The Traffickers
Page 19
“We shall begin, Commissioner Mariani,” Howard Walker said, “with the Philly Inn.”
He turned to Corporal Rapier. “Kerry, please punch up number thirteen on the main screen.”
All of the TVs were serially numbered, starting with the main bank of nine TVs that showed the one enormous video feed. It was number one. The second bank had numbers two through ten, and the third eleven through nineteen. (In the event the main bank became nine individual images, its screen numbering went to 1a, 1b, 1c, and through to 1i.)
On the lower right-hand corner of each TV was a digitally produced numeral in a circle, either a black or a white orb, depending on which provided the best contrast to the main image. TV number thirteen was, of course, in the third bank of TVs.
TV number one, the big one, was showing a real-time feed of the front façade of City Hall.
When Corporal Rapier manipulated his console, his fingers flying across the keyboard, the image that was on TV number thirteen suddenly was duplicated—but much bigger—as the image on the main bank of TVs, replacing City Hall.
It was a color shot of the crime scene at the Philly Inn. It was made by a high-definition camera mounted to the crime-scene lab truck at the back of the motel. The yellow tape was still strung up, but there was no noticeable activity, even when Corporal Rapier used the console joystick to pan and zoom the area.
In the bottom right-hand corner was:
Philly Inn
7004 Frankford Avenue
1135 hours, 09 Sept
“As you can see,” Walker said, “there is not much going on at the scene.”
No shit, Denny Coughlin thought. Thank God for gee-whiz gizmos. I don’t know how we would’ve learned this otherwise.
But he saw that his boss was nodding thoughtfully, impressed with the crisp imagery. And Coughlin did have to admit that the huge screen and its clarity made one at least feel like they were indeed on the scene.
But isn’t that just an artificial sense of accomplishment?
“Kerry,” Walker said, “transpose number fourteen on that.”
A second later, a box appeared in the lower right, just above the text there. It was a list of data:
Cause: Explosion. Ninety percent probability from a methamphetamine lab.
Known Dead: Two Hispanic males, approximate age mid-20s, no known history. Both suffered fourth-degree burns. One of the deceased suffered a cut to the throat. Jagged flesh of cut thought to be made by serrated blade of knife found at scene.
Known Injured: Two, a White male and a White female. Male is one J. Warren Olde, age 27. Female is one Rebecca Benjamin, age 25. Olde suffered extreme burns, possibly/probably fourth-degree. Benjamin suffered lesser burns but serious blunt-force trauma. Both now in Temple Burn Ward ICU.
“That data,” Walker then added, “is due at any moment to be updated. As we know, Olde is now dead.”
“Yes, we do,” Police Commissioner Mariani said dryly.
“So let’s go to that,” Walker said almost excitedly.
“Why not the scene of the shooting at the Reading Terminal Market?” Mariani asked.
Coughlin thought he saw Walker wince.
“It would appear that the security camera system there has been neglected,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Meaning what exactly?” Mariani snapped.
“Compromised,” Walker said carefully. “Rendered inoperative.”
“Then we have nothing from this morning’s shooting.”
Walker shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing yet.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“We do have this,” Walker said. “Corporal Rapier, number fifteen, please, and put sixteen on it.”
The image of the Philly Inn disappeared and was replaced with a static shot of the Reading Terminal Market. The image even had text across it, reading, Visit Historic Reading Terminal Market!
Coughlin, despite great effort to hold it back, snorted.
Matt Lowenstein, Henry Quaire, and Jason Washington were showing rapt interest in their shoes’ tips and the color and texture of the carpet—anything not to make eye contact with one another.
“What in the hell is that?” Mariani said incredulously.
“Well, sir,” Walker said, “because we have no live feeds from the market, we pulled a stock image off the Internet to serve as a placeholder.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Mariani sighed disgustedly. “What’s in here—a million bucks’ worth of gadgets? Two million?—and we’ve got a goddamn Chamber of Commerce promo picture of a crime scene!”
“We are working on a live feed, sir.” He waved his hand at the bank of TVs showing newscasts. “And we do have an image of the market via the FOX 29 news cameras, but it’s not a steady real-time feed.”
TV number sixteen popped up in a corner of the big image as an inset. It read:
Cause: Shooting. One hundred percent probability drug-related. Heroin-based product recovered at the scene, also 42 5.7- x 28-mm shell casings and 10 9-mm shell casings, and a Ruger P89 9-mm semi-auto pistol.
Known Dead: Two. One a Hispanic male, one Devon A. Desmond, age 22. Dual U.S.-Jamaican citizenship. Last Known Address 1805 E Boston St, Phila. Employed by the Mexican Mercado. One a White female juvenile, age 16, name of Kathleen Gingerich. Last Known Address a rural route in Lancaster County, Penna. Family owns Beiler’s Bakery.
Known Injured: Three, a White male and two White females. Male is one John Todd, of Phila. Two females are Japanese Nationals, approximate age 30, attending a convention of clothes designers at the Phila. Convention Center. Local address the Marriott Hotel at Filbert & 12th. All suffered bullet wounds believed to be from the 9-mm Ruger firearm. None life-threatening. Transported to Hahnemann Hospital.
“Kerry,” Walker then said. “Let’s go to seventeen.”
The main screen showed a crisp, clear, full-color image of the Temple University Hospital. There was a mix of unmarked Crown Victoria Interceptors and marked police cars, all with their lights flashing, lining the curbs.
The text in the lower right-hand corner read:
Temple University Hospital
Broad & Tioga
1158 hours, 24 Sept
“And here we have a real-time feed of the hospital,” Walker said. He turned and looked at Corporal Rapier. “Eighteen, please, Kerry.”
The color image was replaced with a somewhat grainy black-and-white exterior shot of the Temple University Hospital. There were cars in the street and people on the sidewalk. But none moved. The image was frozen. The text read:
Temple University Hospital
CCD #21. POV: Eastward from Tioga/Broad
1046 hours, 24 Sept
“You might find this one interesting,” Walker said. “Run it, Kerry.”
A second later, the cars began rolling and the people walking.
Then, at street level, an exit door to the hospital flew open. It almost struck two pedestrians. A Hispanic male wearing blue scrubs and holding a gun came out of the doorway. He immediately turned right and, as the steel exit door began to shut, ran down the sidewalk toward Germantown Avenue. The pedestrians started fleeing in the opposite direction.
“Jesus!” Mariani blurted. “There’s our doer!”
“Yes, sir!” Walker said a little too proudly.
The steel exit door then flew open again. Sergeant Matt Payne in plainclothes slowly came out in a crouch.
The Hispanic male, running down the center of Tioga, then turned and shot back at the exit door.
The camera clearly showed Matt Payne drop to his knees, then glance up at the door. After taking a quick look around the door edge, he took off after the doer, keeping to the sidewalk. The doer turned left on Germantown Avenue. When Payne went to follow, everyone in the room saw what he hadn’t—the taxicab flying down Tioga.
“Oh shit!” Henry Quaire blurted.
But then they saw Payne freeze and the cab swerve.
Payne then disappeared around th
e corner, headed up Germantown Avenue. And the black-and-white image froze again.
“We’re working,” Walker announced, “on getting any surveillance camera imagery along the route that Sergeant Payne stated he took in pursuit of the doer. Also, we have men reviewing the last two days of imagery from this same camera. They’re looking for foot and auto traffic anomalies or patterns on that sidewalk in case the victim was targeted, but randomly—”
“What about images from cameras inside the Burn Unit?” Matt Lowenstein asked, wondering why Walker would waste time with that.
“Those belong to the school,” Walker said with clear disdain. “They’re being cooperative, but due to technical compatibility problems, we’re having to use their equipment on site to review the very limited material they actually have. And I’m afraid it’s rather inferior to anything that we have here. Budgetary, you know. Someone had to decide whether to buy the latest scalpel or security camera. . . .”
“Well, the good news,” said Henry Quaire, “is that what we just saw showswithout a doubt that the doer shot at Matt. He had every right to shoot back.”
“Commissioner Coughlin,” Lieutenant Jason Washington said, “what about Matt? What do we—or I—do with him now?”
Coughlin looked at ease. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Mariani repeated.
Coughlin nodded. “There was the discharge of his firearm. So until Internal Affairs officially clears him on that, he’s on administrative duty. Which works out fine, because I pretty much had him assigned to that already. He’s due out at the airport”—he looked at this wristwatch—“in about three hours.”
“Your call, Denny,” Mariani said.
“I would suggest one thing, Commissioner,” Coughlin said.
He pointed to the main screen. The video had started to loop, and now showed the critter kicking open the exit door and scattering the pedestrians.
When Mariani’s eyes went to it, the Hispanic was taking shots at the door and Payne was dropping to his knees.
“I wouldn’t let His Honor the Mayor see that,” Denny Coughlin went on. “He’s liable to slip it to the media. I think he likes that Wyatt Earp persona of Payne’s. Makes folks see that his administration stands with the police and isn’t afraid to boldly go after the bad guys.”
There were chuckles.
“Commissioner Walker,” Corporal Rapier suddenly said. “Some fresh imagery coming in. Shall I put it up on the main screen?”
“Yes, of course, Kerry. Punch it up.”
All eyes turned to the big screen.
The black-and-white shot of Payne running down the sidewalk with his pistol raised disappeared. In its place, up popped a new full-color video feed. It was an aerial shot, somewhat shaky and at times pixilated, the image turning momentarily to colored dots and squares. That suggested it was being shot by one of the Aviation Unit’s Bell helicopter Long Rangers.
When the image became stable, it clearly showed a Philadelphia Police Marine Unit boat making a slow circle on a river. The vessel was a twenty-four-foot-long Boston Whaler, its fiberglass hull silver with the department’s blue-and-yellow-stripe color scheme. It had a two-hundred-horsepower Evinrude outboard. The light bar atop the aluminum tower was pulsing red and blue.
In the lower right-hand part of the screen, text popped up:
Schuylkill River at Grays Ferry Avenue Bridge
1158 hours, 24 Sept
“What the hell are we looking at?” Mariani said. “Some sort of fishing expedition?”
Walker looked at Corporal Rapier.
“Well, Kerry, anything on it?”
Corporal Rapier shook his head. “No, sir. All we just got was a call from the Marine Unit stating that they just recovered a body that was bobbing in the Schuylkill.”
VI
[ONE]
Mall de Mejico 1118 South Sixth Street, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 12:16 P.M.
The Mall of Mexico carried on in much the same South Philly tradition as that of the nearby historic Ninth Street Market. Dating back to the turn of the twentieth century, the storefronts and open-air vendors of the Ninth Street Market—roughly the area along Ninth that covered the five blocks between Washington Avenue and Christian Street—served the great masses of immigrants of its neighborhoods. At one time or another—and most often overlapping—there were merchants catering to the tastes of the city’s immigrant families from Italy and Ireland and Germany and Israel and Africa.
The flat-roofed one-story concrete-block building that housed the Mall of Mexico had originally been built for Unity Frankford Stores, one of Philly’s long-time grocery store chains. (And if one looked beyond the gaudy paint, the original signage was still there, painted over countless times.) Each of the Unity Frankford Stores had been individually owned, and got their goods wholesale from the Frankford Grocery Company warehouse at Griscom and Unity Streets.
Then along came the corporate giants, the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company (the “A&P”) among them. These eventually squeezed out Philly’s Unity Frankford and another grocer, American Stores. American did eventually become Acme, and there was in fact an Acme down around the corner from Mall de Mejico, on Washington.
Unity Frankford, however, was long dead and buried, and a vibrant Latin American marketplace its latest incarnation there on Sixth at Washington.
The Mall of Mexico merchants were arranged on a grid, much like those in the Reading Terminal Market. They offered South Philly’s immigrants the foods and more of Mexico, of course, but also of Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, even Cuba.
The mall’s front windows and doors overlooked a small asphalt parking lot. Its cinder-block walls were brightly painted in yellows and blues and reds. There was graffiti tagged at the rear. It had been spray-painted along the Sixth Street sidewalk by the beat-up pay telephone that was lag-bolted to the cinder-block wall. One large yellow section of that wall had a listing of mall merchants and the services that they offered. The lettering was done in black paint by what someone might kindly suggest was a shaky hand holding the brush.
Pacing the sidewalk along Sixth Street were thirty-odd Hispanic males of nearly all ages, starting around twelve and on up to sixty, the majority in their twenties. They were itinerant day laborers, many having just arrived in the city. They watched the passing traffic on Sixth, their interest piquing when a pickup or other work truck approached and slowed.
One or two of the laborers were selected by the others as their representative, mostly for the ability to speak English. The representatives went to the truck and spoke with the driver. After being told the type of work that needed to be done and negotiating a cash price, the representatives then consulted in Spanish with the other laborers. Workers were selected according to various criteria—for example, younger ones for hard labor requiring a strong back—and these workers then jumped in the back of the pickup.
And the rest went back to waiting for another truck to arrive.
On the sidewalk in front of the mall, an elderly Hispanic woman stood under the umbrella bolted to her food vendor cart. She was heavyset, and despite the shade of the umbrella was sweating in the heat of the September sun. The rubber-tired steamer cart was small, its diamond-patterned stainless steel battered. A handwritten menu taped to the front advertised tamales in pork, chicken, or cheese for one dollar each. A can of Coke or Sprite from the plastic cooler she used for a seat between sales also sold for a dollar.
As Juan Paulo Delgado drove into the parking lot in his Chevrolet Tahoe, the meat and corn smells of the tamales came into his vehicle through the open sunroof. He saw the elderly Hispanic woman pulling four aluminum-foiled wrapped tamales from her steamer. She handed them to two stout Hispanic women who appeared to be only a little younger than she was.
To Delgado, the scene had the same third-world feeling he’d found in so many other U.S. cities.
It’s like this just off Calle Ocho in Miami’s Little Havana.
&nb
sp; And in East L.A., East Dallas, Fort Worth’s Northside.
And now here.
It could be Calle Nueve at the Mercado Matamoros.
All that’s missing is the damn chickens and goats running wild.
Delgado still wore what he’d had on earlier—the sandals, camo cutoffs, black Sudsie’s T-shirt, and dark sunglasses. As he put the SUV in park and shut off the engine, his cellular telephone vibrated.
He looked at its screen. Omar Quintanilla had sent:
609-555-1904
JESUS WENT 2 TEMPLE . . . DEAL DONE . . . BUT HE GOT SHOT
“What?” Delgado said aloud.
He punched the keypad with his thumbs and sent the text:
HOW BAD?
The phone vibrated, and the screen read:
609-555-1904
BULLET WENT IN ABOVE LEFT KNEE & OUT FRONT OF LEG . . .
Delgado replied:
THAT ALL?
There was a long moment before the cellular vibrated. He read:
609-555-1904
THAT ALL??
HE WONT STOP YELLING!!!!
BUT SI . . . THAT ALL . . . JUST STILL BLEEDING
Delgado exhaled audibly.
Bueno.
That could have been worse . . . especially if the bullet had hit bone. Or a big vein.
He had a mental image of the self-styled tough guy Jesús Jiménez.
The badass is being a crybaby.
Delgado thumbed: