The Witness

TWENTY-SEVEN

"Imust be getting old," Michael J. O'Hara said to Inspector Peter Wohl as Wohl handed him a bottle of Tuborg. "I should have guessed you would be here."

"I'm not here, Mickey. You didn't see me."

O'Hara looked at him intently for a moment, and then shrugged and nodded his agreement.

"Okay. Neither of us are here. But if we were here, and I asked you, on or off the record, 'How do you think you're going to like Harrisburg?' what would be your off-the-record, just-between-us-boys reply?"

"Onthe record, I'm not going to Harrisburg."

"That's not what it said-whathe said,he being Farnsworth Stillwell-on the radio."

"As I was just saying to Casanova here, you should never believe everything you hear on the radio, or read in the newspapers, especially theLedger."

"Give me a for example."

"I just gave you one. I never told Stillwell that I would take that job."

"If I were to write that- 'Staff Inspector Peter Wohl today emphatically denied that he ever intended to resign from the Police Department to become chief investigator for Farnsworth Stillwell, newly appointed deputy attorney general for corporate crime'-it would make Stillwell look pretty silly."

"How about leaving out the phrase 'to resign from the Police Department'?"

"How about the making him look silly part?"

"I don't think that would reduce me to tears," Wohl said.

"Is it that bad, Peter? You're really thinking of resigning?"

"We were talking about not always believing what you read in the newspapers. You want another for example?"

"Yeah."

"The records of the medical examiner, so far as I understand it, are public records. If you were to go down there, and pay the small fee-I think it's two dollars-they would give you a copy of Mr. Albert J. Monahan's death certificate. I think you might find that very interesting."

"Why?"

"Why don't you go spend the two dollars?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me," O'Hara said.

"Perish the thought. But trust me, Mickey, I think you'd find the death certificate interesting."

"He's dead, right?" O'Hara asked.

"He's dead."

"So what would I find interesting? What did they do, shoot him with a cannon? He wasn't shot? Some jungle bunny threw a spear at him? What?

"For two dollars, you could find out," Wohl said.

"I can find out cheaper than that," O'Hara said.

He leaned over and picked up the telephone on the table beside Matt's chair. He draped the handset over his shoulder, and then dialed a number.

"Dr. Phane, please. Mickey O'Hara…

"Oh, bullshit. Tell him he owes me one."

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Interesting," he observed, "the bastard doesn't want to talk to me…

"Charley, how the hell are you?…

"Well, just put her on hold, all I have is a couple of questions…

"Tell me about Albert J. Monahan…

"Yeah, I know he's dead. What did they shoot him with?…

"What are you telling me, Charley?…

"And that's what's going on the death certificate?…

"Charley, if I print this and it turns out it's not true, I would be very unhappy. It is for that reason I have been recording this call. Just so you can't deny having told me what you just told me."

O'Hara shrugged, hung the handset on his shoulder again, and dialed another number.

"Would you believe that the Most Exalted Poo-Bah of the Knights of Columbus just told me to go fuck myself?" he asked, in hurt innocence, and then his party answered.

"O'Hara," he said. "Are you ready to copy?…

"Slug: ILA Witness Dead of Natural Causes, Says Medical Examiner. By Michael J. O'Hara. In an exclusive interview with this reporter, Philadelphia County Medical Examiner Dr. Charles F. Phane refuted reports in another newspaper-break. I'd like to say the PhiladelphiaLedger, but you'd better run it past legal before you do."

"-in another newspaper that Mr. Albert J. Monahan was shot to death, allegedly by persons connected with the so-called Islamic Liberation Army. Dr. Phane said that a thorough autopsy of Mr. Monahan's body has convinced him, and other medical personnel of his staff, that Mr. Monahan had died of a cardiac arrest, commonly called a heart attack.

"Dr. Phane, who personally conducted the autopsy, also said that tests had been run that ruled out the possibility of poisons.

"Quote Mr. Monahan's heart just stopped beating, Unquote Dr. Phane said. Quote. He had a medical history of heart trouble and it finally took his life. Unquote.

"Got that?…

"Yeah, I'm sure. If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have called it in."

Mickey put the handset back in the cradle, and then set the telephone back on the table.

"Okay, Peter. So you tell me why Mrs. Monahan told me she saw her husband getting shot."

"This has to be off the record, Mickey."

"Off the record."

"I think she did see someone-"

"A cop? She said, 'a white cop.'"

"-someone, probably a Caucasian, in a police uniform, shoot her husband. But what he was using was a stun gun, not a real one."

"One of those things that shocks people?" Mickey asked. "No shit?"

"There were bruise marks, plus slight indications of electric burns, on his chest."

"Phane didn't say anything about that."

"Phane is a very careful man, Mickey."

"You don'thave the stun gun, do you?" O'Hara challenged. "This is atheory?"

"It's a pretty good theory," Wohl said.

"You tell me why it's a good theory."

"We don't think they were trying to kill Monahan, just scare him."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," O'Hara said.

"I'll tell you what we think this whole thing is about, and where we are, but if you print it, you can really screw things up. Not only for me, but for a lot of other people."

"You prick!" O'Hara said. "You know that after you told me that, I couldn't use it."

"Fuck it," Matt Payne said. "The risk is too great, don't tell him."

Mickey turned to look at him in what looked like hurt surprise. "For the rest of your life, I will misspell your name," he said.

He turned at Wohl. "Doeshe know what's going on?"

"No. He's just worried about me."

"Okay, Peter," O'Hara said after a moment. "Boy Scout's Honor." He held up three fingers as Boy Scouts do when giving their word of honor. "I won't use any of this until you tell me I can."

It took Wohl ten minutes, during which Mickey O'Hara asked a very few questions, all of which struck Matt as being penetrating.

"Okay," Mickey said, finally. "So what are you doing here drinking beer with Wyatt Earp? Why aren't you out catching-better still, shooting by accident, or at least running over-this rogue cop of yours?"

"Two reasons," Wohl said. "For one thing, I think I would probably get caught if I did. More importantly, Jason Washington asked me to make myself scarce until five o'clock. That's what I'm doing."

"Can I stick around?"

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Well, and all this time, I thought we were buddies," O'Hara said. " How would you feel about me interviewing Arthur X? Getting hisIslamic slant on this?"

"Will he talk to you?"

"Yeah, I think so. He likes being in the newspapers." He saw the look on Wohl's face. "Relax, I won't give anything away.

"If I thought you would, I wouldn't have told you what I did."

"I just had a better idea," O'Hara said. "Fuck Arthur X. I know what he's going to say. I'm going to see Sam Goldblatt and maybe Katz too."

"Who?" Matt asked.

"Sam Goldblatt, of Goldblatt's furniture," O'Hara replied. "Ol' Mr. I-have-to-think-about-my-wife-and-children. The one who covered his ass about these scumbags by having his eyesight conveniently fail. Phil Katz is Goldblatt's nephew."

"Oh," Matt said, and then asked, "why?"

"'Mr. Goldblatt, would you tell me how you feel about the people who killed both poor Mr. Cohn and now poor Mr. Monahan escaping punishment because you have bad eyesight? My one point three million readers would like to know. In case they wanted to buy a washing machine, or something, and wanted to make sure they were buying it from somebody who was always thinking about his wife and children.'"

Wohl chuckled. "I really think you would do that."

"You'd better believe it."

"I'll tell you what I did do," Wohl said. "When Goldblatt and Katz walked out of their houses this morning, they found a Highway RPC waiting for them. Highway's going to sit on both of them for the next couple of days, at least."

"To protect them? Or to remind them they need protection?"

"Both."

"Mr. Goldblatt, considering what happened to poor Mr. Monahan, do you think the police are going to be able to protect you from these people you weren't able to see well enough to identify?"

"If you added, 'and your family,' " Wohl said, "that might not be a bad question to ask."

"Consider it asked," O'Hara said.

He stood up, shrugged into his fur-collared overcoat, finished off his bottle of beer, and went down the stairs.

At five minutes past four, just after Officer Charles McFadden had relieved Officer Frank Hartzog on the protection detail of Officer Matthew M. Payne, the doorbell rang.

"Who's there?" McFadden asked, through the intercom.

"Sergeant D'Angelo."

"You know a Sergeant D'Angelo, Inspector?" McFadden asked Wohl.

"Yeah. Let him in."

"Be right down," McFadden said, and went down the stairs.

The face that first appeared at the head of the stairwell a moment later was that of the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Brotherly Love. He was followed by a burly, curly-haired man in his late twenties.

"I didn't know anybody lived up here," the mayor thought aloud, and nodded at the occupant, Officer Payne, as he looked around.

"What the hell is this all about, Peter?" he asked.

"Chief Lowenstein said he would be here at four," Wohl said. "He must have been delayed."

"That's not what I asked," the mayor said, but he did not pursue the question. He looked at Matt.

"How's your leg, son?"

"Pretty good, sir. Thank you."

"I don't suppose there's any coffee?"

"I can make some in just a minute," Matt said, and started to get out of his leather armchair.

"Al, make coffee," the mayor ordered.

Sergeant D'Angelo went into the kitchen.

"Coffee's in the cabinet right over the machine," Matt called.

"Got it," D'Angelo called back.

The telephone rang.

"Hello?" Matt answered it.

"Chief Lowenstein. Is Carlucci there?"

"Mr. Mayor," Matt said. "Chief Lowenstein for you, sir."

Carlucci snatched the phone from Payne's hand.

"Lowenstein, what the hell's going on?…

"How did that happen?…

"I'll be damned," he said; and hung up.

He looked at Wohl.

"That was Lowenstein. He's at the district attorney's. That's why he' s late."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Samuel Goldblatt just identified from photographs all of the doers of the Goldblatt job, and is prepared to go before the Grand Jury on Monday. And,and, get this: Tom Callis just called Giacomo, as a professional courtesy, and informed him he will personally prosecute."

"That's good news, sir," Wohl said.

"Did you know about this, Peter?"

"I'd heard that another attempt to get Mr. Goldblatt to testify would be made, sir."

"Stop the bullshit, Peter, what do you know about this sudden change of heart?

"Chief Lowenstein told me that he was going to have a talk with Mr. Goldblatt, sir. And I believe that Mickey O'Hara saw him, Goldblatt, today too."

"O'Hara? What about O'Hara?"

"He was here earlier, sir."

"He was here? How is it, Peter, that every sonofabitch and his brother but the police commissioner and me knew where you were?"

"I wasn't aware you were looking for me, sir."

"Czernick was looking for you, and he couldn't find you. Or so he told me."

"Chiefs Coughlin and Lowenstein knew I was here, sir. And so did Captain Sabara."

"I don't like it a goddamn bit the way the three of you treat Czernick like the enemy," Carlucci said. "It has to stop. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, what about O'Hara?"

"Mr. O'Hara led me to believe he was going to ask Mr. Goldblatt and the nephew, Katz, about how they felt about these people going to walk with Monahan dead."

"You got him to do that?"

"It was Mickey's idea, sir."

"Bullshit," the mayor said.

The telephone rang again, and Matt answered it.

"Is that you, Matty?" Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked.

"Yes."

"Is the mayor there? Lowenstein?"

"Chief Lowenstein is on his way here from the district attorney's office."

"Who is that?" the mayor asked suspiciously.

"Chief Coughlin, sir."

"Give me the phone," he ordered sharply. Matt handed it over.

"What the hell is this all about, Denny?"

Matt couldn't hear what Coughlin replied.

"If the both of you aren't here in ten minutes, we will adjourn this meeting to the commissioner's office. Capisce?" Carlucci said, and hung up.

He turned to Wohl.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what the hell is going on around here?"

"I'd prefer to wait until Chief Lowenstein is here, sir."

"In numbers, there is strength, huh?" Carlucci said unpleasantly. " Where the hell is that coffee, Al?"

"It's almost through, sir," Sergeant D'Angelo said.

"Let me ask you something else, Peter," Carlucci said. "Are you conducting an investigation of Bob Holland?"

"No, sir."

"Strange. The FBI thinks you are. Davis called Czernick and asked him. Czernick told him he would ask you about it. You better have a goddamn good answer when he does. Auto theft is none of your business.

"That sonofabitch!" Charley McFadden said.

The mayor looked at him. McFadden, realizing that his mouth had run away with him, looked stricken.

"What sonofabitch is that, son?" Carlucci asked softly, menacingly. " The police commissioner or Mr. Davis of the FBI?"

"There was an FBI agent here last night, Mr. Mayor," Matt said. "We took-"

"What was he doing here? Friend of yours, what?"

"I met him yesterday," Matt said. "He came to confirm rumors that I'm going to be investigated by the Justice Department."

"For what?"

For shooting Stevens.

"Did you know about this, Peter?"

"Yes, sir."

"How come I don't?"

"I sent a memorandum to Commissioner Czernick, sir."

Carlucci turned back to Matt Payne.

"What about the FBI agent who was here last night?"

"We went to the FOP," Matt said. "During the conversation, when he said that he was working interstate auto theft, I asked him some questions about how that works."

"Me too. I did too," Charley McFadden said.

"What Officer McFadden is suggesting is that Matthews, the FBI guy, reported our interest to his superiors," Matt explained.

"'Our interest'?" Carlucci snapped. "Just what is 'our interest'?"

"We think Mr. Holland is involved in at least the sale of stolen automobiles," Matt said.

" 'We'? Who's 'we'?"

"Officer McFadden and myself," Matt said.

"On one hand, coming from two rookies with an exaggerated opinion of themselves, that's probably bullshit," the mayor said. "But on the other hand, the FBI wouldn't be trying to tell us to butt out unless they were onto something. Peter, you sure you don't know anything about this?"

The door buzzer went off, sparing Wohl having to reply.

"Who's there?"

"Lowenstein."

"Be right there."

"Peter," the mayor said. "I think it would be very embarrassing to the Police Department if the FBI came up with a case against Bob Holland that we didn't know anything about. You take my meaning?"

"No, sir."

"I mean I want you to find out what these two hotshots of yours think they know."

"And give it to Major Crime?

"No. Give it to me," Carlucci said, "either these two are imagining things, or Major Crime isn't doing their job."

He then turned his attention to the stairwell, in which a moment later Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein's head and shoulders appeared.

"Matt," the mayor greeted him, "There better be a goddamn good reason for all this goddamn mystery."

Thirty minutes later, the mayor said, in quiet fury, "What you're telling me is that both the guy who killed Monahan with the stun gun, and two guys with him,and the miserable sonofabitch out of Bustleton and Bowler are going to get away with it? Everything?"

"We can't go to court with this, Jerry," Lowenstein said. "You can see that."

"On the bright side," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said, "the Grand Jury will return a true bill against the doers of the Goldblatt job. And Tom Callis is convinced that he can get convictions."

"On thedim side, there isnothing lower than a cop who would do something like this, and the sonofabitch is going to get away with it!"

He glowered, in turn, at Chief Inspectors Lowenstein and Coughlin and Staff Inspector Wohl, all of whom, in turn, shrugged.

"JesusChrist!" the mayor said in frustration.

"Or," Peter Wohl said. "We could just leave him where he is and watch him."

The mayor considered that a moment before replying. "No. Go ahead with this. I'll clear it with Czernick."

"Yes, sir," Wohl said.

"Maybe that's not smart, but I can't stand the thought of this bastard walking around in a Highway uniform," the mayor said. "Highway means something to me."

"It means something to me too," Peter Wohl heard himself say.

Jesus,he realized with genuine surprise,I really meant that.

Sergeant Jason Washington sat slouched behind the wheel of his car until he saw Sergeant Wilson Carter pull into the parking lot. Then he sat up and watched as Carter parked his car. He got out of his car and walked toward the side entrance of the building, timing himself so that he arrived there a few seconds before Carter.

"I was hoping to run into you," he said to Carter.

"Well, hey, Brother. How they hanging? What's on your mind?"

"Let's have a beer," Washington said.

"One,"Carter said, after a just perceptible hesitation. "I have plans."

"Sure. I understand. But there's a couple of questions I'd like to ask you."

"What kind of questions?"

"More like advice questions, about what I should do about something."

"Well, then, hell, yes."

"I thought Hellman's? They have booths in the back."

"Give me thirty minutes to check out and I'll meet you there."

"Thanks, Carter, I appreciate it," Washington said, touched Carter's arm, and walked back to his car.

When Sergeant Carter walked into the back room of Hellman's Restaurant, he found Sergeant Jason Washington already there, sitting alone in a booth, his massive hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey.

"You must have a problem," Carter said as he slipped into the bench across from Washington. "Beer, little problem, whiskey, big problem."

"Big problem," Washington agreed.

Carter glanced around the room, looking for a waitress. He couldn't see one, but he saw a familiar face in another booth.

"Richard Kallanan's over there," he said, waving.

Kallanan took his hand from his glass of whiskey long enough to wave back.

A waitress appeared from the barroom. Carter waved to catch her attention.

"Cutty Sark, on the rocks," Carter ordered. "You ready, Jason?"

"Might as well."

"I thought Kallanan was one of those straight home to the wife and kiddies types," Carter said. "I don't think I've ever seen him in here before."

"I don't think he comes in here often," Washington said. "Tonight's sort of special."

"What?"

"You want to know what Kallanan's thinking right now, Carter?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"He's thinking, 'Christ, why didn't I recognize Carter in that car?'

"

"What car would that be, Washington?"

"The car normally driven by Foster Lewis's boy, the kid we call ' Tiny,'" Washington said. "The one you drove to Monahan's house."

"That sounds like an accusation, Washington."

"Statement of fact. We picked your prints off the plastic behind the front seat. You know where I mean? Where it's flat on top? You must have touched it when you got in. Or maybe when you reached for the seat belt. We got a match on your pinky, ring and index fingers."

"I don't know what the fuck you're up to, but you could probably find my prints on half the unmarked cars in the parking lot."

"We also got your prints, heel of the hand and four fingers, on the hood of Matt Payne's pretty little Porsche."

"I must have rested my hand on it when I looked down at the tire."

"More likely when you stabbed the tires," Washington said.

"You don't really believe that?"

"Yes, I do."

"You're out of your fucking mind, Washington!"

"Kallanan is a very interesting man," Washington said. "Did you know that he's a lay reader in the Episcopal Church?"

"So what?"

"So he told me that he has to be very careful about not bearing false witness."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning he's worried about the power of suggestion. In other words, he's afraid that when I asked him if it could have been you driving that car, and he said,'Oh, yes. That's who it was,' he's afraid that the reason he now recognizes youis because I asked him if it could have been you."

"What the hell is going on here? Are you that fucking desperate? You come up with a couple of matched prints-How many other prints matched?"

"Four sets," Washington said. "And there were prints from two people in that car that don't match any of anybody in Special Operations. We' re now running them against every cop in the Department. That'll take a long time, there's six thousand odd cops. I frankly will be surprised if we get a match, but you never know."

"I think I've had enough of this bullshit conversation," Carter said, and stood up and took a wad of money from his pocket.

"How do you think you're going to like it in the 6^th District?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're being transferred, tomorrow, to the 6^th District. Where you will work for Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr."

"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing, or who the hell you think you are, Washington, but I will not take a transfer to the 6^th Division or anywhere else."

"You could resign, of course. That would make a lot of people happy. But if you stay on the job, you're going to the 6^th, tomorrow."

"Because you have this nutty idea that I trashed Payne's car? Or that I was involved in what happened to Monahan?

"There is no question in my mind that you trashed Payne's car, drove the car to Monahan's house the morning he was shot, shot Monahan with a stun-gun, and told your friends when I was going to pick Monahan up at Goldblatt's so they could throw a gasoline bomb at me."

"You know how far you would get with this in court? They'd laugh you out of City Hall."

"Did I say anything about taking you to court? All I said was that you were going to the 6^th District."

"You try to get me transferred, transferred anywhere, and I'll have the Black Police Officer's Association all over your ass!"

"You know how a complaint gets acted on by the Black Police Officer's Association?" Washington asked, and then went on without waiting for a reply. "It goes to the Executive Committee. The Executive Committee is composed of former officers. Like me, for example. And Richard Kallanan. I really don't think, Brother, that you're going to get a hell of a lot of sympathy from the Black Police Officer's Association."

"Fuck you, Washington!" Sergeant Carter said, tossed a five-dollar bill on the table, and walked away.

As he approached the booth occupied by Officer Richard Kallanan, their eyes met and Kallanan stood up.

Carter stopped at the booth.

"You're still the white man's slave, motherfucker!" he said.

Officer Kallanan thereupon struck Sergeant Carter in the face with his fist, causing him to fall to the floor.

Sergeant Washington rushed from his booth to restrain Officer Kallanan, but this proved unnecessary.

Officer Kallanan was already bending over Sergeant Carter, to assist him to his feet.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Carter," Richard Kallanan said. "I should have remembered what it says in the Bible, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.'

"

Sergeant Carter shook free of Kallanan's hand and walked out of the back room of Hellman's Bar amp; Grill.

The Philadelphia County Grand Jury returned indictments charging the seven men arrested by the police with murder in the first degree.

Between the Grand Jury indictments and the trial, Hector Carlos Estivez came to an agreement with District Attorney Thomas J. Callis under which Mr. Estivez agreed to testify against those persons charged in the robbery of Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc.; the murder that occurred during the robbery; and others, in exchange for immunity from prosecution.

In sworn statements made to the district attorney, Mr. Estivez stated that it was his belief that Charles David Stevens, aka Abu Ben Muhammed, had planned the Goldblatt robbery with the advice and assistance of Omar Ben Kalif, whom he described as a black male, approximately twenty-seven years of age, with a shaven head and a full beard. Mr. Estivez stated that, in his presence, Omar Ben Kalif was identified as a member of the Philadelphia Islamic Temple.

Estivez stated that Charles David Stevens, aka Abu Ben Muhammed, had stated that should anything "go wrong" with the Goldblatt robbery, Omar Ben Kalif, and/or the Philadelphia Islamic Temple, would provide legal counsel, bail money, and other assistance.

The Philadelphia Islamic Temple, through its counsel, categorically denied any involvement of any kind whatever in the robbery/murder that took place at Goldblatt amp; Sons Credit Furniture amp; Appliances, Inc. The Temple further categorically denied that there was now, or ever had been, anyone associated with the Temple by the name of Omar Ben Kalif.

In separate trials, and as a result of plea bargaining, the remaining accused were found guilty of murder in the first degree, manslaughter in the first degree, assault, and armed robbery. Sentences ranged from life imprisonment to five years incarceration.

The Philadelphia County Grand Jury determined that the death by gunfire of Charles David Stevens at the hands of Officer M. M. Payne was an act of self-defense.

Following an investigation by the Justice Department, it was determined there had been no violation of the civil rights of Charles David Stevens by Officer Matthew M. Payne.

A suit for defamation of character and slander brought by Officer M. M. Payne against the Coalition for Equitable Law Enforcement was settled out of court for an undisclosed sum.

Sergeant Wilson Carter resigned from the Philadelphia Police Department four weeks after being transferred to the 6^th District. He shortly thereafter had his name changed to Wilson X. He is now serving as personal bodyguard to Arthur X, and as head of the Fruit of Islam.