The investigators

THREE

The District Attorney of Philadelphia, the Hon. Thomas J. "Tony" Callis-a large, silver-haired, ruddy-faced, well-tailored man in his early fifties-looked up from his desk, and saw Harrison J. Hormel, Esq.-a somewhat rumpled-looking forty-six-year-old-standing in the door, waiting to be noticed.

Harry Hormel was arguably the most competent of all the assistant district attorneys Callis supervised. And he had another characteristic Callis liked. Hormel was apolitical. He had no political ambitions of his own, and owed no allegiance to any politician, except the current incumbent of the Office of the District Attorney.

"Come in, Harry," Mr. Callis called.

Hormel slipped into one of the two comfortable green leather armchairs facing Callis's desk.

"What do you want to happen to James Howard Leslie? " Hormel asked, without any preliminaries.

"Boiling in oil would be nice," Tony Callis said. "Or perhaps drawing and quartering."

Mr. James Howard Leslie, by profession a burglar, had been recently indicted for murder in the first degree. It was alleged that one Jerome H. Kellog, on returning to his home at 300 West Luray Street in Northwest Philadelphia, had come across Mr. Leslie in his kitchen. It was further alleged that Leslie had thereupon brandished a blue. 38 Special five-inch-barrel Smith amp; Wesson revolver; had then ordered Kellog to raise his hands and turn around; and when Kellog had done so, had shot Kellog in the back of the head, causing his death. It was further alleged that after Kellog had fallen to the floor of his kitchen, Leslie had then shot him again in the head, for the purpose of making sure he was dead.

When Leslie had discussed the incident with Sergeant Jason Washington of the Special Operations Division of the Philadelphia Police Department, Leslie had explained that he had felt it necessary to take Kellog's life because Kellog had seen his face, and as a policeman, would probably be able to find him and arrest him for burglary.

The question Hormel was really asking, Callis understood, was whether the City of Philadelphia wanted to go through the expense of a trial, seeking a sentence that would incarcerate Leslie for the rest of his natural life, or whether Leslie should be permitted to cop a plea, which would see him removed from society for, say, twenty years, which was, in practical terms, about as long behind bars as a life sentence would mean.

Ordinarily, there would be no question of that. The full wrath and fury of the law would suddenly descend on the shoulders of anyone who had in cold blood taken the life of a police officer. Or even someone who had shot a cop by mistake, while in the act of doing anything illegal.

Ordinarily, Callis himself would have personally prosecuted Leslie. For one thing, he really believed that letting a scumbag get away with shooting a cop really would undermine the very foundations of civilized society. For another, press reports of the vigorous prosecution of such a villain by the district attorney himself would be remembered at election time.

It was not much of a secret that District Attorney Callis would be willing to serve the people of Philadelphia as their mayor if called upon to do so. And neither was it lost upon him that one of the reasons the incumbent mayor of Philadelphia, the Hon. Jerome H. "Jerry" Carlucci, had been elected and reelected with such comfortable margins was his reputation of being personally tough on criminals.

But the case of Leslie was not like, for example, that of some scumbag shooting a cop during a bank robbery. For one thing, Officer Kellog had not been on duty at the time of his tragic demise. Perhaps more important, Leslie was going to be represented at his trial by the Office of the Public Defender, specifically by a lawyer whom Callis most commonly thought of-not for publication, of course-as "The Goddamned Nun."

Ms. Imogene McCarthy-who had been known as Sister Luke during her ten years as a cloistered nun-had two characteristics that annoyed Callis, sometimes greatly. She devoutly believed that there were always extenuating circumstances-poverty, lack of education, parental abuse, drug addiction-which caused people like James Howard Leslie to do what they did, and which tragic circumstances should trigger not punishment but compassion and mercy on the part of society; and she was a very skillful attorney, both in the courtroom and in the appeals processes.

Tony Callis was determined that The Goddamned Nun, as good as she was, was not going to get her client off on this one. Indeed, in her heart of hearts, she probably didn't want to see him walk. What she didn't want was for the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to put James Howard Leslie into handcuffs and march him off to Rockview Prison in State College for what the judge had just told him would be incarceration for the rest of his natural life, thereby destroying all of his hopes to be educated, rehabilitated, and returned to society as a productive, law-abiding member thereof.

What, Callis believed, McCarthy saw from her perspective as a reasonable solution to the case of James Howard Leslie was that he be allowed to plead guilty to Murder Three (voluntary manslaughter), a lesser offense that, she would be prepared to argue, would not only punish him and remove him from society for a very long period-say, seven to ten years-so that he could cause others no harm, but save both the Office of the District Attorney and the Office of the Public Defender the considerable cost in time and money of a trial and the following appeals processes.

There was a certain logic to her position. If Kellog had not been a police officer, Callis might have entertained her plea-bargain offer. But Kellog had been a cop, and Leslie had killed him in cold blood, and deserved to be locked up permanently. Strapping the murdering son of a bitch into the electric chair was unfortunately-thanks to bleeding hearts and the Supreme Court-no longer possible. The only way to get him locked up for life was to bring him to trial.

After some thought-it would do his political ambitions little good, he had reasoned, if he personally prosecuted Leslie only to have The Goddamned Nun get him off with something like seven to ten-Callis had decided to delegate the responsibility for prosecuting Leslie to Assistant District Attorney Hormel.

"Phebus wants to prosecute," Harry Hormel said. "He asked me."

Anton C. Phebus, Esq., was another of the assistant district attorneys under Callis's supervision.

Callis was not surprised that Tony Phebus wanted to prosecute Leslie, or even that Phebus had asked Hormel for the job. Phebus was an ex-cop, and thus felt a personal interest in seeing to it that Leslie, after a fair trial, would be locked up permanently. And Harry Hormel was de facto if not de jure, like one of Mr. Orwell's pigs, the most equal of all the assistant district attorneys.

"You don't want to prosecute?" Callis asked.

"I will," Hormel said. "But if Phebus does, it will give him the experience."

Phebus was a relative newcomer both to the practice of law and the District Attorney's Office. He had served twelve years as a police officer, rising to sergeant, and attending law school at Temple University whenever he could fit the hours into a policeman's always changing schedule. He had joined the Office of the District Attorney fourteen months before, shortly after being admitted to the bar.

Callis suddenly remembered-he had a very good memory, which had served him well-that Phebus had been a sergeant in the Narcotics Unit of the Philadelphia Police Department when he had been a cop, and that Jerome H. Kellog had also been assigned to the Narcotics Unit.

"He and Kellog were buddies in Narcotics?" Callis asked. "Partners?"

It would be unwise to have a man with a really personal interest in sending the accused away for life serve as his prosecutor.

"No. I checked that out. They never worked together, and they weren't friends," Hormel said.

Callis was not surprised that Hormel had checked out that possible problem area before coming to see him.

"What are you suggesting, Harry? That maybe Phebus couldn't get around McCarthy?"

"We have everything we need to get a conviction," Hormel said. "A statement, everything. Phebus stands as good a chance of getting a conviction as I do. Miss Mc-Carthy 'll give him her best shot, which would be a good learning experience for him both at the trial and during the appeals."

Obviously, Callis thought, Phebus has got himself a rabbi. Harry wants him to try this case. Probably because he figures Phebus will not resign to go into private practice anytime soon.

Only a few assistant district attorneys make a career of it. Most leave to enter private practice after a few years on the job. Harry's obviously interested in keeping Phebus. Nothing wrong in that. And Phebus is the kind of guy-he's no mental giant, and he has a civil service mentality-who will want to stay on here.

So what's the downside?

The Goddamned Nun makes a fool of him, and Leslie walks. Unlikely, but possible. But-even if it's that bad-the public perception will be that I made an understandable mistake in assigning an ex-cop to prosecute a cop-killer. That's better than McCarthy making a fool of me or Harry.

More likely-we've got a strong case-Phebus will be able to get a conviction. The District Attorney's Office will get the credit for the conviction, and I may even get a little credit for assigning an ex-cop to prosecute a cop-killer. The cops, at least, will appreciate that.

The Goddamned Nun will appeal, of course, all the way to the Supreme Court, to get that scumbag out of jail. She may even be able to get away with it. Fighting the appeals will be both a pain in the ass and time-consuming. Right now, Phebus's time isn't all that valuable, and like Harry says, it will be a good learning experience for him.

"Let Phebus prosecute, Harry," Callis ordered. "But keep an eye on him. If there are problems, let me know."

Thirty-five-year-old Peter Frederick Wohl looked like-and was often mistaken for-an up-and-coming young stockbroker, or an attorney. He was fair-skinned, with even features, and carried 165 pounds on a lithe body just under six feet tall. He wore his light brown hair clipped short, and favored well-tailored, conservatively styled clothing, almost always worn with a crisply starched white button-down-collar shirt, regimentally striped neckties, and well-shined loafers. He drove a perfectly restored, immaculately maintained Jaguar XK-120 roadster, in the back of which could usually be found his golf clubs or his tennis racquet, or both.

He was in fact a police officer, specifically the youngest inspector-and in the Philadelphia Police Department inspector is the second senior rank, after chief inspector. On those very rare occasions when he wore his uniform, it carried a silver oak leaf, like those worn by lieutenant colonels in the Army or Marines.

Wohl was the commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, which was housed in a building at Frankford and Castor avenues that had been built in 1892 as the Frankford Grammar School. Wohl's small, ground floor office had been the office of the principal.

He glanced up from a thick stack of paper demanding his administrative attention at the clock on the wall and saw that it was quarter past four. He shook his head in resignation and shoved all the paperwork in the side drawer of his desk, locking it.

He took the jacket to a light brown glen plaid suit from a hanger on a clothes rack by the door and walked out of his office.

Officer Paul Thomas "Tommy" O'Mara, a tall, fair-skinned, twenty-six-year-old in a suit Wohl suspected he had bought from the Final Clearance Rack at Sears Roe-buck, got to his feet. Tommy O'Mara was Wohl's administrative assistant, and Wohl liked him despite the fact that his assignment had more to do with the fact that his father was Captain Aloysius O'Mara, commanding officer of the 17th District and an old friend of Peter's father-Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, Retired-than any administrative talent.

"I'll be with Chief Lowenstein in the Roundhouse, Tommy," Wohl said.

Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein was Chief of the Philadelphia Police Department Detective Division, and maintained his office in the Police Administration Building-universally called the Roundhouse because of its curved walls-at 8th and Race streets.

"Yes, sir."

"If he calls, I left five minutes ago," Wohl said.

"Yes, sir."

Tommy reminded Wohl of a friendly puppy. He tried very hard to please. He had five years on the job, all of it in Traffic, and had failed the examination for detective twice. Chief Wohl had asked his son to give him a job-working for Wohl meant an eight-to-five shift, five days a week-where he would have time to study for a third shot at the detectives' exam.

Wohl's previous administrative assistant had been a graduate, summa cum laude, of the University of Pennsylvania, who had ranked second on the list the first time he had taken the detectives' examination.

Wohl thought of him now, as he started out of the building. He glanced at his watch, shrugged, and started up the stairs to the second floor of the building, taking them two at a time. At the top of the stairs, he walked down a corridor until he came to what had been a classroom but was now identified by a sign hanging over the door as the "Investigations Section."

He pulled the door outward without knocking and went inside.

A very large (six feet three, 225 pounds) man sitting behind a desk quickly rose to his feet with a look of almost alarm on his very black face, holding his right hand out, signaling stop, and putting the index finger of his left hands to his lips, signaling silence.

Wohl stopped, smiling, his eyebrow raised quizzically.

The black man, who was Sergeant Jason Washington, chief of the Investigations Section, and Inspector Wohl were old friends, going back to the time Detective Washington, even then regarded as the best homicide investigator in the Philadelphia Police Department, had taken rookie homicide detective Wohl under his wing.

If Sergeant Washington had had his way, he would still be, as he put it, a simple homicide detective. And he would have cheerfully and with some eloquence explained why: A good homicide detective-and there was no question in anyone's mind, including his own, that Jason Washington had been the best of that elite breed-earned, because of overtime, as much money as a chief inspector. And for another, he had liked being the best homicide detective. It was intellectually challenging, stimulating work. He had routinely been given the most difficult cases.

Washington's friendship with Peter Wohl had been seriously strained when Wohl had had him transferred to the newly formed Special Operations Division eighteen months before. There had been no harsh words-Jason Washington was not only genuinely fond of Wohl, but regarded him as the second-smartest man in the Philadelphia Police Department-and by rationalizing that if he intended to retire from the department as at least an Inspector, now was the time to start taking the promotion exams, Washington had accepted his new duties.

Washington pointed to a full-length mirror mounted on the wall. In it was reflected the image of a good-looking young man with earphones on his head, seated before a typewriter. His face was contorted with deep frustration and resignation. His eyebrows rose in disbelief. He shook his head, then typed very quickly and very briefly.

It was comical. Wohl was tempted to laugh. And did.

"The tapes," Sergeant Washington said.

"Ah, the tapes," Wohl said.

The young man, whose name was Matthew M. Payne, and who had been Wohl's administrative assistant before his promotion to detective, sensed that he was the subject of their attention, and tore the earphones from his head.

"It is not kind to mock a young detective doing his best," he said.

"Chagrin overwhelms me," Sergeant Washington said.

Wohl walked to Payne's desk.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Payne pointed at the sheet of paper in the typewriter.

"Slowly and painfully," he said.

"Get anything?" Wohl asked.

"They speaketh in tongues," Payne said. "I have learned that they have a 'Plan B' and a 'Plan C,' but I have no idea what the hell that means."

"It's a dirty job," Wohl said, gently mocking, "but someone has to do it."

"Why me, dear Lord, why me?"

"Because you can type," Wohl said. "Where did you get that?" he asked, pointing to the dictating apparatus Payne was using.

"There's a place on Market Street, across from Reading Terminal," Payne said.

"You bought it?"

"It was either buy it or suffer terminal index finger using that thing," Payne said, pointing to a tape recorder, and miming-jabbing his index finger-as he added, "ahead three seconds, rewind three seconds, ahead three seconds. I was wearing out my finger."

"What did it cost?"

"Don't ask."

Wohl chuckled.

"How's it coming?"

"There are thirteen tapes. I am on number three."

"We still on for tomorrow?"

"Yes, indeed, sir. I wish to play for ten dollars a stroke, plus side bets. It would please me greatly to have you pay for this electronic marvel."

"Merion at twelve, right?"

"Bring your checkbook."

The relationship between Inspector Wohl and Detective Payne was unusual. Generally, it was believed that Wohl had elected to become Payne's rabbi, which was to say he had seen in the younger man the intelligence and character traits that would, down the pike, make him a fine senior police officer, and had chosen to be his mentor. That was true, but the best explanation of their relationship Peter had ever heard had come from his mother, who had said Matt was the little brother he had never had.

Wohl turned and walked out of the room, pausing before Washington's desk.

"If he shows any signs of slowing up-much less trying to leave-use your whip," he said.

"Yes, sir," Washington said.

Detective Payne replaced the headset, then held his hand, middle finger extended, in a very disrespectful gesture, over his head.

Wohl went down the corridor, got into his official unmarked car, and headed downtown for his meeting with Chief Inspector Lowenstein.

Five minutes later, the telephone in the Investigations Section rang. Sergeant Washington answered it, called out "Matt!" and when there was no answer, got up and walked to Payne's desk, tapped him on the shoulder, and then pointed to the telephone.

Payne took his earphones off, punched an illuminated button on the telephone on the desk, and picked it up.

"Payne," he said.

"Would you hold please for Mr. Nesbitt?" a female voice said.

"No," Payne said.

"Excuse me?"

"You tell Mr. Nesbitt when he finally learns how to dial a telephone himself, I'll be glad to talk to him," Payne said, and hung up.

He looked over at Washington.

"That pisses me off," he announced.

"What, specifically, causes you to have an uncontrollable impulse to pass water?" Washington asked.

"Would you hold please for Mr. More Important Than You Are?" Matt said in a high soprano.

Washington chuckled.

Less than a minute later, the telephone rang again.

Washington let it ring until it penetrated Matt's concentration and he reached for it.

"Detective Payne," he said.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV demanded.

"If you want to talk to me, Chad, you call me."

"That's what secretaries are for," Nesbitt said.

"Now that you have me, what's on your mind?"

"Tonight."

"As a matter of fact, I was just about to call you, myself, about tonight."

"You are coming?"

"That's what I was going to call about. I will not be coming."

"Why the hell not?"

"I seem to have come down with a virus."

"What kind of a virus?"

"Some kind of Asiatic flu. Not to worry, it will only last twenty-four hours. They call it, 'The Don't Go To Chad's Birthday Party Virus.' "

"You want to tell me why not?"

"You really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"Okay. Daffy will try to fix me up with one of her airheaded friends."

"I promise that won't happen."

"Reason number two: At least one of our friends will ask me to fix a little ticket he got for running through a red light into a busload of nuns while under the influence. "

"If that happens, tell him to go fuck himself. You're very good at that."

"Reason three: Daffy, carried away with her notions of having become a wife, mother, and homemaker, will probably try to cook."

"It's being catered, of course. So you will be there, right?"

"Chad, I don't want to."

"Do it for me, buddy. We've been going to each other's birthday parties since we were in diapers. And hell, we never see each other anymore. Penelope Alice is your goddaughter. "

That was all true. Chad Nesbitt had been Matt Payne's best friend since they had worn short pants. And they rarely got together anymore. And Penelope Alice Nesbitt, Chad and Daffy's firstborn, named after the late Penelope Alice Detweiler, with whom, before she inserted too much-or bad-heroin into her veins, Matt had fancied himself in love, was indeed his goddaughter.

He sighed.

"I'll be there," Matt said. "Against my better judgment. "

He hung up before Chad could reply and went back to work.

The festivities that would commemorate the birth twenty- five years before of Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV were, in the opinions of his mother and his mother-in-law (Mrs. Soames T. Browne), far more important than a simple birthday party.

It would, so to speak, if not introduce, then reintroduce the young couple to Philadelphia society. There had been a number of problems. For one thing, Chad had gone off into the Marines three days after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania.

A suitable wedding, given that, would have been difficult under any circumstances, but it had been further complicated by the unfortunate business of Daffy's best friend-Penny Detweiler, who was to have been her maid of honor-getting herself involved with drugs and gangsters.

Their hearts went out, of course, to Grace and Dick Detweiler, who were old and dear friends, but that didn't change the fact that Penny not being Daphne's maid of honor because she was in Hahnemann Hospital recuperating from being shot did cast a pall upon a wedding.

And then the Marines had sent Chad off to Okinawa, without Daffy, for more than two years. She had waited for him in her parents' home in Merion-married woman or not, her taking an apartment alone didn't make any sense-and then Chad had come home, and the second thing he'd done after taking off his hat was to get her in the family way.

And while she was pregnant, Chad had gone to work for Nesfoods, starting at the bottom, of course, as a retail salesman. His father-now chairman of the Executive Committee of Nesfoods International-had started out that way. And, for that matter, so had his grandfather. And Dick Detweiler, Nesfood's chief executive officer. And his father.

But you can't really have much of a social life when you're working as a retail salesman at the bottom of the corporate ladder, and with a pregnant wife.

Things were a good deal better now. Chad had proved his worth, and shortly before the baby was born, had been promoted. He was now an assistant vice president, Sales.

And the baby was healthy and adorable. Chad and Daffy had named her Penelope Alice, after Penny Detweiler, who had broken everyone's heart, not just her parents', by taking one illegal drug too many and killing herself.

Both Grandmother Nesbitt and Grandmother Browne believed that naming the baby after poor Penny wasn't the wise thing to do, but there's no talking to young people.

Look to the good, look to the future.

At least they had their own place now. Number 9 Stockton Place, in Society Hill. Large enough, and nice enough, to have their first real party.

Society Hill-around Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell in central Philadelphia-was where the social elite of pre-Revolutionary Philadelphia made their homes. It was said, with some accuracy, that Society Hill had gone downhill from the moment the loyal subjects of His Majesty King George III, alarmed at the presence in nearby Valley Forge of a rebel named George Washington and his ragtag revolutionary army, had begun to leave town.

Society Hill had continued its slow but steady decline to a slum for the next century and a half. Then a real estate developer had decided there was probably a good deal of money to be made by gutting the old houses and converting them into upscale accommodations for the affluent.

In the process of gaining clear title to the blocks of property involved, it was discovered that an alley called Stockton Place had never been deeded to the City of Philadelphia. That being the case, it was the prerogative of the owner to declare it private property and keep the riffraff out. Exclusiveness sells, as they say in the real estate trade.

At considerable expense, a sufficient quantity of cobblestones had been acquired, and Stockton Place was re-paved with them. As soon as that was done, one end of the alley was permanently closed with a brick wall, and at the other end, a Colonial-style guard shack was erected. A striped pole, controlled by a Wachenhut Corporation rent-a-cop, ensured that no one but the residents or their authorized guests was permitted to tread, or drive upon, the newly laid cobblestones.

Number 9 Stockton Place, which had been purchased by NB Properties, Inc., was arguably the most desirable of all the residences. It was a triplex constructed behind the facades of four of the twelve pre-Revolutionary brownstone buildings on that block of Stockton Place. The entrance was at Number 9. Cleverly concealed behind the facade of Number 11 was the entrance to the underground garage, with space for three vehicles.

The property was leased by NB Properties, Inc., to Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt IV at a rate a good deal lower than it would have brought on the open market. At the time they had moved in, young Chad was being paid no more and no less than any other retail salesman employed by Nesfoods International, and it seemed the least his father-who was the sole stockholder of NB Properties, Inc.-could do for him. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III well remembered when he had been starting out with the company, on the bottom rung of the ladder.

There would be more than two hundred guests. A buffet, of course. Chad and Daffy's apartment was large, but not large enough to have that many people seated for dinner. Mrs. Nesbitt III had toyed with the idea of giving the party at the Merion Country Club, and Mrs. Browne had offered the Brownes' home-a forty-two-room copy of an English manor house, circa 1600, in Merion-for the occasion, but in the end she decided the thing to do was have Daffy give the party at her own home-with, of course, the help of her mother and her mother-in-law.

Daffy didn't really have the experience to do it, and she was busy with Penelope-both grandmothers were determined that the child never be called "Penny"-and it just had to be right.

The guest list had been difficult. Chad and Daffy's friends had to be invited, of course, but after Daffy had presented her list, that criterion was changed to "Chad and Daffy's oldest and dearest friends," which cut it down to less than a hundred, and left about that number of spaces for people who were important to the young couple, socially and business-wise. All six vice presidents of Nesfoods International and their wives were invited, of course, and some other businessmen connected to the company. And the Episcopal bishop of Philadelphia, of course, and the cardinal archbishop of Philadelphia. And the mayor. And the senator. And then the friends, most of whom had known Daffy and Chad all their lives.

Bailey, Banks amp; Biddle did the invitations, and the Rittenhouse Club was engaged to cater the affair.

There was a reception line, the birthday couple (a privileged few would be taken upstairs, later, to view Penelope Alice) and both sets of grandparents.

Matthew M. Payne entered the line at seven-fifty, a moment after Mrs. Nesbitt III had given Mrs. Browne a signi ficant look, indicating that she believed they should abandon the line to mingle with the children's guests.

"Hello, Matt," Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

"Good evening, sir," Matt said.

"You look so nice in black tie, Matt," Mrs. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

"Please tell my mother," Matt said.

"Your mother and dad are here," Mr. Soames Browne said.

"Daphne was afraid you wouldn't be coming, Matt," Mrs. Soames Browne said.

"That was when I thought Daffy was going to do the cooking."

"Matt, must I ask you yet again not to call her that?" Mrs. Soames Browne said.

Matt snapped his fingers in mock chagrin, indicating he had forgotten.

"Well, the birthday boy himself," he said, extending his hand to Mr. Nesbitt IV. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you for coming, buddy."

"And the mother of my goddaughter! About to spill out of her dress!"

"Oh, fuck you, Matt," Mrs. Nesbitt IV said.

The grandparents pretended not to hear.

Mrs. Soames Browne remembered again, as she usually did on such occasions, that at age five Matt Payne had talked Daphne into playing doctor and that she had concluded at that time that there was something wrong with him.

Over the years, he had done nothing to disabuse her of that notion.

There is a screw loose in him somewhere, she thought. The policeman business was another proof of that. The very idea of someone with a background like his being an ordinary cop is absurd.

If the truth were known, he probably had more to do with Penny getting on dope than anyone knows. When you roll around in the mud with pigs, you're going to get dirty.