The Witness

OPERATIONS.

"Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant," the sergeant said. "I saw the teletype. The inspector's office is through that door."

On the other side of the door was a small room, barely large enough for the two desks it held back-to-back. One of them was not occupied. There was a sign on it, CAPTAIN MICHAEL J. SABARA.

There was a young plainclothes cop at the other one. When he saw Malone he stood up.

"Lieutenant Malone?"

"Right."

"The inspector's expecting you, sir. I'll see if he's free."

"Thank you."

The plainclothes cop stuck his head in an interior door, and Malone heard his name spoken.

Then the door opened and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl came out. Malone had seen him around before, but now he was surprised to see how young he was.

He's no older than I am. And not only a staff inspector, but a division commander. Is he really that good? Or is it pull?

"I'm Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant," Wohl said. "Now that I see you, I know we've met, but I can't remember where."

"Yes, sir."

"I hate to make you cool your heels, but I've got something that really won't wait. Officer Payne will get you a cup of coffee. Be careful he doesn't pour it in your lap."

"Yes, sir."

Payne? Oh, hell, yes! This is the kid who blew the brains out of the Northwest serial rapist.

Wohl disappeared behind his door again.

"How do you take your coffee, Lieutenant?"

"In a cup, please, if that's convenient," Malone said.

"Yes, sir," Payne said, chuckling.

"I don't know why I said that," Malone said. "I wasn't trying to be a smart-ass."

"I think you'll be right at home around here, Lieutenant," Payne said.

Payne went to a coffee machine sitting on top of a file cabinet and a moment later handed Malone a steaming china cup.

"There's sugar and what is euphemistically known as non-dairy creamer," he said.

"Black's fine," Malone said. "Thank you."

He remembered a story that had gone around the Department about the time Captain Dutch Moffitt had been shot, and Special Operations had been formed and given to Peter Wohl.

Dutch Moffitt's deputy had been a well-liked lieutenant named Mike Sabara. It was presumed that, after the scumbag killed Dutch, Mike Sabara would take over as Highway commander. Instead, the job went to newly promoted Captain Dave Pekach. Sabara was named Wohl's deputy commander of Special Operations. It quickly went around Highway that Wohl had told Sabara he could either wear plainclothes or a regular uniform, but he didn't want to see him in Highway breeches and boots. And then Wohl had announced a new recruiting policy for Highway, outstanding young cops who didn't have four, five years on the job. The first two "probationary" Highway Patrolmen were the two Narcs who got the critter who killed Captain Moffitt.

The idea that just anybody could get into Highway had enraged most Highway Patrolmen.

Well, maybe the two guys who caught the scumbag who shot down Captain Dutch Moffitt were entitled to a little special treatment, but letting just about anybody in Highway A delegation, someone had told Malone, three Highway sergeants and two long-time Highway Patrolmen, went to see Captain Sabara: Couldn't Sabara have a word with Wohl and tell him how what he was doing was really going to fuck Highway up? Nothing against the inspector personally; it's just that he just doesn'tknow aboutHighway.

Captain Sabara, a phlegmatic man, announced he would think about it.

Two days later one of the sergeants who had gone to Captain Sabara to ask him if he could have a word with Staff Inspector Wohl had to go see Captain Sabara again. His emotional state was mingled fury and gross embarrassment.

"I wouldn't bother you with this, Captain, but nobody knows where Captain Pekach is."

"What's the problem?"

"You know about the parade? Escort the governor to Constitution Hall?"

Sabara nodded. "Twelve wheels. At the airport no later than eleventhirty. Something wrong?"

"Captain, we brought the bikes here. We went inside for a cup of coffee, before the inspection. When we went back out, there was only ten wheels."

"You're not telling me somebody stole two Highway bikes?"

"Stole, no. Some wiseass is fucking around. When I find out who, I'll have his ass. But what do we do now?"

"Everybody else is outside, where they're supposed to be?"

"Yes, sir."

Captain Sabara, with the sergeant following, strode purposefully out of his office and then out the side door of the building, where he found ten Highway motorcycles lined up neatly, their riders standing beside them.

"Whose wheels are missing?" he demanded.

Two Highway Patrolmen, holding their plastic helmets in their hands and looking more than a little sheepish, stepped forward.

"What did you do, leave the keys in them?"

One patrolman nodded, embarrassed. The second began to explain, " Captain, who the hell's going to steal a Highway-"

He was stilled in midsentence by one of Captain Mike Sabara's nearly legendary frosty glances.

Sabara kept up his icy look for about thirty seconds, and then there came the sound of two motorcycles, approaching at high speed.

"Who the fuck-?" the sergeant asked, only to find that Captain Sabara's cold eyes were now on him.

Two Highway wheels, ridden by guys in complete Highway regalia, including plastic helmets with the face masks down, appeared just outside the parking lot on Bustleton Street, and slid to a stop on squealing tires. Now their sergeant's stripes were visible.

They sat there a moment, revving the engines, and then, one at a time, entered the parking lot, where, simultaneously, they executed a maneuver known to the motorcycling fraternity as a "wheelie." This maneuver involves lifting the front wheel off the ground and steering by precisely adjusting the balance of what is now a powered unicycle by shifting the weight of the body.

It is a maneuver that only can be successfully accomplished by a rider of extraordinary skill. In the interest of rider safety and vehicle economy, the maneuver is forbidden by the Police Department except for instructional purposes by Wheel School instructors.

After passing one way through the parking lot, the two cyclists dropped the front wheel gently back onto the ground, simultaneously negotiated a turn, and then simultaneously executed another wheelie, in the other direction. A final gentle lowering on the front wheel, a final gentle, precise turn, and then the two rode to the center of the parked motorcycles and stopped. They revved the engines a final time, kicked the kick stands in place in a synchronized movement, and then swung off the machines.

The first rider raised his face mask and then removed his helmet.

Jesus H. Christ, it's Pekach! I knew he had been in Highway, but I didn't know he could ride a wheel that good!

"For obvious reasons," Captain Pekach announced solemnly, "I think I should remind all of you that Departmental regulations require that the keys to motorcycles be removed when they are left unattended."

The second rider now raised his mask and removed his helmet.

"Anyone who willingly gets on one of those things," Staff Inspector Peter Wohl announced, "is obviously not playing with a full deck."

Then he and Captain Pekach walked into the building.

Captain Sabara had turned to the sergeant who had reported the missing wheels to him.

"Did I ever tell you, Sergeant, that when I first came to Highway the sergeant I replaced was Inspector Wohl?"

Then he turned and walked into the building.

Malone thought it was a great story. But it was more than that. Wohl knew how to deal with people. After the wheelie demonstration, and after the word had spread that Wohl had been the youngest sergeant ever in Highway, there had been no more bitching that he didn't understand how things were in Highway.

And, Malone thought, it had been a nice touch for Wohl to come out of his office himself to apologize for being tied up. Most division commanders wouldn't have done that; they would have told their driver to have the newcomer wait.

And what Payne had said, "you'll be right at home around here," was interesting too.

Maybe this Special Operations assignment will turn out all right after all.