The Witness

THIRTEEN

At 3:45 the next morning Officer Matthew M. Payne, in his bathrobe, was watching the timer on his combination washer-drier. It had twentyfive minutes to run.

At approximately 3:25 Officer Matthew M. Payne had experienced what the Rev. H. Wadsworth Coyle of Episcopal Academy had, in a euphemistically titled course (Personal Hygiene I), euphemistically termed a "nocturnal emission." The Reverend Coyle had assured the boys that it was a natural biological phenomenon, and nothing to be shamed about.

It had provoked in Officer Payne a mixed reaction. On one hand, it had been a really first-class experience, with splendid mental imagery of Helene, right down to the slightly salty taste of her mouth on his, and on the other, a real first-class pain in the ass, having to get out of goddamn bed in the middle of the goddamn night to take a goddamn shower and then wash the goddamn sheets so the maid would not find the goddamn telltale spots on the goddamn sheets.

"Fuck it!" Officer Payne said, aloud and somewhat angrily. He draped his bathrobe carefully on the stove, went into his bedroom, and dressed. The last item of his wardrobe was his revolver and his ankle holster, which he had deposited for the night on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.

Picking up the revolver triggered another mental image of the superbly bosomed Helene, but a nonerotic, indeed somewhat disturbing, one: the way she had handled the gun, and even the cartridges. That had been weird.

He went down the stairs, and then rode the elevator to the basement. When he drove out of the garage onto Manning Street, he saw that not only was it snowing, but that it had apparently been snowing for some time. Small flakes, which were not melting, and which suggested it was going to continue to snow for at least some time.

He made his way to North Broad Street, and drove out North Broad to Spring Garden, and then right on Spring Garden to Delaware Avenue, and then north on Delaware to Frankford Avenue and then out on Frankford toward Castor.

Except for a few all-night gas stations and fast-food emporia, the City of Philadelphia seemed to be asleep. The snow had not yet had time to become soot-soiled. It was, Matt thought, rather pretty.

On the other hand, there was ice beneath the nice white snow, and twice he felt the wheels of the Porsche slipping out of control.

And there is a very good chance that when I get out there, Inspector Wohl will remind me that he said he would see me at eight o'clock in the office, not here at four-fifteen, remind me that he has suggested it would well behoove me to listen carefully to what he says, and send me home.

There was a white glow, of headlights and parking lights reflecting off the fallen and falling snow in the school building parking lot. And just as he saw an ACT cop open the door of an RPC standing at the curb to wave a flashlight to stop him, Matt saw Inspector Wohl, Captain Sabara, and Lieutenant Malone standing in the light coming through the windshield of a stakeout van.

Malone and Sabara were in uniform. Wohl was wearing a fur-collared overcoat and a tweed cap. He looked, Matt thought, like a stockbroker waiting for the 8:05 commuter train at Wallingford, not like the sort of man who would be in charge of all this police activity.

Matt pushed the button and the window of the Porsche whooshed down.

"I'm a Three Six Nine," he said to the ACT cop. "I work for Inspector Wohl."

The cop waved him through, and Matt turned into the parking lot and found a place to park the car.

As he walked across the snow, which crunched under his shoes, toward them, he was aware that they were looking at him. He decided that there was a good chance that Wohl would be sore he had come here.

"Good morning," Matt said.

Wohl looked at him a good thirty seconds before speaking, then said, "There's a thermos of coffee in the stakeout van, if you'd like some."

"Thank you," Matt said.

When he came back out of the van, Mickey O'Hara was standing with the others.

"You know Officer Payne of the Building Measuring Detail, don't you, Mickey?" Wohl asked, straight-faced.

"Whaddaya say, Payne?" Mickey said. "Relax, I'm not going to play straight man to your boss."

A lieutenant whose name Matt could not recall walked up and with surprising formality saluted.

"Everything's in place, Inspector," he said.

Matt was pleased to see that Wohl was somewhat discomfited by the lieutenant's salute, visibly torn between returning it, like an officer returning a soldier's salute, or not.

"You check with West Philly?" Wohl asked after a moment, making a vague gesture toward his tweed cap that could have been a salute, but did not have to be.

"Yes, sir. Two cars, a sergeant, a stakeout truck, and a van."

"Can you make it over there in thirty"-looking at his watch-"seven minutes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you-" Wohl interrupted himself. Captain Pekach, in full Highway uniform, walked up. The lieutenant saluted again. Pekach, although he looked a little surprised, returned it.

"Good morning," Pekach said.

Wohl ignored him.

"Lieutenant, when did you get out of the Army?" he asked.

"I've been back about four months, sir."

"What were you?"

"I had a platoon in the First Cavalry, sir."

"That worries me," Wohl said. "Let me tell you why. We are policemen, not soldiers. We are going to arrest some smalltime robbers, not assault a Vietcong village. I'm a little worried that you don't understand that. I don't want any shooting, unless lives are in danger. I would rather that one or two of these scumbags get away-we can get them later-than to have anybody start shooting the place up. Did Captain Sabara make sure you understood that?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"I am about to promulgate a new edict," Wohl said. "Henceforth, no one will salute the commanding officer of Special Operations unless he happens to be in a uniform."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "I'm sorry, Inspector. I didn't know the ground rules."

"Go and sin no more," Wohl said with a smile, touching his arm. "Take over in West Philly. Get going at five o'clock, presuming you think they're ready."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said.

He walked away.

"Good morning, David," Wohl said to Pekach. "Captain Sabara and myself are touched that you would get out of your warm bed to be with us here."

"I figured maybe I could help," Pekach said.

"You and Officer Payne," Wohl said dryly. He looked at his watch. "Hhour in thirty-five minutes, men," he added in a credible mimicry of John Wayne.

"What happens at H-hour, General?" Mickey O'Hara asked.

"We know the whereabouts, as of fifteen minutes ago, of all eight of the people who stuck up Goldblatt's and murdered the maintenance man-"

"Ah, the Islamic Liberation Army," Mickey interrupted, "I thought that's what this probably was."

"The eight suspects in the felonies committed at Goldblatt's is what I said, Mr. O'Hara," Wohl said. "I didn't say anything about any army, liberation or otherwise."

"Pardon me all to death, Inspector, sir, I should have picked up on that."

"As I was saying," Wohl went on. "Shortly after five, the officers you see gathered here will assist detectives of the Homicide Bureau in serving warrants and taking the suspects into custody. Simultaneously. Or as nearly simultaneously as we can manage."

"I would have expected Highway," Mickey said.

"You are getting the ACT officers of Special Operations," Wohl said.

"How exactly are you going to do the arrests?" Mickey asked. "It looks like an army around here."

"Seven of the eight suspects are known to be in this area, in other words, around Frankford Avenue. One of them is in West Philly. Two ACT cars, each carrying two officers, will go to the various addresses. There will be a sergeant at each address, plus, of course, the Homicide detective who has been keeping the suspects under surveillance. We anticipate no difficulty in making the arrests. But, just to be sure, there are, under the control of a lieutenant, stakeout vans available. One per two sergeants, plus one more in West Philly. Plus four wagons, three here and one in West Philly."

"Okay," Mickey said.

"At Captain Sabara's suggestion," Wohl went on, "when the arrests have been made, the suspect will be taken out the back of his residence, rather than out the front door. There he will be loaded into a van and taken to Homicide."

"Instead of out the front door, where there might be angry citizens enraged that these devout Muslims are being dragged out of their beds by honky infidels?"

"You got it, Mickey," Wohl said. "What do you think?"

"I think Lowenstein thinks you were going to use Highway," Mickey said.

"Chief Lowenstein does not run Special Operations," Wohl replied.

"May I quote you?"

"I wish you wouldn't," Wohl said. "If you need a quote, how about quoting me as saying these suspects have no connection with the fine, law-abiding Islamic community of Philadelphia."

Mickey O'Hara snorted.

"Where do you think I might find something interesting?" O'Hara asked.

"One of the suspects is a fellow named Charles D. Stevens," Wohl said. "Word has reached me that he sometimes uses the alias Abu Ben Mohammed. Rumor has it that he fancies himself to be the Robin Hood of this merry band of bandits. Perhaps you might find that a photograph of Mr. Stevens, in handcuffs and under arrest, would be of interest to your readers."

"Okay, Peter," Mickey chuckled. "Thank you. Who do I go with?"

"Officer Payne," Wohl said, "please take Mr. O'Hara to Lieutenant Suffern. Tell him that I have given permission for you and Mr. O'Hara to accompany his team during the arrest of Mr. Stevens."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"You will insure that Mr. O'Hara in no way endangers his own life. In other words, he is not, repeat not, to enter the building in which we believe Mr. Stevens to be until Mr. Stevens is under arrest."

"Ah, for Christ's sake, Peter!" O'Hara protested.

"You listened carefully, didn't you, Officer Payne, to what I just said?"

"Yes, sir."

"If necessary, you will sit on Mr. O'Hara. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Lieutenant Ed Suffern, a very large, just short of fat, ruddy-faced man, pushed himself off the fender of his car when he saw Mickey O' Hara and Matt Payne walking up.

"How are you, Mickey?" he said, smiling, offering his hand, obviously pleased to see him. "I'm a little surprised to see you."

"Officially, I just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Yeah," Suffern said, chuckling. "Sure."

"Got a small problem, Ed," O'Hara said. "How am I going to get to see you catching-whatsisname?-Abu Ben Mohammedwith Matt Payne sitting on my shoulders?"

"What?"

"Wohl says I can't go in the building until you have this guy in cuffs, and he sent Payne along with orders to sit on me if necessary."

"I wondered what he was doing here," Suffern said. "No problem. Here, let me show you."

He opened the door of his RPC and took a clipboard from the seat.

"Somebody give me a light here," he ordered, and one of the ACT cops took his flashlight from its holster and shined it on the clipboard. It held a map.

"This is Hawthorne Street," he said, pointing. "Mr. Abu Whatsisnamehis real name is Charles D. Stevens, Wohl tell you that?"

O'Hara nodded.

"-lives here, just about in the middle of the block." He pointed. " There's a Homicide detective, he has the warrant, sitting here, right now. This is the way we're going to do this: One ACT car, with two cops and the Homicide guy, will go to the front door. Another ACT car, with two ACT guys and the sergeant, will go around to the back, via the alley here." He pointed again. "When they're in place, the sergeant will give the word. The Homicide guy will knock or ring the bell or whatever. We'll give him thirty seconds to open the door. Then they'll take both doors. When they have him in cuffs, they'll take him out the back. There's a wagon, here." He pointed again, this time to a point a block away. "The van will start for the alley the moment he hears they're going in. They'll put Abu Whatsisname in the van, with one cop from each of the ACT cars, and get out of the neighborhood. The same thing, the same sort of thing, will be going on here in the 5000 block of Saul Street. Two ACT cars, a sergeant, and a Homicide detective will pick up Kenneth H. Dome, also known as 'King' Dome, also known as Hussein Something. When they havehim, the sergeant will call for the wagon. When both of these guys are in the van, they'll be taken to Homicide. Got it?"

"Yeah," Mickey said thoughtfully.

"So there's no problem, Mickey," Lieutenant Suffern finished. "I'll put you and Payne in my car. We'll go into the alley behind Stevens's house, from the other direction. I'll let you two out, and I'll go in with the sergeant when he takes the back door. When you see us coming out, you can make your pictures. Okay?"

"Can you give me a list of the names?" O'Hara asked. "I really hate to spell people's names wrong. And point them out to me, so I know who's who?"

"Absolutely," Suffern said.

Lieutenant Suffern, Officer Payne thought, is entertaining hopes that the next issue of the Bulletin will carry a photograph of Lieutenant Ed Suffern with the just arrested felon in his firm personal grip.

"Payne," Lieutenant Suffern said, "if answering this puts you on a spot, don't answer it. Are we really going to move in here?" He waved in the general direction of the school building.

"I think so," Matt said. "I think the Board of Education wants to get rid of it."

"My mother went to school in there," Suffern said. "I thought they were going to tear it down."

"Okay," Inspector Peter Wohl's voice suddenly came over, with remarkable clarity, all the loudspeakers in all the vehicles in the playground. "Let's go do it."

There was the sound of starters grinding, and then an angry voice.

"I'm going to need a jump start here!"

Headlights came on, their beams reflecting off the still falling snow.

Suffern opened the rear door of his car and waved Mickey O'Hara and Matt in. The hem of Matt's topcoat got caught in the door, and the door had to be reopened and then closed again.

The cars and vans began to roll out of the playground, onto Frankford Avenue. Most turned left, but some turned right. Matt looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to five.

At ten minutes to five, they drove down Hawthorne Street. There were a number of cars, their roofs and windshields now coated with snow, parked on the street.

If this snow keeps up, Matt thought, these cars are going to be buried.

The headlights of a rusty and battered Chrysler flicked on and off quickly.

"That's the Homicide guy," Lieutenant Suffern said, and then added, " That wasn't too smart."

"Maybe he's just glad to see you," Mickey O'Hara said. "How long has he been there?"

"Probably since midnight," Suffern said. "When he tries to get out of the car, he'll probably be frozen stiff."

Suffern made the next right, turned his headlights off, and then turned right again into the alley and stopped.

Matt started to open the door.

"We got a couple of minutes," Suffern said, stopping him. "Better to stay in the car."

"Right," Matt said.

Said Officer Payne, the rookie, who don't know no better.

"I want to get out," O'Hara said. "If I just jump out of the car, my lens is likely to fog over."

"Okay, Mick," Suffern said obligingly. "But stick close to the walls, huh?"

O'Hara got out and Matt followed him, carefully closing the car's door. Suffern put the car in gear and inched away from them, stopping fifty yards farther down the alley.

It took Matt's eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness, but gradually the alley took shape. They were standing between two brick walls, but thirty feet away, the alley was lined with wooden fences. There was what looked like a derelict car parked against one wall, between them and Suffern's car. Matt wondered how Suffern had managed to get past it in the dark.

And then, as he looked at Mickey O'Hara, who was wiping the lens of his 35-mm camera with a handkerchief, the hair on the back of Matt's neck began to curl.

What the hell is the matter with me? Abu Ben Whatsisname is sound asleep in his bed. He won't know what hit him when those guys come crashing into his house. And I am a good hundred yards from where the action is going to be anyway.

But he pulled off his right glove, stuffed it into the pocket of his topcoat, and then quickly knelt and took his revolver from the ankle holster on the inside of his left leg. Hoping that Mickey O'Hara hadn' t seen him, he quickly put it, and the hand that held it, into his topcoat pocket.

And then there was first a creaking, tearing noise, like a board being split, somewhere down the alley, and then the sound of crunching snow.

A moment later he saw something moving.

It has to be a cat, or a dog, or something Then he realized that what was coming down the alley toward them was too large to be a dog.

Everything shifted into slow motion.

"Stop!" Matt heard himself say. He had trouble finding his voice. " Police officer-"

"Out of my way, motherfucker!" an intensely angry voice called.

There followed a series of orange flashes, accompanied by sharp cracks.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Mickey O'Hara said softly.

Matt was slapped in the face and then, a half second later, with terrifying force, in his right calf. He felt himself falling hard against the brick wall to his side.

As a voice from the recesses of his brain told him,Hold it in both hands, he pulled his revolver from his topcoat pocket. He got it free and up as he slid to the ground.

There was no way to hold the pistol with both hands. He fired instinctively. And then again. And a third time.

There was a grunt from the vague figure coming down the alley, and then the figure stood erect. Matt fired again. The figure took two more steps, and then fell forward.

Matt tried to get on his feet by pushing himself up the wall, but his hands slipped and his leg seemed unstable. He got on all fours, and somehow, that way, managed to get on his feet.

Now holding the pistol in both hands, Matt moved unsteadily toward the fallen figure.

You only have one cartridge left! Don't fuck this up!

The man on the ground was writhing in pain. Matt saw his pistol-a semiautomatic, probably a Colt.45-on the ground, half buried in snow. The man made no move for it. Matt hobbled to it and put his foot on it and nearly fell down.

There was a white flash, and he turned quickly toward it, pistol extended.

It was Mickey O'Hara's goddamn camera!

"Easy, kid!" Mickey said, fear in his voice.

Matt aimed the pistol at the man on the ground.

A moment later the camera flash went off again.

"Fuck you, O'Hara!" Matt heard himself shout furiously.

Now there were lights, all kinds of lights, headlights, flashing red and blue lights, portable floodlights.

He looked down the alley and saw an RPC squeeze past Lieutenant Suffern's car, and then, in his headlights, Suffern, his pistol drawn, running down the alley.

Suffern hoisted the skirt of his coat and holstered his pistol and came out with handcuffs. He put his knee in the back of the man on the ground and grabbed his arm to handcuff him.

The man screamed in pain.

The Special Operations car slid to a stop and two cops jumped out.

Suffern came to Matt, said, "Jesus!" and touched his face.

"You can put your pistol away, Payne," Suffern said, and then raised his hand and gently forced Matt's arm down.

Matt looked at him. He saw something sticky on Suffern's fingers, and then touched his face. His fingers, too, came away bloody.

He squatted to feel his calf, and fell down.

Suffern ran to the RPC, slid behind the wheel, and found the microphone.

"This is Suffern, get the van here, now!" he called, then: "This is Team A Supervisor. We have had a shooting. We have an officer down. We have a suspect down."

Matt, at the moment he was aware he was lying facedown in the snow, felt hands on his shoulders. He felt himself being first rolled over, and then being held up in a slumping position.

He put his hands to his eyes, and wiped away the bloody slush over them. He could see one of the Special Operations cops looking down at him with concern in his eyes.

"You all right?"

"Shit!"

He heard the wail of a siren in the distance, and then other sirens.

"Suffern, where are you?" Wohl's voice came over the radio.

"In the alley behind the scene."

"Who's down?"

"Payne and the suspect."

"On my way."

Matt saw Suffern's face now, close to his.

"Just take it easy, the van's on the way. We'll have you in a hospital in two minutes."

Mickey O'Hara's flashgun went off again.

"Get that fucking camera out of here, Mickey!" Suffern said angrily.

"You all right, Matt?" O'Hara asked.

"I'm shot, for Christ's sake!"

There was the sound of squealing brakes, of clashing gears, and tires slipping on the ice and snow.

Matt looked over his shoulder and saw a van backing into the alley.

"Here's the van," Suffern said, quite unnecessarily.

Matt felt something scrubbing at his face. When his vision cleared, he saw the cop who had rolled him over throwing a bloody handkerchief away and being handed another. He put the fresh handkerchief to Matt's forehead.

"Can you hold that?" he asked.

Matt put his hand to it.

Two more cops appeared, carrying a stretcher.

"Get me to my feet," Matt said. "I don't need that."

They ignored him. He felt himself being unceremoniously picked up and then dumped onto the stretcher. Then he was lifted up and carried to the van. The feet of the stretcher screeched as it was pushed inside.

"Where do you think you're going, Mickey?" someone asked.

"Where does it look like?" O'Hara replied, and then he was sitting on the floor of the van beside Matt.

And then something else was thrown in the van. Matt looked and saw that it was the man he had shot. He was unconscious.

Two uniformed cops, neither of whom Matt recognized, scrambled inside. The van's rear doors slammed closed, and then a moment later, there was the sound of the front doors slamming. The engine raced and the siren began to wail again.

"Is he dead?" Matt asked.

"I don't know," Mickey replied, and then matter-of-factly turned and put his fingers to the unconscious man's jugular. "Not yet, anyway," he added.

"Look at my leg," Matt said.

"What's wrong with your leg?"

"You tell me."

He propped himself up, awkwardly, and watched as Mickey pulled his trouser leg up.

"Looks like you got it there too," Mickey said. "Not much blood. It hurt?"

"No, not much," Matt said. "It feels like I got hit with a rock or something."

"There's only one hole," Mickey said. "The bullet's probably still in there. I don't think anything is broken."

When Matt let himself fall back on the stretcher, he saw that the man he had shot was bleeding from the nose and mouth. There was a froth of bloody bubbles on his lips. Matt looked away, wondering if he was going to be sick to his stomach.

Matt suddenly started to shiver. Mickey looked around the interior of the van.

"Hand me one of those blankets," he ordered. A gray, dirt-spotted blanket appeared, and O'Hara draped it over him.

"Throw one on him too," Matt Payne ordered.

Two minutes or so later the van leaned on its springs as it made a turn, then bounced over a curb. It stopped and the doors were jerked open.

Three men in hospital whites and a nurse with a purple, sequindecorated sweater thrown over the shoulders of her whites peered into the van. One of the men grabbed the handles of the stretcher and Matt felt himself sliding down the van's floor.

Once the stretcher was out of the van, he felt himself being moved, and then he realized he had been transferred to a gurney; he could feel the cold plastic beneath the thin sheet on his stomach.

"Get the handcuffs off him!" he heard his nurse order angrily. "He's unconscious, for Christ's sake!"

Matt's gurney began to move into the hospital. There were two sets of doors. The gurney slammed into the outer set, and then the inner set.

"Out of the way!" the nurse's voice called, and Matt's gurney was moved to the wall, where it stopped. He saw a second gurney being pushed, at a trot, by two of the attendants, down the corridor.

And then Staff Inspector Peter Wohl's face appeared next to his.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm all right," Matt said.

Why the hell did I say that?

"They'll take care of you in a minute."

"Why not now?"

"Because the guy you shot is in a lot worse shape than you are," Wohl said matter-of-factly.

"Is he going to live?"

"I don't think they know yet."

"Shit, my car!"

"What about your car?"

"It's in the playground. With the keys in it."

"I'll take care of it," Wohl said. "Don't worry about it."

"I think I'm going to be sick to my stomach."

All of a sudden, Matt found himself looking at Peter Wohl's stomach.

He must have had to squat to get down to me.

"Get me a towel or a bucket or something," Wohl ordered.

Matt rolled on his side, and then completely over, onto his back.

That's better. Now I won't have to throw up.

He propped himself up on his elbows, and then the nausea came so quickly he barely had time to get his head over the edge of the gurney.

He now felt faint, and his leg began to throb.

The gurney began to move. He looked up and back and saw that he was being towed by a very tall, six feet six or better, very thin black man in hospital greens.

He was pulled into a cubicle walled by white plastic curtains. A new face appeared in his. Another black one. "I'm Dr. Hampton. How you doing?"

"Just fine, thank you."

Dr. Hampton removed the handkerchief, jerking it quickly off, and painfully prodded Matt's forehead.

"Nothing serious," he said. "It will have to be sutured, but that can wait."

"What about my leg?"

"I'll have a look," Dr. Hampton said, and then ordered: "Get an IV in him."

Somebody got him into a sitting position and he felt his topcoat and jacket being removed, and then his shirt.

"I'm cold."

He was ignored.

He felt a blood pressure apparatus being strapped around his left arm, and then his right arm was held firmly immobile as a nurse searched for and found a vein.

"Nothing broken. There's no exit wound. There's a bullet in there somewhere. Prep him and send him up to Sixteen."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said.

Peter Wohl watched as the gurney with Matt on it was wheeled out of the Emergency treatment cubicle, and then ran after the doctor he had seen go into the cubicle.

"Tell me about the man you just had in there," he said.

"Who are you?" Dr. Hampton asked.

"I'm Inspector Wohl."

"You don't look much like a cop, Inspector."

"What do you want to do, see my badge?"

"No. Take it easy. I suppose I said that because I was just thinking he doesn't either. Look like a cop, I mean."

"Actually," Wohl said. "He's a pretty good cop. How badly is he injured?"

"A good deal less seriously than most people I see who have been shot with a large caliber weapon," Dr. Hampton said, and then went on to explain his diagnosis and prognosis.

Wohl thanked him, and then went to one of the pay phones mounted on the wall between the outer and inner doors of the Emergency entrance and took first a dime from his pocket and then his wallet. Inside the wallet was a typewritten list of telephone numbers, on both sides of a sheet of paper cut to the size of a credit card, and then coated with Scotch tape to preserve it.

He dropped a dime in the slot and then dialed one of the numbers. There was an answer, surprisingly wide awake, on the third ring: " Coughlin."

"Chief, this is Peter Wohl."

"What's up, Peter?"

"Matt Payne has been shot."

There was a just perceptible pause.

"Bad?"

"He's got a.45 bullet in his calf. It apparently was a ricochet off a brick wall. And his face was hit, the forehead, probably by a piece of bullet jacket. It slit the skin. Not serious, take a couple of stitches."

"But the bullet in the legis serious?"

"There's not much damage. I don't know for sure what I'm talking about, but what I think happened was that the bullet hit the wall, a brick wall, and lost most of its momentum, and then hit him. It's still in him. They just took him into the operating room."

"Where is he?"

"Frankford Hospital."

"What the hell happened, Peter?"

I have just become the guy who is responsible for getting Denny Coughlin's godson, the son he never had, shot.

"At five o'clock this morning, we picked up the doers of the Goldblatt job."

"'We' presumably meaning Highway," Coughlin said coldly. "I didn't know that Matt was in Highway. When did that happen?"

"ACT Teams from Special Operations, working with Homicide, made the arrests. Simultaneously-"

"Not Highway?"

"No, sir. Not Highway."

"Go on, Peter."

"Mickey O'Hara was there. I invited him. I sent Matt with him to make sure Mickey didn't get in the way, get himself hurt.

One of the doers, a scumbag named Charles D. Stevens, apparently saw either the cars, or more likely the Homicide guy sitting on him, and then the cars. As the ACT cars were getting in place, he-this is conjecture Chief, but I think this is it-made his way to either the next house, or the house next to that, and tried to get away through the alley. O'Hara and Matt were at the head of the alley. He-Stevensstarted shooting. And got Matt."

"Did you get Stevens?"

"Matt got Stevens. He shot at him four times and hit him twice. Once in the arm, and once in the liver. Stevens was brought here. I have the feeling he's not going to live."

"But Matt is in no danger?"

"No, sir. I don't even think there is going to be much muscle damage. As I said, I think the bullet lost much of its momentum-"

"That's nice," Coughlin said.

"He's more worried about his car than anything else, Chief."

"What about his car?"

"We formed up in the playground of the school at Castor and Frankford. Matt went to the scene with Lieutenant Suffern. And left his car, with the keys in it in the playground."

"You're taking care of it, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you called the commissioner?"

"No, sir. Chief Lowenstein is doing that."

"Lowenstein was there?"

"No, sir. But he heard about it, and told me he would take care of calling the commissioner."

"Is the Department going to look bad in this, Peter?"

"No, sir. I don't see how. The other seven arrests went very smoothly. They're all down at 8^th and Race already. As soon as I get off the phone, I'm going down there."

"Have you notified Matt's family?"

"No, sir. I thought I should call you before I did that."

"Well, at least your brain wasn't entirely disengaged," Coughlin said. And then, immediately, "Sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have said that."

"Forget it, Chief. I don't think I have to tell you how bad I feel about this. And I know how you feel about Matt."

"I've been on the job twenty-seven years and I've never been hurt," Coughlin said. "Matt's father gets killed. His Uncle Dutch gets killed, and now he damned near does."

"I thought about that too, Chief."

"I'll take care of notifying his family," Coughlin said. "You make sure nobody else gets carried away with procedure and tries to."

"I've already done that, Chief."

"You're sure he's going to be all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep yourself available, Peter. You say you're going to be at Homicide?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Stillwell asked me to be there."

"Farnsworth Stillwell?"

"Yes, sir."

"When you can break loose, it might be a good idea to go back to the hospital; to have a word with Matt's family."

"Yes, sir, I'd planned to do that."

"Well, don't blame yourself for this, Peter. These things happen."

"Yes, sir."

Coughlin, without another word, hung up. He swung his feet out of bed, pulled open the drawer of a bedside table, and took out a telephone book. He dialed a number.

"Police Department."

"Let me speak to the senior officer on duty."

"Maybe I can help you."

"This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. Get the senior police officer present on the telephone!"

"This is Lieutenant Swann. Can I help you?"

"This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin-"

"Oh, sure. How are you, Chief?"

"I need a favor."

"Name it."

"You know where the Payne house is on Providence Road in Wallingford?"

"Sure."

"Their son is a police officer. He has just been shot in the line of duty. He is in Frankford Hospital. I am about to notify them. I would consider it a personal favor if you would provide an escort for them from their home to the Philadelphia city line. I'll have a car meet you there."

"Chief, when the Paynes come out of their driveway, a car will be sitting there."

"Thank you."

"He hurt bad?"

"We don't think so."

"Thank God."

"Thank God," Denny Coughlin repeated, and, unable to trust his voice any further, hung up.

He walked into the kitchen, poured an inch and a half of John Jameson's Irish whiskey in a plastic cup, drank it down, and then reached for the telephone on the wall. He dialed a number from memory. It took a long time to answer.

Please, God, don't let Patty answer.

"Hello?"

"Brewster, this is Denny Coughlin."

"Is something wrong, Denny?" Brewster Cortland Payne, suddenly wide awake, asked.

"What is it?" a familiar female voice came faintly over the telephone.

"Matt's got himself shot," Denny Coughlin said very quickly. "Not seriously. He's in Frankford Hospital. By the time you get dressed, there will be a police car waiting in your driveway to escort you to the hospital. I'll meet you there."

"All right."

"My God, I'm sorry, Brewster."

"Yes, I know. We'll see you there, Denny."

The phone went dead.

Coughlin broke the connection with his finger and then dialed another number from memory.

"Highway."

"This is Chief Coughlin."

"Yes, sir."

"I have cleared this with Inspector Wohl. A Media police car is about to escort a car to the city line. I want a Highway car to meet it and take it the rest of the way to Frankford Hospital. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you," Coughlin said, and hung up. Then he went into his bedroom and started to get dressed. As he was tying his shoes, he suddenly looked up, at the crucifix hanging over his bed.

"It could be worse. Thank you," he said.