tape from the direction of the diner.
“And so the mystery thickens. . . .”
[TWO]
The Philly Inn Wednesday, September 9, 6:15 A.M.
Matthew Payne was carrying two foam cups of black coffee and sipping from one’s top. When the uniform from the Fifteenth Police District standing behind the tape saw him coming toward the motel, the uniform started to hold up his hand to stop him. But then Payne pulled back his shirt to flash his badge on his belt. He pointed toward Tony Harris at the back corner of the motel, indicating that that was where he was headed. The blue shirt nodded his understanding. Then, no doubt remembering that Harris had told him to pass Payne, he went so far as to hold up the tape for him to duck under it.
“Hey, Tony,” Payne said as he walked up to Harris.
Harris stood on the sidewalk in front of Room 44, scribbling furiously on his spiral-top pad.
Having written his share of them, Payne recognized what Harris was doing—making notes for a “White Paper.” It was an unofficial memorandum for internal use in Homicide, and since it was unofficial, it would not be available to defense counsel as a “discoverable document.” The White Paper was a report that was less formal and less precise than the “Activities Sheet.” This latter document listed every move that the Homicide detectives made in the case; it was discoverable, which meant it would be made available to the defense counsel of anyone brought to trial in the case. The two documents together would present the details of the case as it developed.
Harris did not respond for a moment as he finished what he was writing.
“Sorry about that. Didn’t want to lose my train of thought.” Then he looked at Matt and smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you, Matt.”
“Thanks, Tony. You, too.” Payne held out the cup with the lid. “Don’t say I never gave you anything. Coffee, black.”
Harris tucked the pad under his right armpit, took the coffee, and sipped from its plastic lid.
“I knew there was a reason why I missed having you around the office,” he said with a smile. Then he squeezed Matt’s shoulder. “It really is good to see you, and not just for the coffee. You look good. Relaxed. That time off has been good for you.”
Payne shrugged, and forced a smile. “I guess.”
“So, not that I’m not glad to see you, but what the hell are you doing here? And you said you had some information on this?”
As Harris sipped his coffee, he saw Matt’s eyes were pained.
“Kind of a long story, Tony. A lot of it I don’t know, and what I do know I don’t fully understand.”
Harris nodded appreciatively. “I probably could say the same about this job.” He looked at Payne and thought he detected some interest. “You want to see it?”
Payne immediately nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do, Tony.”
Harris thought, That’s not just morbid interest on his part.
It’s professional.
And maybe something more. . . .
“The guys from the Medical Examiner’s Office are working the scene. It’ll be called in to Homicide anytime now.”
“It’s not your job?”
“No. At least not yet.”
Payne considered that, then asked: “How’d you wind up here?”
“I live over off Ryan. Across from the middle school?”
Payne nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“When the room went boom, it about blew me out of bed.”
“No shit,” Payne said, then after a long moment: “So, who’s on the Wheel?”
“Bari.”
Payne frowned and shook his head.
Harris thought, And that damn sure was a professional assessment.
Great minds think alike, which explains why I’ve always liked Payne.
“I hear you, Matt.”
Harris motioned for Payne to follow him.
“C’mon. Let’s go have a look. Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.”
When Payne had approached Harris standing in front of Room 44, he’d noticed that all the rooms from there to the front of the motel had appeared more or less normal. But now, as they walked down the sidewalk and turned the corner, he had a clear view of the back side of the motel.
It looks like a war zone.
Debris was strewn—blown out from the building in an irregular semicircular pattern—all through the parking lot. Everything was coated either in water or what remained of the foam that the firefighters had sprayed to suffocate the flames. One room eight doors down from the corner looked to have taken the brunt of the damage—its broken and burned door hung outward at a great angle, only the bottom hinge holding it to the door frame. And both the plate-glass window and its frame were missing from their place in the masonry wall.
They followed the sidewalk that ran the length of the back side of the motel. The doors to all of the rooms they passed were wide open, and Matt knew that the rooms had been cleared by the first responders. By the look of the interior of the rooms, though, no one had occupied them recently, and certainly not in the last night.
The acrid odor of burned plastic, fabric, wood, and more hung heavily in the air. And it got heavier as they moved toward the middle of the building.
There were two cars and three pickup trucks, all showing various amounts of body damage, all with their windshields either shattered or completely blown inward.
Almost exactly in the middle of the vehicles, where clearly another vehicle had been parked before forcibly being removed—Becca’s Mercedes, Matt thought—there was a white Ford panel van backed up to the scene, doors open. A blue and gold stripe ran the length of the vehicle, with a representation of a police department shield on the door and, to the right of the driver’s window, MEDICAL EXAMINER in blue block lettering.
Harris saw Payne looking at that and gave him an overview of what he’d seen that morning, including the rescuers pulling the girl from the Mercedes and the white male who had run out from the burning room.
“It looks like a bomb went off, Tony,” Matt said as they walked up to the room with the missing window.
“May as well have been. Pretty much the same result,” Harris said as they looked inside.
Javier Iglesia stood in the middle of the room. His hands gripped the tubular frame at the end of a heavy-duty gurney, on top of which was strapped one of the black body bags. The other bag was gone, already loaded into the back of the medical examiner’s panel van. The photographer was in the van’s front passenger seat, downloading the digital files of her photographs onto a notebook computer hard drive and packing up her camera gear. Both
the bodies and the images were going to the morgue, where Dr. Mitchell, or one of the medical examiner’s assistants, would perform the autopsies and review the crime-scene photos.
Harris and Payne’s appearance in the window caught Iglesia’s attention.
“Hey, Detective Payne! How the hell are you? Shot any bad guys lately?”
Payne grinned and shook his head. “Not in the last couple hours, Javier. But keep it up and I might have to use you for practice.”
Iglesia laughed appreciatively as he started pushing the gurney toward the blown-out door.
“Glad to see you back,” Iglesia said. “The cops need a classy guy like you, is what they need—”
“This isn’t my job, Javier. But thanks.”
“—and, as I was telling Detective Harris here, we damn sure need someone like you to put a bullet in these godless pendejos.”
Iglesia either let pass or did not hear what Payne had said. Instead, he loath ingly slapped at the body bag with the back of his left hand, then pushed the gurney through the door.
“Hold up a minute, Javier,” Harris said as he walked to meet him at the back of the Ford van. “Show Matt the bag, would you?”
“Are those the new-style ones?” Payne said.
Iglesia smirked and nodded. “You know about them?” he said.
He then reached down and tugged at the foot of the bag until it turned enough to reveal the manufacturer’s tag. It was imprinted in a white rectangle designed to resemble a cadaver’s identification toe tag.
Payne leaned forward and read it:
Remains Recovery Unit
SIZE ADULT X-LARGE—MAX TESTED CAPACITY 700 LBS.
MFG BY 2 DIE 4 INC., PHILA., PA.
Then he smirked, too. “Clever company, all right. I’d heard these were coming. A retired Philly detective came up with the idea, right?”
“Yeah,” Iglesia said. “Don’t know what he got paid for the patent, or maybe he’s got a piece of the company. But at forty, fifty bucks a pop, someone’s making a mint. Every agency with any budget is stockpiling the biohaz version, with the feds buying semitrailers full ‘just in case.’ ”
The Traffickers Page 9