TWENTY-ONE


There are a number of City Ordinances dealing with the disposition of garbage and an equally large number of City Ordinances dealing with the setting of open fires within the City. A good deal of legal thought has gone into their preparation, and the means by which they were to be enforced.

In theory, citizens were encouraged to place that which they wished to discard in suitable covered containers of prescribed sizes and construction. The containers were to be placed according to a published schedule in designated places in such a manner that garbage-collection personnel could easily empty the containers’ contents into the rear collection area of garbage trucks.

The ordinances spelled out in some detail what was “ordinary, acceptable” garbage and what was “special types of refuse” and proscribed, for example, the placing of toxic material or explosive material or liquids in ordinary containers.

The setting of open fires within the City was prohibited under most conditions, with a few exceptions provided, such as the burning of leaves at certain times of the year under carefully delineated conditions.

Violation of most provisions was considered a Summary Offense, the least serious of the three classifications of crimes against the Peace and Dignity of the City and County of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The other, more serious, classifications were Misdemeanors (for example, simple assault and theft of property worth less than $2000) and Felonies (for example, Murder, Rape, and Armed Robbery).

It was spelled out in some detail what malefactors could expect to receive in the way of punishment for littering the streets with garbage, for example, with small fines growing to potentially large fines, and growing periods of imprisonment for second, third, and subsequent offenses.

Similarly, there were pages of small type outlining the myriad punishments which could be assessed against malefactors who were found guilty of setting open fires in violation of various applicable sections of the ordinances, likewise growing in severity depending on the size and type of fire set, the type material set ablaze, under what circumstances, and the number of times the accused had been previously convicted of offending the Peace and Dignity of the City, County, and Commonwealth by so doing.

As a general rule of thumb, the residents of Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey’s beat were not cognizant of the effort that had been made by their government to carefully balance the rights of the individual against the overall peace and dignity of the community insofar as garbage and setting fires were concerned. Or if they were aware of the applicable ordinances in these regards, they decided that their chances of having to face the stern bar of justice for violating them was at best remote.

If they had a garbage can, or a cardboard box, or some other container that could be used as a substitute, and if they remembered what day the garbageman came, they often-but by no means always, or even routinely-put their garbage on the curb for pickup.

It had been Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey’s experience that a substantial, and growing, number of the trash-white, brown, and black-who had moved into the neighborhood had decided the least difficult means of disposing of their trash was to either carry it into (or throw it out the window into) their back-yards and alleys when the garbage cans inside their houses filled to overflowing, or the smell became unbearable.

There was little he could do about this. The criminal justice system of Philadelphia was no longer able to cope with many Summary Offenses, and issuing a citation for littering was nothing more than a waste of his time and the taxpayers’ money. He would show up in court, the accused would not, and the magistrates were reluctant to issue a bench warrant for someone accused of littering a back street in North Philadelphia. The police had more important things to do with their time.

He privately thought that if the trash wanted to live in their own filth, so be it.

At a certain point in time, however, backyards became filled to overflowing with refuse. Just about as frequently, the piles of garbage became rat-infested. When either or both of these circumstances occurred, the trash’s solution to an immediate problem was to set the garbage on fire. This both chased the rats away and reduced the height of the garbage piles.

It was at this point that Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey drew the line. This was a violation of the law that presented a clear and present danger to innocent persons.

Even trash had rights. It was not fair or just that they get somebody else’s rats. And not all the people on Woodrow’s beat were trash. There were a lot of folks who reminded Woodrow of Mamma Dear and Daddy, hardworking, Christian people who had worked all their lives to buy their own home, and when they’d finally finished, about the time they went on retirement, they found that the neighborhood’s having gone to hell meant they couldn’t sell their house for beans, and were stuck in the neighborhood with the trash.

It was, in Woodrow’s mind, a sin that trash should set fires that could burn down the houses next door, taking all the poor old folks had left in the world.

Woodrow did not think of it, as some people concerned with social justice certainly would, as taking the law into his own hands. He thought of it first as something that had to be done, and rationalized that he was providing a genuine service to the people he had sworn to protect.

He dealt with people who set fires in his own way, without getting the overworked criminal justice system involved. And over the last couple of years, the word had gone out on his beat that burning garbage was socially unacceptable conduct, and that doing so brought swift punishment.

Officer Bailey was thus surprised and angry when through the open window of RPC 3913, as he rode slowly down an alley behind Shedwick Street, his nostrils detected the peculiar smell of burning garbage.

He stopped the car, put his head out the window and sniffed, and then backed the car up.

There was smoke rising above the wooden fence separating the backyard of a row house from the alley.

He was less surprised when he searched his memory and came up with the identity of the occupant of the house. White trash, and a junkie. White trash born right here in Philadelphia. His name, Woodrow recalled, was James Howard Leslie. White Male, twenty-six, 150 pounds, five feet nine. He had been in and out of some kind of confinement since he was twelve. Lived with some brown-trash Puerto Rican woman. Not married to her. Three kids; none of them looked like they ever had a decent meal.

Now he had a mental image of him. Junkie type. Long, dirty hair, looked like he hadn’t had a bath-and probably hadn’t-in two weeks. Had a little scraggly beard on the point of his chin. Called himself “Speed.”

Officer Bailey got out of his car, taking his stick with him. There was a gate in the fence, held shut with a chain and a rusty lock. Woodrow put his stick in the chain and twisted. The chain and rusty lock held; the rotten wood of the fence crushed under the pressure and gave way.

Woodrow pulled the gate open and entered the backyard. His anger grew. The fire was coming from a pile of garbage against the fence. The fire would almost certainly set the fence on fire. He saw a rat scurry out from the pile.

Flames flickered on the garbage pile. There was an old tire on the pile. Once a tire caught fire, you could hardly put it out. Tires burned hot and hard and gave off thick smoke.

First things first; get the fire out.

There was a grease can with a Texaco sign on it. Woodrow picked it up. It was empty, but there was the smell of gasoline.

“Trash!” Woodrow muttered in angry contempt.

Speed had used gasoline to start the fire. That was dangerous.

Moving quickly, Woodrow went to a water spigot. He knew where to find it, even behind the trash. All these houses were alike, like they were stamped out with a cookie cutter.

He rinsed out the Texaco grease bucket twice, then filled it up with water.

It took six buckets of water to put the fire out, and Woodrow threw a seventh one on the garbage, to be sure. As he looked for a hint of smoke, he glanced at his shoes. The shoes he had shined with such care just two hours before were now covered with filth.

Then he went to the rear door of the residence and knocked on it. There was no response. Woodrow knocked again, and again there was no response. Woodrow gave the door a couple of good licks with his stick.

“Who the fuck is that?” a voice demanded in indignation.

“Speed, get your trashy ass out here!”

James Howard Leslie appeared behind the dirty glass of his kitchen door, and then opened it.

He did not seem particularly happy to see Officer Bailey, but neither did he seem at all concerned. He was wearing dirty blue jeans, a bead necklace, and nothing else.

“What’s happening?” Mr. Leslie inquired.

Officer Bailey lost his temper. He caught Mr. Leslie’s wrist and twisted it behind his back. Then he marched Mr. Leslie off his porch and to the smoldering pile of garbage, and manipulated Mr. Leslie’s body so that his nose was perhaps six inches from the garbage.

“That’s what’s happening, Speed,” Officer Bailey said.

“Man, you’re hurting me! What the fuck!”

“You trying to burn the neighborhood down, Speed? What’s the matter with you? You lost the sense you were born with?”

“What the fuck is the big deal? So I burned some garbage! So what the fuck?”

At this point in similar situations, it was normally Officer Bailey’s practice to first hurt the trash a little, either with a slap in the face or by jabbing them in the abdomen with his stick to get their attention. To further get their attention, he would then put handcuffs about their wrists and search them for weapons and illegal substances. Very often he encountered the latter, if only a few specks of spilled marijuana in their pockets.

Then he would explain in some detail what crimes they had committed, with special emphasis on the punishments provided by law. If he had found illegal substances on their persons, so much the better.

By then, the malefactor would be contrite. He did not want to go through the inconvenience he knew would be associated with an arrest: detention in the Thirty-ninth District, followed by transportation way the hell downtown to Central Lockup. And then several hours in Central Lockup before being arraigned before a magistrate.

The malefactors knew that the magistrate would probably release them on their own recognizance, and that if they actually got to trial they would walk, but it was a fucking pain in the ass to go through all that bullshit.

Officer Bailey would at some point shortly thereafter inform the trash there was a way to avoid all the inconvenience. They could make their backyard so clean they could eat off it. Get rid of all the garbage, right down to where there once had been grass. Get it all in plastic bags or something, and put it out on the street so the garbageman could take it off.

And keep it that way from now on, or Officer Bailey, who was going to check, would come down on their trashy asses like a ton of bricks, they could believe that.

Far more often than not, the malefactors would agree to this alternate solution of the problem at hand.

Mr. Leslie had, indeed, heard stories about the old black cop who had a hair up his ass about burning garbage, and had heard stories that if he caught you, he’d make you clean up the whole goddamned place or throw your ass in jail.

He was debating- Jesus Christ, I’m tired — whether it would be better to let the cop lock him up, or clean up the yard. It would take fucking forever to get all this shit out of here.

Mr. Leslie was not given the opportunity to make a choice.

Officer Bailey just spun him around and, guiding him with one hand on his arm and the other on his shoulder, led him to the cop car. He opened the door and guided Mr. Leslie to a seat in the rear.

Then he returned to the backyard, and the pile of garbage. He took a mechanical pencil from his pocket, squatted beside the garbage, and began to shove things aside. The first item he uncovered was a wedding picture.

He looked at it carefully.

“Lord almighty!” he said wonderingly.

He stirred the garbage a bit more. He was looking for the frame it was logical to assume would be with a photograph of what was supposed to be the happiest moment of a man’s life. He could not find one.

He stopped stirring, and, still squatting, was motionless in thought for about thirty seconds.

Then he stood up and walked to Leslie’s house. He rapped on the door with his nightstick until the brown-trash Puerto Rican woman appeared.

She stared at him with contempt.

“ Telefono? ” Officer Bailey inquired.

The brown-trash woman just looked at him.

He looked over her shoulder, saw a telephone sitting on top of the refrigerator, pointed to it and repeated, “ Telefono.”

Her expression didn’t change, but she shrugged, which Officer Bailey decided could be interpreted to mean that she had given him permission to enter her home.

And now the phone won’t work. They won’t have paid that bill either.

There was a dial tone.

“Homicide, Detective Kramer.”

“Detective, this is Officer Woodrow W. Bailey, of the Thirty-ninth District.”

“What can I do for you, Bailey?”

“I’d like to talk to somebody working the job of that police officer, Kellog, who was murdered.”

“What have you got, Bailey?”

“You working the job, Detective?”

“The assigned detective’s not here. But I’m working it.”

“What I got may not be anything, but I thought it was worth telling you.”

“What have you got, Bailey?”

“A fellow named James Howard Leslie-he’s a junkie, done some time for burglary-was burning garbage in his backyard.”

“And?” Detective Kramer asked, somewhat impatiently.

“I put the fire out, and then I got a good look at what he was burning. I don’t know…”

“What, Bailey?”

“There was a photograph of Officer Kellog and his wife, on their wedding day, in his garbage.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Detective Kramer asked, very carefully: “How do you know it was Officer Kellog?”

“There’s a sign on the wall behind him. ‘Good Luck Officer Kellog From the Seventeenth District.’ And I remembered his picture in the newspapers.”

“Where’s the picture now?”

“I left it there.”

“Where’s the guy…Leslie, you said?”

“In my car. I arrested him for setting an unlawful fire.”

“Where are you?”

“Behind his house. In the alley. The 1900 block of Sedgwick Street.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t let him out of your sight, don’t let anybody near where you found the picture, and don’t touch nothing you don’t have to.”

Bailey hung up the telephone, then called the Thirty-ninth District and asked for a supervisor to meet him at the scene.

“What have you got, Bailey?” the Corporal inquired.

“A garbage burner,” Bailey said, and hung up.

He nodded at Leslie’s Puerto Rican woman, then walked back through the yard to his car and got behind the wheel.

“Hey, Officer, what’s happening?” Mr. Leslie inquired, sliding forward with some difficulty on the seat to get closer to the fucking cop.

“You under arrest, Speed,” Officer Bailey replied. “For setting a fire in your backyard.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, man! For burning some fucking garbage?”

“If I was you, I’d just sit there and close my mouth,” Officer Bailey replied.

As a general rule of thumb, unless the visitor to the Mayor’s office was someone really important (“really important” being defined as someone of the ilk of a United States Senator, the Governor of the State of Pennsylvania, or the Cardinal Archbishop of the Diocese of Philadelphia) Mrs. Annette Cossino, the Mayor’s secretary, would escort the visitor to the door of the Mayor’s office, push it open, and say, “The Mayor will see you now.”

The visitor would then be able to see the Mayor deep in concentration, dealing with some document of great importance laid out on his massive desk. After a moment or two, the Mayor would glance toward the door, look surprised and apologetic, and rise to his feet.

“Please excuse me,” he would say. “Sometimes…”

Visitors would rarely fail to be impressed with the fact that the Mayor was tearing himself from Something Important to receive them.

This afternoon, however, on learning that Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein had asked for an appointment for himself and Inspector Peter Wohl, His Honor had decided to deviate from the normal routine.

While he could not be fairly accused of being paranoid, the threatened resignation of Chief Lowenstein had caused the Mayor to consider that he really had few friends, people he could really trust, and that Matt Lowenstein was just about at the head of that short list.

“When he comes in, Annette,” the Mayor ordered, “you let me know he’s here, and I’ll come out and get him.”

Such a gesture would, the Mayor believed, permit Chief Lowenstein to understand the high personal regard in which he was held. And Peter Wohl would certainly report the manner in which Lowenstein had been welcomed to the Mayor’s office to his father. The Mayor was perfectly willing to admit-at least to himself-that his rise through every rank to Commissioner of the Philadelphia Police Department-which, of course, had led to his seeking the mayoralty-would not have been possible had not Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl covered his ass in at least half a dozen really bad situations.

And when he thought about that, he realized that Inspector Peter Wohl was no longer a nice young cop, but getting to be a power in his own right. And that he could safely add him to the short list of people he could trust.

He was pleased with his decision to greet Lowenstein and Wohl in a special manner.

And was thus somewhat annoyed when he pulled the door to his office open, a warm smile on his face, his hand extended, and found that Chief Lowenstein was at Annette’s desk talking on the telephone.

Finally, Chief Lowenstein hung up and turned around.

“Sorry,” Lowenstein said.

“What the hell was that?” Carlucci asked, somewhat sharply.

“Henry Quaire,” Lowenstein said. “There may be a break in the Kellog murder.”

“What?” the Mayor asked.

He’s not being charming, Peter Wohl thought. When Lowenstein told him that, he went right back on the job. He’s a cop, and if there is one thing a cop hates worse than a murdered cop it’s a murdered cop with no doers in sight.

“A uniform in the Thirty-ninth working his beat came across a critter, junkie, petty criminal with a record six feet long, including burglaries, burning garbage in his backyard. In the garbage was Officer Kellog’s wedding picture. The uniform called Homicide.”

“There was mention of a wedding picture in the 49s,” Carlucci said. “In a silver frame.”

“Right,” Lowenstein said.

“Where else would he get a picture of Kellog?” Carlucci asked, thoughtfully rhetoric. “Have you got the frame?”

“Yeah. That’s why Quaire called me. We got a search warrant. They found not only a silver frame, but a dozen-thirteen, actually-tape cassettes. They were in the fire, but maybe Forensics can do something with them. If Mrs. Kellog can identify the frame, or there’s something on the tapes…”

“Where’s the critter?”

“Right now, he’s on his way from the Thirty-ninth to Homicide,” Lowenstein said.

“Who’s going to interview him?”

Lowenstein shrugged. “Detective D’Amata is the assigned detective.”

“Peter, do you have Jason Washington doing anything he can’t put off for a couple of hours?” the Mayor asked, innocently.

That is, Wohl noted mentally, the first time the Mayor has acknowledged my presence.

“You want to take it away from D’Amata?” Lowenstein asked.

“I’d like an arrest in that case,” Carlucci said. “If you think it would be a good idea to have Washington talk to this critter, Matt, I’d go along with that.”

“Shit,” Lowenstein said. “You find Washington, Peter,” he ordered. “I’ll call Quaire.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said.

“Only if you think it’s a good idea, Matt,” the Mayor said. “It was only a suggestion.”

“Yeah, right,” Lowenstein said, and walked back to Mrs. Annette Cossino’s desk and reached for one of the telephones.

“D’Amata will understand, Peter,” the Mayor said.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said. “I’m sure he will.”

“Annette,” the Mayor called. “Call the Thirty-ninth. Tell the Commanding Officer I want him and this uniform standing by to come here if I need them.”

“Yes, Mr. Mayor,” Mrs. Cossino said.

“Henry,” Lowenstein said into the telephone. “When they bring in the critter from the Thirty-ninth, handcuff him to a chair in an interview room and leave him there until Washington shows up. Wohl’s putting the arm out for him now. I think that’s the way to handle the interview, and the Mayor agrees.”

He hung the phone up and turned to face Carlucci.

“Are you pissed at me, Matt?” Carlucci, sounding genuinely concerned, asked.

“When am I not pissed at you?” Lowenstein said. “It goes with the territory.”

“You don’t think it was a good idea?”

“That’s the trouble. I think it was a very good idea,” Lowenstein said.

“Sergeant Washington is en route to the Roundhouse, Mr. Mayor,” Wohl repeated.

“Great!” Carlucci said enthusiastically. Then he smiled broadly. “Let’s do this all over.”

“What?” Lowenstein asked in confusion.

“Well, Chief Lowenstein,” Carlucci said, and grabbed Lowenstein’s hand and pumped it. “And Inspector Wohl! How good of you both to come see me! It’s always a pleasure to see two of the most valuable members of the Police Department here in my office. Come in and have a cup of coffee and tell me how I may be of assistance!”

Lowenstein shook his head in resignation.

“Jesus Christ!”

“What can I do for you, Chief?”

“Stop the bullshit, Jerry,” Lowenstein said, chuckling.

“OK,” Carlucci said agreeably. “What’s up?”

“Last night, a couple of South detectives saw one John Francis Foley pass a package to one Gerald North Atchison. Shortly thereafter, Detective Payne of Special Operations saw Mr. Atchison throw said package off a pier in Chester-”

“How did South detectives get involved in this?” Carlucci asked, and Wohl saw that he had slipped back into being a cop.

“Payne was surveilling Atchison. He ran into the South detectives and asked for their assistance.”

“OK,” Carlucci said thoughtfully. “Go on.”

“The package was retrieved early this morning by a police diver. The lab just came up with a positive ballistics match to the murder weapons.”

“Fingerprints?”

Lowenstein shook his head. “Weapons were cleaned. I thought I’d show it to you before I sent someone over to Tom Callis’s office with it.”

“Let me see,” Carlucci said, holding out his hand.

Lowenstein handed the Mayor an envelope. Carlucci made a “come in” gesture with his hand, walked ahead of them into his office, sat down at his desk, and opened the envelope.

Carlucci carefully stuffed the report back into its envelope, then looked at Lowenstein.

“It may be enough,” Carlucci said. “It is for an arrest, anyway.”

“I thought so,” Lowenstein said. “I’ll have it sent to Callis within the hour.”

“What the hell, Matt,” Carlucci said. “I mean, you’re right here in the neighborhood, right’? Why don’t you, both of you, take this to Tom? See if he has any problems with it? Give him my very best regards when you do.”

James Howard Leslie had been sitting in the steel captain’s chair in the Homicide Unit interview room, handcuffed to its seat, for almost an hour when the door opened and a very large, important-looking black man walked in.

No one had spoken to him during that time, nor had anyone so much as opened the door to look at him. He suspected that he was being watched through the somewhat fuzzy mirror on the wall, but he couldn’t be sure.

“James Howard Leslie?” the black man asked.

Leslie didn’t reply.

“Good afternoon,” Jason Washington said. “If you’d like, I can remove the handcuff.”

“I don’t give a fuck one way or the other.”

Washington unlocked the handcuff and stood back. Leslie rubbed his wrist.

“I don’t even know what the fuck’s going on,” Leslie said.

“You’ve been in here some time, I understand.” Washington said. “Is there anything I can get for you’? Would you like a Coca-Cola, a cup of coffee, a sandwich?”

“What I would like is to know what the hell is going on. All I did was try to burn some garbage.”

“I understand. That’s why I’m here, to explain to you what’s going on. And while we’re talking, would you like a Coca-Cola, or a cigarette?”

“I could drink a Coke.”

Washington opened the door. “Sergeant,” he ordered sternly, “would you please get a Coca-Cola for Mr. Leslie?”

Leslie heard someone reply.

“Fuck him! Let the fucking cop killer drink water!”

“I said get him a Coca-Cola.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” the voice said.

“That wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order,” Washington said sharply.

Two minutes later, a slight, dapper man with a pencil-thin mustache entered the interview room with a Coca-Cola, thrust it into Leslie’s hand with such violence that liquid erupted from the neck of the bottle and spilled on Leslie’s shirt and trousers.

The slight, dapper man then left the interview room. Just before the door slammed shut, Leslie heard the man say, “Fuck Special Operations, too.”

Washington handed Leslie a crisp white handkerchief to clean his shirt and trousers.

“He and Officer Kellog were friends,” Washington said, in explanation.

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Washington said. He leaned on the wall by the door, waited until Leslie had finished mopping at himself and started to return the handkerchief.

“Keep it,” Washington said. “You may need it again.”

“Thanks,” Leslie said.

“As I understand what’s happened here,” Washington said conversationally, “Officer Bailey of the Thirty-ninth District extinguished a fire in your backyard. In doing so, he found a photograph of Officer Kellog on his wedding day.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Officer who?”

“The finding of the photograph was, in the opinion of the Honorable Francis X. McGrory, Judge of the Superior Court, sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant for your home.”

“I told you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“A search of your home was then conducted by detectives of the Homicide Bureau. A silver frame was discovered. It has since been positively identified by Mrs. Helene Kellog as her property. Mrs. Kellog previously reported the framed photograph to have been stolen from her home.”

“So what?”

“Mrs. Kellog’s husband, Police Officer Jerome H. Kellog, was found dead in his home. Shot to death. Inasmuch as his silver-framed wedding photograph was known to be present in his home prior to the robbery, and missing from his home immediately after the robbery, it is presumed that the framed photograph was stolen during the robbery.”

“So what?”

“During the search authorized by Judge McGrory, Homicide detectives found other items among those things you were attempting to burn known to be the property of Police Officer Kellog. Specifically, thirteen recording tapes. And some other items.”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Mr. Leslie, you are presently being held for setting an unlawful fire,” Washington said. “And, I believe, for maintaining an unsanitary nuisance.”

“Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

“Very shortly, I think you can count on a Homicide detective coming in here and arresting you for the murder of Officer Kellog. I came here to see if I could explain your situation to you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“If you are arrested for the murder of Officer Kellog, you will receive the required Miranda warning. I understand you have been arrested before, and know what that means. You will be advised of your rights, and provided with an attorney.”

“Who the hell are you’?”

“I’m a police officer, an investigator for the Special Operations Division. We are sometimes asked, in cases like this, to see if we can’t get through a situation like this as smoothly as possible To save everyone concerned time and money.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’ll try to explain it to you. In my judgment, from what the Homicide Bureau Commanding Officer has shown and told me, what Homicide has here is a pretty strong case of circumstantial evidence against you. What I mean by that is that no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog. There were no witnesses. That means, when your case comes to trial, the District Attorney-I think I should explain that to you, too.”

“Explain what?”

“The District Attorney, Mr. Thomas Callis, rarely goes into court himself. Assistant district attorneys actually do the prosecuting. The exception to that rule is when a police officer has been killed. Mr. Callis himself prosecutes such cases. He was a police officer himself when he was a young man. So I think you can expect, when your case comes to trial, that you will be prosecuted by him personally. Do you understand that?”

“I guess so.”

“Fine. Well, what Mr. Callis will have to do in your trial will be to convince the jury that although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog-”

“I didn’t shoot anybody! I don’t know what the fuck this is all about!”

“In that case, you-through your attorney, and I suppose you know that if you can’t afford to hire an attorney, one will be assigned to you from the Office of the Public Defender. And I must admit that some of those young men and women are really quite competent. They’re young and dedicated, fresh from law school, and really try hard.”

“I don’t have any fucking money,” Leslie said.

“Yes, we know,” Washington said. “As I was saying, if you say you are innocent, your defense counsel will enter a plea of not guilty on your behalf. Then it will be up to Mr. Callis to convince the jury that, although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog, the circumstances surrounding the incident prove that you and only you could have done it.

“Mr. Callis will try to convince the jury that the only way you could have come into possession of the silver frame the Homicide detectives found in your home, and tapes they found in your home, and the photograph of Officer Kellog Officer Bailey found in the fire you set-”

“I don’t know anything about no fucking photograph!”

“You will be given the chance to explain how tapes made by Officer Kellog, tapes of his voice and telephone calls, came into your possession.”

“I don’t know nothing about no fucking tapes, either!”

“Your public defender will try to prove that,” Washington said. “Mr. Callis will be given the opportunity to try to convince the jury that you stole the framed photograph and the tapes and the other things from Officer Kellog’s home, and that in the conduct of that robbery, Officer Kellog came home and you shot him.”

“I didn’t do nothing like that.”

“And then it will be your attorney’s turn to convince the jury that it wasn’t you. If you can find someone, someone the jury would believe, who will go into court and swear that you were with them during the time of the robbery, that might help. Or if you could explain how the photograph of Officer Kellog and the silver frame and tapes and the other things came into your possession, that would help your case.”

“People are always throwing shit over the fence,” Leslie said.

“That might explain the photograph,” Washington said, reasonably, “but not the frame, which was found inside your house.”

Leslie looked uncomfortable.

“Your defense counsel could also have as witnesses people who know you, and would testify to your character, to try to make the point that you’re not the sort of fellow who would do something like this,” Washington said. “But if he did that, under the law Mr. Callis could introduce evidence to the contrary. You’ve been arrested, I understand, for bur glary on several occasions.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean I did the cop.”

“There is an alternative,” Washington said.

“What?”

The door opened and another detective, this one a huge white man wearing cowboy boots, stepped inside.

“Excuse me, Mr. Washington, District Attorney Callis is on the telephone for you.”

“I was afraid of that,” Washington said. “I don’t know how long this will take, Mr. Leslie, but I’ll try to come back.”

He left the interview room.

“Who the fuck uncuffed you?” the large detective asked rhetorically, walked quickly to Leslie, grabbed his right arm, clamped the handcuff on his wrist, muttered, “Fucking Special Operations hotshot!” under his breath, and stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door closed and leaving Mr. Leslie alone again.

Outside the room, he walked directly to Sergeant Washington, who was sitting on a desk holding a mug of coffee in his hands.

“That’s my mug, Jason.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry, because I am not.”

The large detective laughed.

“I didn’t think you would be. You think this is going to work?”

“I think we have established in his mind that (a) you don’t like him; (b) that shooting a policeman is not socially acceptable conduct; and (c) that he can’t beat this unless the nice black man comes up with some solution. The test of these assumptions will come when I go back in.”

“You want me to go back in there and accidentally bump him around a little?”

“I think that would be counterproductive. As frightening as you are, Arthur, I think his imagination should be allowed to run free.”

“Your call. Changing the subject: There’s a story going around that your pal Payne climbed out on a thirteenth-floor ledge of the Bellvue-Stratford to fix a wire?”

“All too true, I’m afraid. I have remonstrated with him.”

“What’s with him, Jason?”

“He’s young. Aside from that, he’s a damned good cop.”

“I meant, if he’s got all the dough everybody thinks he has, why is he a cop?”

“He has all the dough everybody thinks he has,” Washington said. “Did you ever think, Arthur, that some people are, so to speak, born to be policemen?”

“You, for example?”

“It’s possible. You and me. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Shit, neither can I. What would I do? Sell used cars?”

Some of it is the challenge, I think. That explains people like you and me. And probably Payne. But what about people like Officer Bailey? I talked to him before I came here. The reason Leslie is in there is because Bailey, after years on the job, still takes personal pride and satisfaction in protecting people from critters like Leslie. He knows he can’t personally clean up the Thirty-ninth District, but ‘You don’t burn your garbage on my beat.’”

Arthur grunted.

“How long are you going to let the critter’s imagination run free?”

“I think fifteen minutes should suffice,” Washington said. He looked at his watch. “Another five and a half minutes, to be specific.”

“That big guy cuffed me again,” Leslie said in some indignation, raising his shackled wrist to demonstrate.

Washington made no move to unlock the handcuff.

“I just came in to tell you I have to leave. I have to go to see Mr. Callis. The decision is yours, Mr. Leslie, and now is when you’re going to have to make it.”

“What decision?”

“Whether you wish to insist on your innocence, or-”

“Or what?”

“Be cooperative.”

“Like what?”

“How serious is your narcotics addiction, Mr. Leslie?”

“I ain’t no addict, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I can’t possibly help you, Mr. Leslie, if you don’t tell me the truth. Your records show that you have undergone a drug-rehabilitation program. Why lie about it?”

“I got it under control.”

“Then you were not under the influence of narcotics when you burglarized Officer Kellog’s home? Your defense counsel might be able to introduce that at your trial. ‘Diminished capacity’ is the term used.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that if you weren’t aware of what you were doing, because of ‘diminished capacity’ because you were on drugs, you really didn’t know what you were doing, and should be judged accordingly.”

“Which means what?”

“Let me explain this to you as best I can. If you are not cooperative, they’re going to take you to court and ask for the death penalty. In my judgment, they have enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction.”

“And if I’m cooperative, what?”

“You probably would not get the death penalty. It’s possible that the District Attorney would be agreeable to having evidence of your drug addiction given to the court, and that the court would take it into consideration when considering your sentence.”

“Shit.”

“I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Leslie. You should discuss this with a lawyer.”

“When do I get a lawyer?”

“When Homicide arrests you for murder, and your Miranda rights come into play. That’s going to happen. What you have to decide, before you are arrested for murder, is whether you want to cooperate or not.”

“I could plead, what did you say, ‘diminished capacity’?”

“What I said was that you can either tell the truth, and make it easier on yourself and Homicide, or lie, and make it harder on yourself and Homicide.”

“You’re not going to be around for this?”

“No. But I’ve talked to Lieutenant Natali, and explained to him the situation here, and I think the two of you would be able to work something out that would be in everybody’s best interests.”

“Jesus, I don’t know,” Leslie said.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll ask Lieutenant Natali to come here and talk to you.”

“Jesus, I wish you could stick around.”

“I could come to talk some more, later, if you’d like.”

“Yeah.”

Washington put out his hand. Leslie’s right arm was handcuffed to the chair, so he had to shake Washington’s hand with his left hand.

“Good luck, Mr. Leslie,” Washington said.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to do.”

“Talk it over with Lieutenant Natali,” Washington said. He walked to the door and pulled it open, then closed it.

“Just between us, Mr. Leslie, to satisfy my curiosity. Why did you think you had to shoot Officer Kellog?”

“Well, shit,” Leslie said. “I had to. He seen my face. He was a cop. I knew he’d find me sooner or later.”

“Yes,” Washington said. “Of course, I understand.”

“I’m going to hold you to what you said about coming to talk to me,” Leslie said.

“I will,” Washington said. “I said I would, and I will.”

He left the interview room.

Lieutenant Natali and Detective D’Amata came out of the adjacent room. They had been watching through a one-way mirror.

Natali quoted, “I had to. He seen my face. He was a cop.”

“Christ!” D’Amata said in mingled disgust and horror.

“What’s really sad,” Washington said, “is that he doesn’t acknowledge, or even understand, the enormity of what he’s done. The only thing he thinks he did wrong is to get caught doing it.”

“You don’t want to stick around, Jason?” D’Amata said. “I’ll probably need your help.”

Washington looked at Lieutenant Natali.

“Does Joe know who Mrs. Kellog believed was responsible for her husband’s death?”

“You mean Narcotics Five Squad?” D’Amata asked.

“I thought he should know,” Natali said. “I told him to keep it under his hat.”

“That’s what I was doing, Joe, when they sent me here. But to coin a phrase, ‘Duty calls.’ Or how about, ‘It’s a dirty job but somebody has to do it’? Do I have to tell you I’d much rather stay here?”

Both Natali and D’Amata shook their heads. Natali touched Washington’s arm, and then Washington walked out of Homicide.

The Honorable Thomas J. “Tony” Callis, the District Attorney of the County of Philadelphia, had decided he would personally deal with the case of Messrs. Francis Foley and Gerald North Atchison rather than entrust it to one of the Assistant District Attorneys subordinate to him.

This was less because of his judgment of the professional skill levels involved (although Mr. Callis, like most lawyers, in his heart of hearts, believed he was as competent an attorney as he had ever met) than because of the political implications involved.

He was very much aware that the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, was taking a personal interest in this case, a personal interest heavily flavored with political implications. The Ledger, which was after Carlucci’s scalp, had been running scathing editorials bringing to the public’s attention the Police Department’s inability to arrest whoever had blown Atchison’s wife and partner away. (Alternating the “Outrageous Massacre of Center City Restaurateur’s Wife and Partner” editorials, Tony Callis had noted, with equally scathing editorials bringing to the public’s attention that a cop had been brutally murdered in his kitchen, and the cops didn’t seem to know anything about that, either.)

Mr. Callis, a large, silver-haired, ruddy-faced, well-tailored man in his early fifties, had a somewhat tenuous political alliance with Mayor Carlucci. It was understood between the parties that either would abandon the other the moment it appeared that the alliance threatened the reelection chances of either.

As a politician possessed of skills approaching the political skills of the Mayor, the District Attorney had considered the possibility that Mayor Carlucci would be happy to drop the ball, the Inferno ball, into his lap. That he would, in other words, be able to get the Ledger off his back by making an arrest in the case on information that might not hold up either before a grand jury or in court.

“My Police Department,” the Mayor might well say, “with its usual brilliance, nabbed those villains. If they walked out of court free men, that speaks to the competence of Mr. Callis.”

Proof-not that any was needed-that this case had heavy political ramifications came when the police officers sent to the District Attorney’s office to present their evidence gathered turned out to be Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein and Inspector Peter Wohl, Commanding Officer of the Special Operations Division. Mr. Callis-who normally disagreed with anything written in the Ledger, which had opposed him in the last election-was forced to admit that there was indeed more than a grain of truth in the Ledger ’s editorial assertion that the Special Operations Division had become Carlucci’s private police force.

And with Chief Lowenstein’s opening comment. when he was shown into Callis’s office:

“Mr. District Attorney, I bring you the best regards of our mayor, whose office Inspector Wohl and I just left.”

“How gracious of our beloved mayor! Please be so kind, Chief Inspector, to pass on my warmest regards to His Honor when you next see him, which no doubt will be shortly after we conclude our little chat.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. District Attorney.”

“How the hell are you, Matt?” Callis asked, chuckling. “We don’t see enough of each other these days.”

“Can’t complain, Tom. How’s the wife?”

“Compared to what? How are you, Peter?”

“Mr. Callis,” Wohl said.

“You’re a big boy now, Peter. A full inspector. You don’t have to call me ‘Mister.’”

Wohl smiled and shrugged, and raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“My saintly father always told me, when you’re with a lawyer, be respectful and keep one hand on your wallet,’ Wohl said.

Callis chuckled. “Give my regards to the saintly old gentleman, Peter. And your mother.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“OK. Now what have we got?”

“We have the guns used in the Inferno murders. We have-” Lowenstein began.

“Tell me about the guns, Matt,” Callis interrupted.

Lowenstein opened his briefcase. He took a sheaf of Xerox copies from it and laid it on Callis’s desk.

“The lab reports, Tom,” he said. “They’re pretty conclusive.”

“Would you mind if I asked Harry Hormel to come in here?” Callis asked. “If I can’t find the time to prosecute, it’ll almost certainly be Harry.”

“By all means,” Lowenstein said smoothly. “I’d like to get Harry’s opinion.”

District Attorney Callis punched his intercom button and very politely asked his secretary to see if she could determine if Mr. Hormel was in the building, and if so, if he could spare a few minutes to come to his office.

A faint smile flickered across Peter Wohl’s face. He was perfectly sure that Hormel had been ordered, probably far less courteously, to make himself available.

“Harry,” Callis had almost certainly said, “don’t leave the office until you check with me. Lowenstein and Wohl are coming over with something on the Inferno murders. I’ll need you.”

Or words to that effect: Mr. Harrison J. Hormel was an assistant district attorney. He had come to the District Attorney’s Office right after passing the bar examination twenty-odd years before and had stayed.

Only a small number of bright young lawyers fresh from law school stayed on. Many of those who did were those who felt the need of a steady paycheck and were not at all sure they could earn a living in private practice. Hormel, in Peter’s opinion, was the exception to that rule of thumb. He was a very good lawyer, and a splendid courtroom performer. Juries trusted him. He could have had a far more lucrative legal career as a defense counsel.

Peter had decided, years before, that Hormel had stayed on, rising to be (at least de facto) the best prosecutor in the DA’s Office because he took pride and satisfaction in putting evil people where they could do no more harm.

And Peter knew that whether District Attorney Callis or Assistant District Attorney Hormel prosecuted Foley and Atchison would not be based on professional qualifications-Callis was not a fool, and was honest enough to admit that Hormel was the better prosecutor-but on Callis’s weighing of the odds on whether the case could be won or lost. If conviction looked certain, he would prosecute, and take the glory. If there was some doubt, Hormel would be assigned. It was to be hoped that his superior skill would triumph. If Foley and/or Atchison walked, the embarrassment would be Hormel’s, not Callis’s.

Callis took his glasses, which, suspended around his neck on an elastic cord, had been resting on his chest, and adjusted them on his nose. Then he leaned forward on his desk and began to read, carefully, the report Lowenstein had given him.

Assistant District Attorney Hormel entered Callis’s office while Callis was reading the report. He quietly greeted Lowenstein and Wohl, then stretched himself out in a leather armchair to the side of Callis’s desk.

Wordlessly, Callis handed him the report, page by page, as he finished reading it. When he himself had finished reading it, he looked at Chief Inspector Lowenstein and made a gesture clearly indicating he was not awed by the report.

Lowenstein handed him another sheaf of Xerox copies.

“The 75-49s on the recovery of the murder weapons,” he said.

Callis again placed his glasses on his nose and read the 75-49s carefully, again handing the pages as he finished them to Assistant District Attorney Hormel.

As he read page four, he said: “Denny Coughlin was a witness to the recovery? What was he doing there?”

“Chief Coughlin did not see fit to inform me of his reasons,” Lowenstein said. “Inspector Wohl suspects that he thought it would be nice to go yachting at that hour of the morning.”

“Oh, shit, Matt.” Callis laughed.

Callis finished reading the 75-49s, and then everybody waited for Hormel to finish.

“There are some problems with this,” Hormel said.

“Such as?”

“What was this Special Operations detective doing surveilling Mr. Atchison?”

“At the direction of the Commissioner, Detective Payne was detailed to Homicide to assist in the investigation,” Lowenstein said.

“I’d love to know what that was all about,” Callis said, looking at Lowenstein. “Was that before or after you threatened to retire?”

“Gossip does get around, doesn’t it?” Lowenstein said. “I didn’t threaten to retire. I considered retiring. I changed my mind. If you’re suggesting I in any way was unhappy with the detail of Detective Payne to Homicide, I was not. He is a very bright young man, as those 75-49s indicate.”

“He was assigned to surveil Atchison?”

“He was ordered to assist the assigned detective in whatever way the assigned detective felt would be helpful,” Lowenstein replied.

“Presumably,” Hormel said, “there was coordination with the Media Police Department?”

“That same afternoon, Detective Payne accompanied Sergeant Washington to interview Mr. Atchison at his home. That was coordinated with the Media Police Department.”

“Jason’s back working Homicide? I hadn’t heard that,” Callis said.

“Sergeant Washington and Detective Payne were the first police officers on the scene of the Inferno Lounge murders,” Lowenstein said. “Inspector Wohl was kind enough to make them both available to me to assist in the conduct of Homicide’s investigation of the murders.”

Callis snorted.

“‘Detective Payne,’” Hormel said, obviously playing the role of a defense attorney, “‘you look like a very young man. How long have you been a police officer? How long have you been a detective?’”

“‘How long have you been assigned to Homicide?’” Callis picked up on Hormel’s role playing. “‘Oh, you’re not assigned to Homicide? Then you really had no previous experience in conducting a surveillance of a murder suspect? Is that what you’re telling me?’”

“And then we get to re-direct,” Wohl said. “Our distinguished Assistant District Attorney-or perhaps the District Attorney himself-approaches the boy detective on the stand and asks, ‘Detective Payne, were you in any way involved in the apprehension of the so-called Northwest Serial Rapist? Oh, was that you who was forced to use deadly force to rescue Mrs. Naomi Schneider from the deadly clutches of that fiend?’”

Callis chuckled.

“Very good, Peter.”

“‘And were you involved in any way, Detective Payne, in the apprehension of the persons subsequently convicted in the murders at Goldblatt’s Furniture Store? Oh, was that you who was in the deadly gun battle with one of the murderers? Mr. Atchison was not, then, the first murderer with whom you have dealt?’”

“That could be turned against you. It could make him look like a cowboy,” Callis said.

“The dark and stormy night is what bothers me,” Hormel said. “We have to convince the jury that the package Denny Coughlin saw them take from the river was the same package Atchison tossed in there. That’s a tenuous connection.”

“The two South detectives saw the package being passed from Foley to Atchison,” Lowenstein said.

“No, they didn’t,” Hormel argued. “There’s room for reasonable doubt about that. And it was a dark and stormy night. ‘How can you testify under oath, Detective Payne, that the package taken from the river by police divers was the package you saw Mr. Atchison carry out of Yock’s Diner? How can you testify under oath that, if the night was as dark as you have testified it was, and you were as far from Mr. Atchison as you say you were, that what he threw, if indeed he threw anything, into the river was that package? You couldn’t really see him, could you? You’re testifying to what you may honestly believe happened, but, honestly, you didn’t really see anything, did you?’”

“Ah, come on, Harry!” Lowenstein protested.

“I’m inclined to go with Harry,” Callis said. “This is weak.”

Lowenstein stood up.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Tom,” he said. “And you, too, Harry.”

“Where are you going?”

“To carry out my orders,” Lowenstein said. “I was instructed to show you what we have. Then I was instructed to arrest the sonsofbitches. Come on, Peter.”

Wohl stood up and offered his hand to Harry Hormel.

“Now, wait a minute,” Callis said. “I didn’t say it was no good. I said it was weak.”

“It is,” Hormel agreed.

“Harry,” the District Attorney said. “You’ve gone into court with less then this, and won. Peter made a good point. All you have to do is convince the jury that these two were pursued by one of the brightest detectives on the force. A certified hero. If you handle that angle right, you can go for the death penalty and get it.”

“It’s weak,” Harry Hormel repeated.

“Let Harry know when you have them, Matt,” Callis said. “I’m sure he would like to be there when you confront them with the guns.”

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