Sergeant DeBenedito didn’t think Officer Collins looked bright enough to write down his own laundry list.
He made his decision.
“Take her to Hahneman, that’s closest,” he ordered, referring to Hahneman Hospital, on just the other side of City Hall on North Broad Street. “Martinez, you get in the back with the girl and see what you can find out. You know about ‘dying declarations’?”
“Yeah,” Martinez said.
“And you, Payne, take the stairs downstairs and seal off the building. Nobody in or out. Got it?”
“Got it,” Matt said, and started for the stairwell.
DeBenedito started for his car, and then changed his mind. He still didn’t know for sure if the second victim was really dead.
One look at the body confirmed what Payne had told him. The top of the head was gone. The face, its eyes open and distorted, registered surprise.
On closer inspection the victim looked familiar. After a moment Sergeant DeBenedito was almost positive that the second victim was Anthony J. DeZego, a young, not too bright, Mafia guy known as Tony the Zee.
Now he walked quickly to the Highway car and picked up the microphone.
“Highway 21.”
“Highway 21,” police radio responded.
“I got a 5292 on the roof of the Penn Services garage,” DeBenedito reported. “Notify Homicide. The 9th District RPW is transporting a second victim, female Caucasian, to Hahneman.”
DeBenedito glanced around the roof and saw an arrow indicating the location of a public telephone.
“Okay, 21,” police radio responded.
DeBenedito tossed the microphone on the seat and trotted toward the telephone, searching his pockets for change.
He dialed a number from memory.
“Homicide.”
“This is Sergeant DeBenedito, Highway. I got a 5292 on the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage behind the Bellevue-Stratford. Top of his head blown off. I think he’s a mob guy called Tony the Zee.”
“Anthony J. DeZego,” the Homicide detective responded. “Interesting.”
“There was a second victim. Female Caucasian. Multiple wounds. Looks like a shotgun. Identified as Penelope Detweiler. Her father is president of Nesfoods.”
“Jesus!”
“She’s being transported to Hahneman.”
“This is Lieutenant Natali, Sergeant. We got the 5292 from radio. A couple of detectives are on the way. When they get there, tell them I’m on my way. You’re sure it’s Tony the Zee?”
“Just about. And the ID on the girl is positive.”
“I’m on my way,” Lieutenant Natali said, and the phone went dead.
DeBenedito dialed another number.
“Highway, Corporal Ashe.”
“Sergeant DeBenedito. Pass it to the lieutenant that I went in on shots fired at the parking garage behind the Bellevue. The dead man is a mob guy, Tony the Zee DeZego. Shotgun took the top of his head off. There’s a second victim, white female, transported to Hahneman. Name is Detweiler. Her father is president of Nesfoods.”
“I’ll get it to Lieutenant Lucci right away, Sergeant,” Corporal Ashe said.
Sergeant DeBenedito hung up without saying anything else and went back on the roof to have another look at Tony the Zee.
I wonder who blew this scumbag guinea gangster away? thought Sergeant Vincenzo Nicholas DeBenedito idly. The previous summer he had flown to Italy with his parents to meet most, but not all, of his Neapolitan kinfolk.
Then he thought: Damn shame that girl had to get in between whatever happened here, on her way, all dressed up, to a party at the Union League.
And then he had another discomfiting thought: Was the nice little rich girl from Chestnut Hill just an innocent bystander? Or was she fucking around with Tony the Zee?
Matt Payne pulled open the door to the stairwell and started down, taking the stairs two and three at a time.
He wanted to see what had happened to Amanda Spencer, and he also desperately needed to relieve his bladder. He had been startled to hear the scream of the tires on the Porsche when she had turned it around and driven off the roof. He had had several thoughts: that she was naturally frightened and logically was therefore getting the hell away from the scene; then he was surprised that she could drive the Porsche, and he modified this last thought to “drive the Porsche so well” when he saw her make the turn, then head down the ramp as fast as she could.
Between the third and second floors he startled a very large florid-faced cop wearing the white cap cover of Traffic who was leaning against the cement-block wall. The Traffic cop pushed himself off the wall to block Matt’s passage and looked as if he were about to draw his pistol.
“I’m a cop,” Matt called. “Payne, Special Operations.”
He fished in his pocket and came out with his badge.
“What the hell is going on up there?” the Traffic cop asked.
“A couple of people got shot. With a shotgun. One is dead, and the van is taking a woman to the hospital.”
The Traffic cop got out of the way, and Matt ran down the stairs to ground level. He pushed open the door and found himself on 15th Street. Ten yards away, he saw the nose of his Porsche sticking out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. There were a half dozen police cars, marked and unmarked, clustered around the entrance and exit ramps, half up on the sidewalk. A Traffic sergeant was in the narrow street, directing traffic.
When he reached the exit ramp, Amanda was talking to a man with a detective’s badge hanging out of the breast pocket of a remarkably ugly plaid sport coat. When she saw him, Amanda walked away from the detective and up to Matt.
“How is she?”
“She’s alive,” Matt said. “They’re taking her to the hospital. We’ve got to move the Porsche.”
As if on cue, the emergency patrol wagon pulled up behind the Porsche and Officer Howard C. Sawyer impatiently sounded the horn. Matt jumped behind the wheel and pulled the Porsche out of the way, onto the sidewalk.
The EPW came off the exit ramp, turned on its siren and flashing lamps, and when the Traffic sergeant, furiously blowing his whistle, stopped the flow of traffic, bounced onto 15th Street, turning left.
When Matt got out of the car, the detective was waiting for him.
“You’re the boyfriend?” he asked, and then without waiting for a reply asked, “You found the victim? You’re a cop? That’s your car?”
Matt looked at Amanda when the detective said the word boyfriend. She shrugged her shoulders and looked uncomfortable.
“My name is Payne,” Matt said. “Special Operations. That’s my car. We saw one of the victims on the ground when we drove onto the roof.”
“You’re Payne? The guy who blew the rapist away?”
Matt nodded.
“There’s a Highway sergeant up there,” Matt said. “He sent me to seal the building.”
“It’s been sealed,” the detective said, gesturing up and down the street. “I’m Joe D’Amata, Homicide,” he said. “You have any idea what went down?”
“Two victims,” Matt said. “I found a white male with his head blown off next to the stairwell. Looks like a shotgun.” He looked at Amanda. “Did Miss Spencer tell you who the female is?”
“I was about to ask her,” the detective said.
“She’s Penny Detweiler,” Amanda said.
“You know her? You were with her?”
“We know her. We weren’t with her. Or not really.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“There’s a dinner party. There’s a wedding. She was supposed to be at it.”
“A dinner party or a wedding?” D’Amata asked impatiently. “Which?”
“A wedding dinner party,” Matt said, feeling foolish, and anticipated D’Amata’s next question. “At the Union League.”
D’Amata looked at Payne. Ordinary cops do not ordinarily go to dinner at the Union League. He remembered what he had heard about this kid
. There had been a lot of talk around the Department about him. Rich kid. College boy from Wallingford. But it was also said that his father, a sergeant, had been killed on the job. And there was no question he’d blown away the serial rapist. There had been a picture of him in all the papers, with Mayor Carlucci’s arm around him. The critter had tried to run him down with a van, and then the kid had blown the critter’s brains out. The critter had had a woman, a naked woman, tied up in the back of the van when it happened. If the kid hadn’t caught him when he did, the woman would have been another victim. The critter had tortured and mutilated his previous victim before he’d killed her. A real scumbag loony.
“The Union League,” Detective D’Amata said as he wrote it down.
“Her parents are probably there now,” Matt Payne said. “Somebody’s going to have to tell them what happened.”
“You mean, you want to?”
“I don’t know how it’s done,” Matt confessed.
Detective D’Amata looked around, found what he was looking for, and raised his voice: “Lieutenant Lewis?”
Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., of the 9th District, who had only moments before arrived at the crime scene, looked around to see who was calling him, and found D’Amata.
“See you a minute, Lieutenant?” D’Amata called.
Lieutenant Lewis walked over.
“Lieutenant, this is Officer Payne, of Special Operations. He and this young lady found the victims.”
Lieutenant Lewis looked carefully at Officer Matthew Payne, who was wearing a dinner jacket Lieutenant Lewis would have bet good money was his and hadn’t come from a rental agency. He knew a good deal about Officer Matthew W. Payne.
There was a vacancy for a lieutenant in the newly formed Special Operations Division. Lewis had thought—before he’d heard that Foster, Jr., was being assigned there—that it might be a good place for him to broaden his experience and enhance his career. So far all of his experience had been in one district or another.
An old friend of his, a Homicide detective named Jason Washington, had been transferred; over his objections, to Special Operations, and he’d had a long talk with Washington about Special Operations and its youthful commander, Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.
In the course of that conversation the well-publicized heroics of Wohl’s special assistant had come up. To Lewis’s surprise, Jason Washington had kind words for both men: “Peter Wohl’s as smart as a whip and a straight arrow. A little ruthless about getting the job done, not to protect himself. And the kid’s all right too. Denny Coughlin dumped him in Wohl’s lap; he didn’t ask for the job. I think he’s got the making of a good cop; the last I heard, it wasn’t illegal to be either rich or well connected.”
“I’m surprised, Officer Payne,” Lieutenant Lewis said, “that Inspector Wohl hasn’t told you that it is Departmental procedure for an officer in civilian clothing at a crime scene to display his badge in a prominent place.”
Matt looked at him for a moment, then said, “Sorry, sir.”
He took the folder holding his badge and photo identification card from his pocket and tried to shove it into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. It didn’t fit. He started to unpin the badge from the leather folder.
I wonder, Lieutenant Lewis thought, how this young man’s father feels about him becoming a policeman? He is probably at least as unenthusiastic about it as I am about that hard-headed, overgrown namesake of mine.
It is a question of upward and downward social mobility. My son has thrown away a splendid chance at upward mobility, to become a doctor; to make, a few years out of medical school, more money than I will ever make in my lifetime. This young man is turning his back on God alone knows what. Certainly, a partnership in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester. Very possibly a chance to become a senator or a governor. Certainly to make a great deal of money.
I am as baffled by this one as I am by Foster.
“Lieutenant,” Detective D’Amata said, “Payne knows one of the victims. The woman.” He consulted his notebook. “Her name is Penelope Detweiler. He says her parents are probably at the Union League—”
“Chestnut Hill?” Lieutenant Lewis asked, interrupting. “Those Detweilers, Payne?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Lewis also knew a good deal about the Detweilers of Chestnut Hill. Four generations ago George Detweiler had gone into partnership with Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt to found what was then called the Nesbitt Potted Meats and Preserved Vegetables Company. It was now Nesfoods International, listed just above the middle of the Fortune 500 companies and still tightly held. C. T. Nesbitt III was chairman of the Executive Committee and H. Richard Detweiler was President and Chief Executive Officer.
C. T. Nesbitt IV was to be married the day after tomorrow by the Episcopal Bishop of Philadelphia at St. Mark’s Church. His Honor the Mayor and Mrs. Carlucci had been invited, and there had been a call from a mayor’s officer to the 9th District commander, saying the mayor didn’t want any problems with traffic or anything else.
Extra officers from the 9th District had been assigned to assist the Traffic Division in handling the flow of traffic. As a traffic problem it would be much like a very large funeral. A large number of people would arrive, more or less singly, at the church. Traffic flow would be impeded as each car (in many cases, a limousine) paused long enough to discharge its passengers and then moved on to find a parking place. After the wedding the problem would grow worse, as the four hundred odd guests left all at once to find their cars or limousines for the ride to the reception at the home of the bride’s parents. Only the problem of forming a funeral convoy of cars would be missing.
Additionally there would be a number of plainclothes officers from Civil Affairs and the Detective Division mingling with the guests at the church and at the pre-wedding cocktail party for out-of-town guests in the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel.
Captain J. J. Maloney, the 9th District Commander, had ordered Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., to take care of it.
“Has the family of the victim been informed?” Lieutenant Lewis asked.
“No, sir,” D’Amata said.
“Sir, I thought maybe I could do that,” Payne said.
Lieutenant Lewis thought that over carefully for a moment. It had to be done. Normally it would be the responsibility of the 9th District. But if Payne did it, it would probably be handled with greater tact than if he dispatched an RPC to do it. He considered for a moment going himself, or going with Payne, and decided against it. He also decided that he would not take it upon himself to notify the mayor, although he was sure Jerry Carlucci would want to hear about this. Let Captain J. J. Maloney tell the mayor, or one of the big brass. He would find a phone and call Maloney.
“Very well,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “Do so. I don’t think I have to tell you to express the regret of the Police Department that something like this has happened, do I?”
“No, sir.”
“As I understand the situation, we don’t know what happened here, do we?”
“No, sir,” Matt Payne said.
“I’m sure that you will not volunteer your opinions, will you, Payne?”
“No, sir.”
“And then come back here,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “I’m sure Detective D’Amata, and others, will have questions for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Lewis turned to Amanda Spencer.
“I didn’t get your name, miss,” he said.
“Amanda Spencer.”
“Are you from Philadelphia, Miss Spencer?”
“Scarsdale,” Amanda said, adding, “New York.”
“You’re in town for the wedding?”
“That’s right.”
“Where are you staying here?”
“With the Brownes, the bride’s family,” Amanda answered. “In Merion.”
That would be the Soames T. Brownes, Lieutenant Lewis recalled from an extraordinary memory. Soames T. Browne did not ha
ve a job. When his picture appeared, for example, in a listing of the board of directors of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, the caption under it read “Soames T. Browne, Investments.” The Brownes—and for that matter, the Soames—had been investing, successfully, in Philadelphia businesses since Ben Franklin had been running the newspaper there.
There was going to be a lot of pressure on this job, Lewis thought. And a lot of publicity. People like the Nesbitts and the Brownes and the Detweilers took the term public servant literally, with emphasis on servant. They expected public servants, like the police and the courts, to do what they had been hired to do, and were not at all reluctant to point out where those public servants had failed to perform. When a Detweiler called the mayor, he took the call.
Lieutenant Lewis thought again that Jerry Carlucci had been invited to the wedding and the reception and might even be at the Union League when the Payne kid walked in and told them that Penelope Detweiler had just been shot.
“Ordinarily, Miss Spencer, we’d ask you to come to the Roundhouse—”
“The what?” Amanda asked.
“To the Police Administration Building—”
“The whole building is curved, Amanda,” Matt explained.
“—to be interviewed by a Homicide detective,” Lieutenant Lewis went on, clearly displeased with Matt’s interruption. “But since Officer Payne was with you, possibly Detective D’Amata would be willing to have you come there a little later.”
“No problem with that, sir,” D’Amata said.
And then, as if to document his prediction that the shooting was going to attract a good deal of attention from the press, an antenna-bedecked Buick Special turned out of the line of traffic and pulled into the exit ramp, and Mr. Michael J. O’Hara got out.
The Victim Page 8