The Victim boh-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  Anthony J. DeZego, who met his death on the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage two nights ago, his head shattered by a shotgun blast, was described on the eve of his funeral as a "good son, husband and father" by his mother, Mrs. Christiana DeZego.

  DeZego, 34, was a truck driver for Gulf Sea Food Transport at the time of his death in what police suspect was a gangland killing. Police Captain Michael J. Sabara, Deputy Commander of Special Operations, which is investigating the early-evening murder, refused to comment on DeZego's alleged ties to organized crime but said the shooting was "not unlike a Mafia assassination." He said that DeZego had a criminal record dating back to his teens and had only recently been released from probation.

  His most recent brush with the law, according to Captain Sabara, had been a conviction for "possession with intent to distribute controlled substances."

  DeZego had recently purchased for his family (a wife and two sons) a home four doors down from that of his mother in South Philadelphia. His late-model Cadillac, found abandoned by police at Philadelphia International Airport the morning after the shooting, was returned to his family yesterday.

  Salvatore B. Mariano, DeZego's brother-in-law and president of Gulf Sea Food Transport, said that DeZego was "a reliable employee and would be missed at work." He refused to speculate on how DeZego could afford a new home and a Cadillac on ordinary truck driver's wages and dismissed as "nonsense" that DeZego had ties to organized crime.

  DeZego will be buried at threep.m. this afternoon, following a Requiem Mass at St. Teresa of Avalone Roman Catholic Church.

  The investigation into his murder is "proceeding well," according to Captain Sabara, who declined to offer any further details. He confirmed that the investigation is being conducted by ace homicide detective Jason Washington.

  "Nothing would please us more than to see Mr. DeZego's murderer face the full penalty of the law," Sabara said.

  "You want tobuy that newspaper, Mac? Or did you think you was in a library?" a counterman with sideburns down to his chin line demanded.

  "I want to buy it," Matt said. "Sorry."

  He laid a dollar bill on the counter and turned back to the telephone and dialed Peter Wohl's home number.

  After the fourth ring there was a click. "This is 555-8251," Wohl' s recorded voice announced. "When this thing beeps, you can leave a message."

  "Inspector, this is Matt Payne. I have to talk to you just as soon as possible-"

  "This soon enough?" Wohl's cheerful voice interrupted.

  Matt was startled.

  "Have you seen the papers? TheLedger?"

  "No. But I'll bet you called me to tell me about them," Wohl said dryly.

  "There's a picture of the mayor on the front page. About to punch a photographer. And several bullshit stories putting him and us down."

  "I'd like to see them," Wohl said. "Isthat why you called me at quarter to one?"

  "No, sir. Sir, I've fucked up."

  "Another run-in with Sergeant Dolan?"

  "No, sir. It's something else."

  "Where are you?"

  "At 49^th and Lancaster. At a pay phone."

  "If you don't think-which,ergo sum, you've called, so you don'tthis will wait until morning, come over here. Bring theLedger with you."

  "Yes, sir, I'll be right there."

  When he went outside, one of the two cops who had been at the counter was on the sidewalk. The other one was across the street, by the Porsche. Matt walked back across Lancaster Avenue.

  "Nice car," the cop said.

  "Thank you."

  "You been drinking?"

  "I had a couple of drinks," Matt said.

  "Wedding, huh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, you always take a couple of drinks at a wedding, don't you? And you made it across the street in a straight line," the cop said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "You open to a little friendly advice?"

  "Sure."

  "Dressed up like that, driving a car like this, this time of night, with a couple of drinks in you, maybe stopping in a neighborhood like this isn't such a good idea. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so," Matt said. "Yes. I know what you mean."

  "Good night, sir," the cop said. "Drive careful."

  He walked back across Lancaster Avenue, got in the 19^th District RPC, and drove off.

  He had no idea I'm cop. Obviously I don't look like a cop. Or act like one. But I know that, don't I, that I don't act like a cop?

  ****

  As Matt swung wide to turn off Norwood Street in Chestnut Hill and to enter into the driveway that led to Peter Wohl's apartment, the Porsche's headlights swept across a massive chestnut tree and he thought he could see a faint scarring of the bark.

  He thought: I killed a man there.

  Warren K. Fletcher, 34, of Germantown, his brain already turned to pulp by a 168-grain round-nosed lead bullet fired from Officer Matt Payne's.38-caliber Chief's Special snub-nosed revolver, a naked civilian tied up with lamp cord under a tarpaulin in the back of his van, had crashed the van into that chestnut tree, ending what Michael J. O'Hara had called, in thePhiladelphia Bulletin, "The Northwest Philadelphia Serial Rapist's Reign of Terror.".

  Matt recalled Chad asking him what it was like to have killed a man. And he remembered what he had replied: "I haven't had nightmares or done a lot of soul-searching about it. Nothing like that."

  It was true, of course, but he suddenly understood why he had said that: It hadn't bothered him because it was unreal. It hadn't happened. Or it had happened to somebody else. Or in a movie. It was beyond credibility that Matthew M. Payne, of Wallingford and Episcopal Academy, former treasurer of Delta Phi Omicron at, and graduate of, the University of Pennsylvania, had been given a badge and a gun by the City of Philadelphia and had actually taken that gun from its holster and killed somebody with it.

  He drove down the driveway. There was a Buick Limited parked in front of one of Peter Wohl's two garages. There was nothing on the car to suggest that it was a Department car, and he wondered who it belonged to.

  He got out of the Porsche and climbed the stairs to Wohl's door and knocked.

  A silver-haired, stocky man in his sixties, jacketless, his tie pulled down, wearing braces, opened the door.

  "You must be Matt Payne," he said, offering one hand. The other held a squat whiskey glass. "I'm Augie Wohl. Peter's taking a leak. Come on in."

  Matt knew that Peter Wohl's father was Chief Inspector August Wohl, retired, but he had never met him. He was an imposing man, Matt thought, just starting to show the signs of age. He was also, Matt realized, half in the bag.

  "How do you do, sir?" Matt said.

  "Let me fix you a little something," Chief Wohl said. "What's your pleasure?"

  "I'm not sure that I should," Matt said.

  "Oh, hell, have one. You're among friends."

  "A little Scotch then, please," Matt said.

  He followed Wohl's father across the room to Wohl's bar.

  It was covered with takeout buckets from a Chinese restaurant. Chief Wohl reached over the bar, came up with a fifth of Johnnie Walker and a glass, and poured the glass half full. He added ice cubes from a plastic freezer tray and handed it to him.

  "Dilute it yourself," he said cheerfully. "There's soda and water."

  "Thank you," Matt said.

  Peter Wohl, in the act of closing his zipper, came out of his bedroom.

  "What we have here is obviously the best-dressed newspaper boy in Philadelphia," he said. "Have you and Dad introduced yourselves?"

  He's not feeling much pain, either, Matt decided.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And I see he's been plying you with booze," Wohl went on. "So let me see whatThe Ledger has to say, and then you can tell me how you fucked up."

  Matt handed him the newspaper, which Wohl spread out on the bar, and then read, his father looking over his shoulder.

  "It could be worse," Chief Wohl said. "
I think Nelson is being very careful. Nesfoods takes a lot of tomato soup ads in his newspapers."

  "So how did you fuck up, Matt?" Peter Wohl asked.

  Matt told him about his confrontation with H. Richard Detweiler, fighting, he thought successfully, the temptation to offer any kind of an excuse for his inexcusable stupidity.

  "You're sure, son," Chief Wohl asked, "that Detweiler's girl has a drug problem?"

  "If Washington has the nurse in Hahneman, Dad-" Peter Wohl said.

  "Yeah, sure," Chief Wohl said. "What about the girl's relationship with DeZego? How reliable do you think that information is?"

  "It's secondhand," Matt said. "It could just be gossip."

  "You didn't tell her father about that, anyhow, did you, Matt?" Peter Wohl asked.

  "No, sir, I didn't," Matt said. But that triggered the memory of his having told his father. And, shamed again, he felt morally obliged to add that encounter to everything else.

  "Well, fortunately for you," Chief Wohl said, looking at Matt, " Jerry tried to belt the photographer. Or did he belt him? Or just try?"

  "The paper said 'a scuffle ensued,' " Peter Wohl said.

  "It was more than that," Chief Wohl said, went to the bar and read, somewhat triumphantly from the newspaper story: "… 'a scuffle ensued during which aLedger photographer was knocked to the ground and his camera damaged.' " Don't you watch television? A cop is supposed toget the facts."

  " 'Just the facts, ma'am.' " Peter Wohl chuckled, mimicking Sergeant Friday onDragnet.

  "Carlucci is going to be far more upset about that picture being on every other breakfast table in Philadelphia, son," Chief Wohl said, "than about you telling Detweiler his daughter has a drug problem."

  "That was pretty goddamn dumb," Peter Wohl said.

  "Yes, sir, I know it was. And I'm sorry as hell," Matt said.

  "He was talking about Jerry Carlucci," Chief Wohl said.

  "But the shoe fits," Peter Wohl said, "so put it on."

  Matt glanced at him. There was a smile on Peter Wohl's face.

  He's not furious, or even contemptuous, Matt realized, very surprised. He doesn't even seem very annoyed. It's as if he expected this sort of stupid behavior from a rookie. Or maybe from a college boy.

  "Jerry never learned when not to use his fists," Chief Wohl said, then chuckled. "My God, the gorilla suit!" He laughed. "You ever tell Matt about Carlucci and the gorilla suit?"

  Wohl, chuckling, shook his head.

  "You tell him," he said, and walked to the bar.

  "Well, this was ten, maybe twelve years ago," Chief Wohl began. " Jerry had Highway. I had Uniformed Patrol. Highway was under Uniformed Patrol then. I kept getting these complaints from everybody, the DA's office, a couple of judges, Civil Liberties, everybody, that Highway was taking guys to Bustleton and Bowler and working them over before they took them to Central Lockup. So I called Jerry in and read the riot act to him. I was serious, and he knew I was serious. I told him that the first time I could prove that he, or anybody in Highway, was working people over at Bustleton and Bowler, he would be in Traffic the next morning, blowing a whistle at Broad and Market…" He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "If you're making one of those for Matt, my glass has a hole in it too."

  "None for me, thanks," Matt said about two seconds before Peter Wohl handed him a fresh drink.

  "Ssh," Peter Wohl said, "you're interrupting the old man."

  "So he stopped for a while," Chief Wohl went on. "Maybe for a week. Then I started hearing about it again. So I went to the sergeant in Central Lockup. I was serious about this and told him the next time they got a prisoner from Highway that looked like he'd been worked over, I wanted to hear about it right then. So, sure enough, two or three nights later, about eleven o'clock at night, I get this call from Central Lockup."

  Peter Wohl handed his father a drink.

  He looked at it, and then at Matt.

  "Don't worry about getting home, son," he said. "I'll drive you myself."

  "The hell you will." Peter Wohl laughed. "He stays here and you're getting driven home. The one thing I don't need is either or both of you running into a bus."

  "You're not suggesting that I'm drunk, are you?"

  "It's not a suggestion at all," Wohl said. "It's one of those facts you were talking about before." He went to the telephone and dialed a number.

  "This is Inspector Wohl," he said. "Would you put out the word to have the nearest Highway car meet me at my house, please?"

  "I'm not sure I like that," Chief Wohl said.

  "I would rather have you pissed at me than Mother, okay?" Wohl said. "Finish the gorilla story."

  "Where was I?"

  "You got a call from Central Lockup," Peter furnished.

  "Yeah. Right. So what happened, Matt, was that I got in my car and went down there. They had a bum, a real wiseass, in one of the cells, and somebody in Highway had really worked him over. Swollen lips. Black eye. The works. And I knew Jerry Carlucci had been out at Bustleton and Bowler.

  So I thought I had him. So I went into the cell with this guy and asked him what had happened. 'Nothing happened,' he said. So I asked him where he got the cut lip and the shiner. And he said, 'From a gorilla.' And I said 'Bullshit' and he said a gorilla beat him up, and if I didn't like it, go fuck myself. And I asked, where did the gorilla beat him up, and he said 'Bustleton and Bowler' and I said there weren't any gorillas at Bustleton and Bowler, and he said 'The hell there wasn't, one of them came into the detention cell there and kicked the shit out of me.' "

  Peter Wohl laughed out loud. "True story, Matt," he said.

  "Well," Chief Wohl went on, "like I said, Matt, this guy was a real wiseass, and I knew I was wasting my breath. If Carlucci had beat him up, he wasn't going to tell me. So I went home. About a week later a piece of paper crossed my desk. It was a court order for the release of evidence in a truck heist before trial. You know what I mean, son?"

  "Matt," Peter Wohl said, "sometimes a court will order the release of stolen property to its owners before the case comes to trial, if they can prove undue hardship, that sort of thing."

  "Yes, sir," Matt said.

  "The evidence was described as 'theatrical costumes and accessories.' Highway had the evidence. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time, but the same afternoon, I was out at Bustleton and Bowler, and I was a little curious. So I asked the sergeant where the theatrical costumes were-I was asking, in other words, if they had been returned to the owners yet. The sergeant said, 'Everything but the gorilla suit's out in the storeroom. Captain Carlucci's got the gorilla suit.' "

  He put his glass down and laughed so hard, his eyes watered.

  "That goddamn Jerry Carlucci had actually put the gorilla suit on, gone into the holding cell, and worked the bum over. And the bum, who had his reputation to think of, was not going to go to court and complain he'd been assaulted by a guy in a gorilla suit. Oh, Jesus, Jerry was one hell of a cop!"

  There were the sounds of footsteps on the stairs outside, and then a rap at the door. Wohl went to it and opened it. Sergeant Big Bill Henderson stood there.

  "Not that I'm not glad to see you, Sergeant," Wohl said, "but I guess I should have asked for a two-man car."

  "What's the problem, Inspector?"

  "There's no problem at all, Sergeant," Chief Wohl said. "My son has got the cockamamie idea that I'm too drunk to drive."

  "Hello, Chief," Big Bill said. "Nice to see you again, sir."

  "I was just telling Matt Payne about Jerry Carlucci and the gorilla suit," Chief Wohl said. "You ever hear that story?"

  "No, sir," Big Bill said. "You can tell me on the way home. Inspector, I'll have a car pick up mine and meet me at the chief's house. Okay?"

  "Fine," Wohl said. "Or we could wait for a two-man car."

  "No, I'll take the chief. I want to hear about the gorilla suit." He winked at Peter Wohl.

  Peter Wohl found his father's coat and helped him into it. Matt saw for the
first time that Chief Wohl had a pistol.

  I guess once a cop, always a cop.

  "You tell Mother going to Groverman's Bar was your idea, Dad?" Peter said.

  "I can handle your mother, don't you worry about that," Chief Wohl said. He walked over to Matt and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, son. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but Peter thinks you're going to make a hell of a cop."

  "I said 'in twenty years or so' is what I said," Peter Wohl said.

  Chief Wohl and Sergeant Henderson left.

  Wohl walked past Matt, into his bedroom, and returned in a moment carrying sheets and blankets and a pillow. He tossed them at Matt.

  "Make up the couch. Go to bed. Do not snore. Leave quietly in the morning. You are still working with Jason?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm to meet him at the Roundhouse at eight."

  "Try not to breathe on him," Wohl said. "I would hate for him to get the idea that you've been out till all hours drinking."

  "Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

  At his bedroom door Peter Wohl turned. "When you hear the gorilla suit story again, and you will, remember that the first time you heard it, you heard it from the source," he said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good night, Matt," Wohl said, and closed the door.

  Matt undressed to his underwear. The last thing he took off was his ankle holster. He laid it on the table beside his tuxedo trousers.

  My gun, he thought. The tool of the policeman's trade. Chief Wohl still carries his. And Chief Wohl thinks I'm a cop. A rookie, maybe, but a cop. He wouldn't 't have told that story to a civilian, about the mayor when he was a cop, putting on a gorilla suit and knocking some wiseass around. I wouldn't tell it to my father; he's a civilian and wouldn't understand. And Chief Wohl wasn't kidding when he said that Inspector Wohl told him he thought I could make a good cop.

  Matt Payne went to sleep feeling much happier than when he had walked in the door.

  SIXTEEN

  Matt Payne's bladder woke him with a call to immediate action at half past five. It posed something of a problem. There was only one toilet in Peter Wohl's apartment, off his bedroom. It was either try to use that without waking Wohl or going outside and relieving himself against the wall of the garage, something that struck him as disgusting to do, but he knew he could not make it to the nearest open diner or hamburger joint.