Last Known Address:
2620 Wilder Street City, State, ZIP:
Philadelphia, PA 19147 Convicted of:
3123 Involuntary deviant sexual intercourse amp; rape of an unconscious or unaware person Phila Police Dept Case No.:
Kendrik LeShawn Mays's mother raised her eyebrows. But she did not appear at all surprised. Nor at all concerned that Will Curtis had her son's Wanted sheet.
She sighed.
"Yeah," she said, "that him. Guess he lied. Said he took care of that."
She looked at Curtis. "No check, huh?"
More like a reality check, Curtis thought.
He shook his head.
"No check." Will Curtis went down the unstable wooden steps into the basement. His left hand slid along the wooden handrail, and his right hand, holding the.45-caliber pistol, followed the wall of mostly busted Sheetrock.
There was some light from the small window at the far end of the room-the one the rats had gone through-but not enough for him to make out anything but vague shapes in the pitch dark.
There was a stench, although not like the putrid smell that had assaulted his olfactory senses at the front door. The odor here was a sickly sweet stench that became stronger the farther down the stairs he went. So far, though, it hadn't triggered his gag reflex, and he was grateful for such small favors.
At the foot of the stairs, Curtis stopped and listened. He could hear snoring about midway in the room.
That's two people snoring!
One deep as hell.
He felt around on the wall for a light switch. As best he could tell there wasn't one, just busted-up drywall.
He took another step, reaching farther down the wall, then felt his foot catch on a rope or cord or something.
Some kind of trip wire?
He carefully reached down with his left hand till he felt it.
It was a vinyl-covered electrical extension cord that had been run from upstairs. When he tugged on it, something attached to its far end started sliding across the basement floor toward him.
He pulled and pulled, and finally found at the end what had once been the guts of a lamp. All that was left from the lamp was a threaded metal rod attached to the receptacle that held a lone bare lightbulb. His thumb found the stick push-switch on the receptacle, and after positioning himself in a crouch and aiming his pistol in the direction of the snoring, Curtis pushed the switch on.
The bare bulb burned brightly, damn near blinding him until his eyes adjusted.
The only response from the middle of the room was another loud, deep snore.
After his eyes adjusted, Will Curtis could not believe what he was seeing.
The basement was the worst thing he'd ever seen in his life. It was completely trashed. The Sheetrock walls were all busted, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to them in search of whatever treasure might be hidden behind them. And then he saw why: The wiring had been ripped from the wall power outlets and light switches.
It probably was cheap aluminum, not copper, wiring, making the effort mostly worthless. Idiots.
Desperate idiots…
Trash was strewn all across the floor. There were piles upon piles of dirty clothes that hadn't been touched in years. Dust and dirt were everywhere. And, in a far corner by a plastic bucket, he saw the source of the sickly sweet stench: mounds of dried human waste.
Indescribable filth!
Animals wouldn't live in this!
Just then, a rat ran across his booted feet, away from the light and toward the darkness of a far corner, along the way scattering what looked like rolling waves of cockroaches.
Jesus H. Christ!
This place should've been condemned a decade ago!
Then he looked to the middle of the room, to the source of the snoring.
There he saw a dirty and torn mattress set up on wooden pallets-presumably to keep it safe from the sea of cockroaches below-and on the mattress were two human forms lying side by side.
One, the deep snorer, was a black male whose coarse face made him look older than his picture in the Wanted mug shot. His hair was cut short, and he had a goatee.
The other was a very young black girl.
Twelve? Thirteen?
That sonofabitch!
Both were naked, the girl curled under a dirty bath towel she used as a makeshift blanket. Kendrik had a rolled-up jacket under his head, his right hand under it and his left hand resting on the girl's exposed bony buttock. It looked as if they had been spooning but the girl had crawled forward, away from Kendrik.
They look so dirty-so foul.
Will Curtis called out: "Kendrik Mays!"
Mays didn't move. The girl's left eye opened suddenly, then closed. She pretended to still be asleep.
Curtis walked closer to Mays, then kicked the mattress. "Kendrik!"
He saw a groggy Mays struggle to turn his head. Then he opened his right eye to look at whoever was disturbing his sleep.
From under his jacket he suddenly pulled out a small snub-nosed revolver.
Oh, shit! Curtis thought as he instinctively leveled the Glock at Mays.
Then Curtis saw that Mays's hand was shaking so severely he couldn't keep a grip on the gun.
Curtis kicked the hand, his heavy boot causing the pistol to fly across the basement. It landed in a pile of dirty clothes.
"Sit up, you sonofabitch!" Curtis barked at Mays.
It took Mays forever to comply.
When he had finally done so, the girl turned to look at Curtis.
And Will Curtis ached.
She was as badly bruised as Kendrik's mother. She wasn't as young as he'd thought-she can't be over seventeen, eighteen-and she was terribly skinny from the drug abuse. Her skin sagged from her small frame, and Curtis could see her bones clearly delineated under the loose flesh.
When Kendrik moved his hand to scratch his head, the girl flinched.
She's conditioned to getting hit for the slightest thing…
"You," Curtis said to her, kicking a ratty dress toward her. "Get dressed and get the hell out of here!"
She looked back wordlessly, her sunken eyes wide.
Then she looked to Mays, seemingly for permission.
Mays, his head cocked, stared belligerently at Curtis, his look saying, Who the fuck does this honky think he is, aiming a fucking Glock at Kendrik Fucking Mays?
Curtis motioned with the pistol toward the female. "Go! Now!"
Kendrik said, "Go on, bitch. I deal with you later."
She slid the dress over her head, not bothering to put on any panties, and then moved to the wooden stairs. She looked back over her shoulder, then turned and went upstairs as fast as she could.
Curtis, the pistol aimed at Mays's face, handed him the Wanted poster.
"This you?" Will asked.
Mays looked at it, then at Curtis. Then he smiled.
Will Curtis thought: Jesus! What rotted teeth!
At least the ones he still has.
He must be living on crystal meth.
Kendrik then said: "Fuck you! What if it is, old man?"
He spat on the floor.
"You do what it says you did?"
"Fuck you!" he repeated.
He tried to stare down Curtis. But then he suddenly started to shake uncontrollably.
After a moment, he said, "Maybe. What's it to you?" He shook again, then tried to puff out his chest. "Yeah. I done it. All that and more. Two years ago. Why you here now?"
"I'd say, 'May God have pity on you,' but I think you're past that point."
Kendrik barked: "Fuck you, motherfucker!"
Will Curtis nodded.
And he squeezed the trigger of the Glock.
The.45-caliber round entered Kendrik's right cheek, making an entrance wound just below the eye that looked like a pulpy crimson hole.
Kendrik LeShawn Mays's eyes rolled back as he suddenly slumped onto the filthy torn mattress. When he got to the top of the stairs, Will Curtis found Kendrik's mother standing solemnly in the middle of the shabby living room. She had her head down, her face expressionless. Her arms were tightly crossed over her chest, her hands squeezing her biceps. The girl was nowhere in sight.
"I'd like to say I'm sorry for your loss," Will Curtis said evenly. "But you lost your boy a long time ago. That wasn't him down there."
She shook her head. "No, it wasn't. You right. It ain't no good. Ain't none of it no good."
She looked up and met his eyes. He saw that hers were stone cold.
"Had it coming to him," she said. "He hurt a lot of folk, good folk, not just me. That girl? He abuse her a long time. Months. Now he won't. And I won't be beat up no more for his meth and shit."
Will nodded.
He walked toward the door, then paused.
What the hell. I can't take it with me. And Linda's set for life.
He reached in his pants pocket and came up with a wad of cash folded over and held together with a rubber band. He peeled off five twenties and a one-dollar bill.
"This is for you," he said, handing her the twenty-dollar bills.
Then he pulled a FedEx ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and on the one-dollar bill wrote, "Lex Talionis, Third amp; Arch, Old City."
"You find someone to help you get Kendrik down to here. There's a ten-thousand-dollar reward"-he paused to let that sink in-"for criminals like him. You won't go to jail; if I have to, I'll call and say I did it. But you make sure you get the reward money. Maybe it will help you start a new life."
Then Will Curtis turned and went through the front door. Behind the wheel of the rented Ford minivan, Will Curtis pulled the next envelope from the top of the stack on the dashboard. He read its bill of lading. Under "Recipient" was: LeRoi Cheatham 2408 N. Mutter Street Philadelphia, PA 19133
Kensington-what a lovely part of town!
As least when the damn drug dealers aren't having shoot-outs on the street corners…
He put the rented Ford minivan in gear and accelerated off the busted sidewalk. [THREE] Executive Command Center The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 12:04:01 P.M. "You're on in fifty-nine seconds, Mr. Mayor," Kerry Rapier said.
The master technician was seated in a wheeled nylon-mesh-fabric chair behind a black four-foot-wide control bank, also on wheels, that had a series of panels with buttons and dials, its main feature a keyboard with a joystick and a color video monitor. A fat bundle of cables ran from the control bank to the wall and, ultimately, to a rack of video recording and broadcasting equipment, including the soda-can-size digital video camera that, suspended at the end of a motorized boom, seemed to float overhead.
Rapier, a police department blue shirt whose soft features and impossibly small frame made him look much younger than his twenty-five years, had shoulder patches on his uniform bearing two silver outlined blue chevrons. He manipulated the joystick and the camera overhead zoomed in to tightly frame the face of the Honorable Jerome H. "Jerry" Carlucci, who stood at a dark-stained oak lectern.
Carlucci, his brown eyes smiling, said, "Son, are you sure you're even old enough to be a policeman, let alone a corporal?"
Corporal Rapier grinned.
"With respect, Mr. Mayor, that's not the first I've heard that."
Carlucci's brown eyes, depending on his mood, could be warm and thoughtful or intense and piercing. Large-boned and heavyset, he was a massive fifty-one-year-old with dark brown hair. He wore an impeccably tailored dark gray woolen two-piece suit with a light blue, freshly pressed dress shirt and a navy blue silk necktie that matched the silk pocket square tucked into his coat.
Standing shoulder to shoulder behind Mayor Carlucci was a veritable wall of white shirts: Police Commissioner Ralph Mariana, wearing his uniform with four stars, and Denny Coughlin, with the three stars of the first deputy police commissioner, were directly behind the mayor. And standing on opposite ends of them were Homicide Commander Henry Quaire, whose uniform bore the captain's rank insignia of two gold-colored bars, and Homicide Lieutenant Jason Washington, with the insignia of one butter bar on his uniform.
Looming on the wall behind all of them was a grid of flat-screen TVs. The screens alternately displayed either an official seal of the City of Philadelphia-the newly designed one, a golden Liberty Bell ringed by CITY OF PHILADELPHIA LIFE LIBERTY AND YOU in blue lettering-or the blue Philadelphia Police Department shield, which bore the older seal of the city and HONOR INTEGRITY SERVICE in gold lettering.
(Earlier official city phrases had been "The City of Brotherly Love" and "The Place That Loves You Back," the latter falling into disfavor after some wits in the populace reworded the slogan to read "The Place That Shoots Your Back"-and worse variants thereof.)
Carlucci was about to give a prepared statement concerning the previous night's triple murders and the first five pop-and-drops. In order to lend weight to his speech, the mayor of the City of Philadelphia was borrowing from the playbook of the police commissioner by using the Executive Command Center.
Ralph Mariana held almost all of his press conferences in the ECC, a state-of-the-art facility that held an impressive display of the latest high-tech equipment. The electronics made for terrific photo opportunities-and more important, as Mariana said, helped give the public a sure sense of confidence that the police department had the best tools to safeguard its citizens.
During a crisis, the ECC's main objective was to collect, assimilate, and analyze during a crisis a mind-boggling amount of wide-ranging raw information-people and places and events and more-in a highly efficient manner.
And then to act on it-instantly, if not sooner.
"And that's exactly what the hell we're doing this morning," Carlucci had bluntly told Mariana when he'd asked for everyone to gather in the ECC. "If this goddamn situation escalates, it has the potential to turn the city into something out of the Wild West."
The bulk of the ECC was given over to a massive pair of T-shaped conference tables. Each dark gray Formica-topped table seated twenty-six. And each of these fifty-two seats had its own multiline telephone, outlets for laptop computers, and access to secure networks for on-demand communications with other law-enforcement agencies-from local to federal to the international police agency, Interpol-as necessary.
Along the back walls were more chairs to accommodate another forty staff members.
The focal point of the room, however, were three banks of sixty-inch, high-definition LCD flat-screen TVs. There were nine TVs per bank on the ten-foot-high walls. Mounted edge to edge, the frameless TVs could create a single supersize image, or could display individual pictures-each TV could even be used in split-screen mode.
Usually, when the screens were not showing live feeds from cameras mounted in emergency vehicles at the scene of an accident or crime, they showed continuously cycling images from closed-circuit TV cameras that were mounted all over the city-in subways, public buildings, and main and secondary roadways-and the broadcasts from local and cable TV news stations. Images could be pulled from almost any source, even a cell phone camera, as long as the signals were digitized.
The ECC fell under the purview of the Science amp; Technology arm of the Philadelphia Police Department, which included the Forensic Sciences, Information Systems, and Communications Divisions. Its two-star commander, Deputy Police Commissioner Howard Walker, reported to Denny Coughlin.
Acting on an order issued that morning by the mayor, Walker had alerted the local news media that a live feed of Mayor Carlucci would begin at precisely 12:05 P.M. Eastern Standard Time. The timing gave the TV news programs the opportunity to start their noon newscasts with the announcement that an important statement by the mayor of Philadelphia concerning the rash of recent murders was coming up in five minutes.
"Stay tuned. We're back with that breaking news right after this commercial break."
"Thirty seconds, gentlemen…," Corporal Rapier said. Four hours earlier, when Coughlin had led his group into the Executive Command Center, he'd found the mayor and the police commissioner already seated at Conference Table One. They had heavy china mugs steaming with fresh coffee before them on the table. Mariana's mug read SCIENCE amp; TECHNOLOGY EXECUTIVE COMMAND CENTER. The mayor's mug read GENO'S STEAKS SOUTH PHILLY, PENNA.
Everyone in the ECC was casually dressed. Even the usually stiffly buttoned-down Carlucci wasn't wearing a necktie, and he had his shirt collar open. And Matt Payne and Tony Harris still looked rumpled and messy, the result of having been up most of the night running down leads in the death of Reggie Jones.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Carlucci said in a solemn tone suggesting he meant that it was anything but a good morning. He did not move from his chair except to grab his coffee mug handle.
There was a chorus of "good morning"s in reply.
Mariana added, "Fresh coffee in there." He waved with his mug across the room, indicating a door that led to a kitchenette.
Carlucci then said, "Sergeant Payne, no offense, but you and Detective Harris look like hell."
"Considering what we've been through, Mr. Mayor," Payne said dryly, "hell sounds like an absolute utopian paradise. I enjoy the thrill of the chase as much as the next guy, but this one's a real challenge. Right now we don't know if we're dealing with a single shooter-slash-strangler, or if there are others-that is, as someone put it earlier, Halloween Homicide Copycats."
Ordinarily, a lowly police sergeant speaking so bluntly to the highest elected official of a major city would be cause for disciplinary-if not more drastic-measures.
But Carlucci's relationship with Payne, and most everyone else in the group, was anything but ordinary.
Back when he'd been a cop, Carlucci had known and liked Matt's biological father. And that went way back, to when Sergeant John F. X. Moffitt had been the best friend of a young Denny Coughlin before being killed in the line of duty.
Mayor Carlucci was also well acquainted with Matt Payne's adoptive father, whom he also liked very much, and not only because Brewster Cortland Payne II was a founding partner of Philadelphia's most prestigious law firm.
And there was another connection between Matt and Hizzonor.
Carlucci had been Coughlin's "rabbi"-his mentor-and had groomed the young police officer with great potential for the larger responsibilities that would come as he rose in the ranks of the department.
Denny Coughlin had gone on to groom Peter Wohl, son of Augustus Wohl, Chief Inspector (Retired). And then Peter Wohl-indeed among the best and brightest, having at twenty graduated from Temple University, then entered the Police Academy and, later, become the youngest staff inspector on the department-had been in recent years Matt Payne's rabbi.
And, more or less completing the circle, the elder Wohl had in his time been the rabbi of an up-and-coming police officer-a young man by the name of Jerry Carlucci.
"If I didn't know better, Matt," Mayor Carlucci now said, his face and tone suggesting more than a little displeasure, surprising Payne, "I'd say you were on the street working all night." He paused to make eye contact with the white shirt he'd mentored decades earlier, then went on: "But I do know that must not be the case, because we'd all agreed that the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line would stay the hell out of sight for a certain cool-down period." He looked again at Denny. "Or am I mistaken?"
Mariana, Quaire, and Washington-the direct chain of command also somewhat directly responsible for seeing that Payne drove a desk so as to stay out of the news-looked a little ill at ease.
Payne saw that Howard Walker was more than a little interested to see Denny Coughlin in the mayor's crosshairs.
But Coughlin, while deeply respectful of Carlucci, and cognizant of Carlucci's iron fist and occasional temper, was not cowed by him. Over the years he'd learned a lot from his rabbi, and one of the most important lessons was to make a decision, then come hell or high water to stand by that decision.
Time and again, Carlucci had told him: "One's inability to be decisive gets people killed. Make up your goddamn mind-based on the best available information, or your gut, or better both-and move forward."
Denny Coughlin now said evenly, almost conversationally, "Jerry, I had the same initial reaction earlier this morning. But in light of what we're dealing with, I decided to end the cool-down period as of today. Matt's been all over the paperwork on these pop-and-drops, and if we have any chance of quickly figuring out who's doing what-and we need to, or it's likely going to get ugly very fast-we need to be able to put him back on the street."
Carlucci looked thoughtfully at Coughlin a long moment, then at Payne, then back at Coughlin. He grunted and put down his china mug with a loud thunk.
"For the record, Denny, color me not completely convinced. Maybe it's because I recently spent so much time trying-key word 'trying'-to dissuade the media that we have a loose cannon in our police department." He exhaled audibly. "But I do know better than to micromanage the people in whom I have absolute trust."
With a deadly serious face, he looked at Payne.
"Just try not to add to the goddamn body count. Got that, Marshal? I don't want to have to answer any more questions from the damned press about you."
Payne nodded. "Yessir. Duly noted, sir."
Carlucci met his eyes and added, "That doesn't mean that I don't support you in what were righteous shootings. You were doing your job, and you did it well."
"Thank you, sir."
"Okay, everybody have a seat," Carlucci then said. "Let's hear what you've got on the pop-and-drops, Matt."
"Yes, sir," Payne said. "But, as you noticed, Tony and I have been up all night. I can't speak for Tony, but I could use some caffeine."
"I'll get 'em," Harris said, heading across the room as the others sat down at the conference table. [FOUR] Sergeant Matt Payne drained his second cup of coffee, then made a grand sweeping gesture at one of the banks of TVs.
On its screens were images of the first five dead fugitives-both their Wanted sheets and crime-scene photos from where they'd been "dropped"-as well as detailed maps and lists of data showing where the bad guys had lived, where they had committed their crimes, and, ultimately, where they had been found dead.
He looked at Mayor Jerry Carlucci and said, "And that is essentially what I put together from the files of the first five pop-and-drops. There's no question that they were targeted killings by the same doer. But the new ones from last night don't quite fit the profile."
" 'Targeted killings'?" the mayor repeated.
Payne nodded. "Today's buzzword for 'assassination.'"
Carlucci made a sour face. "Let's stick with 'targeted killings,' in the statement and elsewhere. Or even just 'murders by perps unknown.' At least for now."
He looked around the ECC conference table, and everyone nodded agreeably.
"You said," Carlucci went on, "that with the exception of one of the first five, all were dropped by the same doer at the district PD closest to the critter's Last Known Address. And all had the same MO?"
Payne pointed to one of the TVs. "Yes, sir. That's shown on Number 8. All were bound at their ankles and wrists. All shot either in the chest or head. And all with the same doer's fingerprints. Which makes us"-he glanced at Tony Harris-"believe that we will find he's also responsible for at least two of the three dropped last night. He left prints everywhere. Prints and piss."
Carlucci cocked his head. "Did you say piss?"
When Payne explained about the "gallons" of piss all over the lawyer's office, Carlucci shook his head and said, "If I'd known, I might have contributed. Never did like that Gartner."
Matt chuckled.
Carlucci went on, "So, piss and prints. Could be the doer's just careless or stupid-or worse."
"Or maybe he wants to get caught?" Harris offered.
Payne raised an eyebrow. "Maybe. He's damn sure leaving ample opportunity for that to happen. Just a matter of time…"
"So," Carlucci said, "again, all we have for sure is one doer linked to the first five pop-and-drops-"
"That's correct," Payne said.
"-and maybe at least two of last night's three-the two who were shot-if we find that the prints on them match those prints on the first five. Same for the third, even though he wasn't shot."
"Exactly," Payne said.
"Strangled and beaten," Carlucci then wondered aloud. "What could be the significance of that?"
Payne shrugged. "Maybe the doer ran out of bullets."
Carlucci snorted.
"Let's hope so," he said. "If not, then we have two or more goddamn doers to collar. So when do you get the prints that were taken last night back from IAFIS? Before noon, in time for the statement?"
IAFIS, the FBI's Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, was the largest biometric database in the world. It held the fingerprints and other information collected from local, state, and federal law-enforcement agencies on more than fifty-five million people. Law-enforcement agencies could access it at any time and run a search with the fingerprints they lifted from a crime scene. It wasn't uncommon, provided the submitted print or prints were clean, to get a response in a couple hours as to whether there was a match in the database.
Payne shook his head. "We're still waiting for Forensics to process the prints that were lifted. You know what their motto can sometimes be…"
"Enlighten me," Carlucci said dryly.
" 'If we wait until the last minute to do it, it'll only take a minute.'"
There suddenly was a cold silence in the room, and Payne then realized from the furious look on Walker's face that, given difference circumstances-say, the absence of Walker's three immediate bosses-he would have reamed the hotshot Homicide sergeant a new one.
Nice job, Payne ol' boy, Matt thought. Forensic Sciences belongs to Walker.
Screw it. Maybe this will get them moving faster.
Payne remembered one night at Liberties Bar when, more than a couple of stiff Irish whiskeys under both their belts, Coughlin had let slip that he was not a fan of Walker's. Walker, who spoke with a cleric's soft, intelligent voice, cultivated a rather pious air. Coughlin felt that Walker used all the bells and whistles of Science amp; Technology as smoke and mirrors to disguise his incompetence.
"But Ralph said he had his reasons for asking me to give Walker the job. And, write this down, Matty, never argue with your boss. Still, I'd love to know what angle Walker is working on Ralph."
Mayor Carlucci guffawed, breaking the tension.
"I'm going to have to remember to use that line back at City Hall. Nothing gets done there, not even in the last minute. It's always late, if at all."
There were the expected chuckles.
"Okay," Carlucci said, "then I won't ask about NCIC. If we don't have prints to run, we don't have a name to run."
The National Crime Information Center-also maintained by the FBI and available to law enforcement at any time, day or night-had a database containing the critical records of criminals. Additionally, NCIC tracked missing persons and stolen property. Its data came not only from the same law-enforcement agencies that provided IAFIS, but also from authorized courts and foreign law-enforcement agencies.
"I'll go stoke the fire under them for those prints," Walker then offered lamely. He stood and went over to use one of the phones at the other conference table.
Bingo, Payne thought. That'll get 'em moving faster.
Ralph Mariana then spoke up: "Jerry, what should be done about Frank Fuller?"
Payne put in: "I've had an unmarked sitting on Fuller's Old City office."
"That's fine, Matt," Mariana said, "but I meant what should be done about his now-infamous rewards."
Carlucci, his face showing a mixture of anger and frustration, said, "I've spoken with Fuller privately about that bloodthirsty reward system of his. I've tried to dissuade him, suggesting that it's encouraging criminal activity. He said he didn't care, that he'd spend his last dime on lawyers defending that eye-for-an-eye thing-"
"The law of talion," Payne offered.
Carlucci shot Payne a look of mild annoyance for the interruption, then went on: "-especially, he said, after what happened to his wife and child."
"What happened to his family?" Mariana asked.
Quaire offered: "I had that case in Homicide. It never got solved, primarily because, we believe, the doers involved killed each other before we could get statements, let alone bring charges. Anyway, the wife and the girl, a ten-year-old, I believe, made a wrong turn at the Museum of Art and wound up a half-mile or so north in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. Cut down in a crossfire of single-aught buckshot."
"Jesus!" Mariana said, shaking his head. "That's tragic."
The table was silent a moment.
Carlucci then said, "But I have no choice but to denounce him, or at least what he's accomplishing with his reward."
Denny Coughlin cleared his throat.
"You have something, Denny?" Carlucci said. "Say it."
"Just a point, Jerry. Giving credit where it's due, Matt did bring up that for us to condemn the reward system would be somewhat hypocritical."
Carlucci made an unpleasant face.
"You can't be a little pregnant," Payne said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Carlucci asked, looking at Payne.
"We can't say that Five-Eff's paying out ten-grand rewards-"
" 'Five-Eff '?" Carlucci interrupted.
Payne nodded. "Francis Franklin Fuller the Fifth long ago had his name boiled down to simply Four-Eff."
"You said 'Five,'" Carlucci challenged.
Payne looked around the table, and all eyes were watching him with more than a little curiosity. He thought there may have been a trace of wariness in Coughlin's.
Payne raised an eyebrow, then said, "Francis can be pompous, as you well know, and when he annoys me, I call him Five-Eff, short for Fucking Francis Franklin Fuller the Fifth."
Carlucci guffawed again. A couple others followed his lead by chuck-ling. Coughlin shook his head.
"All right," Carlucci said, "as he's come to annoy the hell out of me, I'll now say: How does my denouncing Five-Eff make me pregnant?"
Payne grinned. He knew Carlucci understood what he'd meant by the analogy.
"My point is, sir, that our department has partnerships with other agencies that offer rewards. The FBI Violent Crimes Task Force, for example."
He gestured with his thumb in a southerly direction. The FBI's office, at 600 Arch Street, across from the Federal Reserve Bank, was damn near outside the back door of the Roundhouse.
"And I'm sure you'll recall that we have our own tips hotline," Payne went on, "that, through the Citizens Crime Commission, pays out rewards that go from five hundred bucks or so on up to thousands. And when a cop gets murdered, the FOP administers rewards for info that leads to catching the doers. So we already do what Five-Eff does. We just don't, as was pointed out to me"-he exchanged glances with Coughlin-"encourage the killing of the critters."
Carlucci started nodding. "All right. I take your point. We can massage that in the message, so to speak. Now, let's boil all this down to what I'm going to say." "Thirty seconds, Mr. Mayor," Corporal Kerry Rapier said from behind the control panel.
Jerry Carlucci scrunched up his face and assumed a serious expression.
Corporal Rapier said, "In five, four, three, two…," then pointed to Mayor Carlucci. On the monitor, Mayor Carlucci was perfectly framed in a tight shot of his face, with Mariana and Coughlin looking over his shoulders.
Carlucci said: "Good afternoon, citizens of the great city of Philadelphia. Thank you for letting me into your homes today. I respect your time, and will be brief.
"While it saddens me to have to appear here today to address a rash of murders, I must tell you that I am very proud to be speaking to you from the Roundhouse in the company of some of the finest law-enforcement officials anywhere.
"As you may be aware, in the last month, five known criminals-all fugitives guilty of sexual offenses-have been killed and brought to the door of the Philadelphia Police Department. And last night, three more murdered men were left at the door of an organization that offers rewards for the capture of criminals.
The City of Philadelphia and our police department are grateful for any help in keeping our communities safe. We encourage citizens-who can remain anonymous-to provide tips that lead to the arrest and conviction of criminals. Simply call 911, or 215-686-TIPS. Depending on the case, there are cash rewards for information that leads to a criminal's conviction.
"While we do applaud the removal of any criminal at large in our free society, we cannot condone any such act that results in death. That is murder, and those responsible will be prosecuted to the fullest."
He paused to let that point sit with the various audiences.
"Since I have served both as your police commissioner and now as your mayor, crimes have declined in our fair city. Major crimes, such as homicides, by as much as half. While we are not where we would like to be-one robbery or murder or rape is one too many-we are committed to crime prevention and criminal apprehension. It is what we are well trained to do. And I believe the statistics prove that we do it exceptionally well.
"Now, in response to last night's criminal activity, today I am pleased to announce that Police Commissioner Mariana has formed a special task force to capture the armed and dangerous perpetrator. Operation Clean Sweep will be led by Homicide Unit Sergeant M. M. Payne-"
Carlucci paused as his image was replaced for a three-second count by one of Matt Payne and Carlucci. Payne, in a crisp Brooks Brothers two-piece suit and tie, was shaking hands with Carlucci. Their left hands held up a plaque that at the top was emblazoned with the words VALOR IN THE LINE OF DUTY.
"-whose name you may recognize as one of our highly decorated officers. He could not be here in person, as he already is fully immersed in the investigation."
Carlucci now gestured to the white shirts behind him and went on: "Sergeant Payne will be fully supported not only by the Philadelphia PD, but by any other state and federal agencies whom we partner with in such initiatives as the FBI Violent Crimes Task Force.
"And of course Operation Clean Sweep will have the full force of all departmental assets, which are legion."
He motioned to the panel of TVs.
Corporal Rapier worked the control panel, and each screen instantly was replaced with images of nearly everything in the department's arsenal. There was a pair of the Aviation Unit's Bell 206 L-4 helicopters hovering over a grassy field, their floodlight beams lighting up a suspect, his hands up, as uniforms on the ground converged. Members of the Special Weapons and Tactical (SWAT) Unit were rescuing a hostage. A Marine Unit's twenty-four-foot-long Boston Whaler, its light bar on the aluminum tower pulsing red and blue, was screaming up the Delaware River. And more dramatic imagery of the police department in action.
"You have my word that our dedicated police department will apprehend the perpetrator, and soon.
"Again, thank you for your time and for your confidence. May God bless you and keep you safe."
At least long enough for us to catch the damned murderer, Carlucci thought as he stared somber-faced at the camera as the boom swung, pulling back from him.
Payne was standing with Harris and Walker behind Corporal Rapier and the control panel.
As he heard Corporal Rapier say, "And… we're clear, off the air," Payne felt his telephone vibrate.
He looked at its screen and saw the call was from the uniform he'd stationed in the unmarked in Old City.
He answered it: "Payne."
Then, after a moment, he said loudly: "What? Oh, shit!"
He felt eyes on him and looked up to see that everyone was indeed looking at him. Particularly Carlucci.
Payne was shaking his head as he listened to the phone, then after another moment he said, "What's the CCTV ID number there?"
He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and, not quickly locating any paper, awkwardly held the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he wrote the code on his left palm.
"Thanks. I'll get right back to you."
He held out his left hand in front of Corporal Rapier.
"Kerry, please punch up the feed from this CCTV on the main screen."
Payne nodded at that bank of TVs, which had a real-time feed of the front facade of City Hall.
As Corporal Rapier's fingers flew across the keyboard, the main screen went to snowlike gray pixels.
"What is it, Matt?" Carlucci asked.
"You are not going to believe this. Looks like Five-Eff has received another charitable donation at his doorstep."
"What the hell are you talking about, Matty?" Coughlin blurted.
"Not ten minutes ago, a woman arrived at the offices of Lex Talionis in a gypsy cab. It was a minivan-an older-model tan Toyota-and when the side door opened onto the curb, the woman got out. She met the driver at the rear door of the van, and together they wrestled a rolled-up carpet out of the back. They rolled it onto the sidewalk. Then the woman handed the driver his fare like it was something she did every day, and he sped away."
Gypsy cabs-their drivers unlicensed, unregistered, and usually uninsured-were illegal. But they were plentiful because they charged far less than legit cabbies. And they were everywhere, making them hard as hell to crack down on.
The TV screen came alive with the all-too-familiar view in Old City: the office building at Arch and North Third that housed Lex Talionis. Everyone looked to it.
They saw that on the sidewalk by the front door four uniforms had formed a perimeter of sorts around a blood-soaked ratty carpet. It had been unrolled-and on top of it was the motionless body of a naked black male.
Just to the left of the carpet and its perimeter of cops was a frail-looking black woman. She was gesturing wildly with a sheet of paper at the office building's front door while another uniform, both hands shoulder high with palms out, tried calming her.
Payne, to no one in particular, announced: "Well, that makes pop-and-drop number nine. Shall we assume the old lady is our doer?"
Harris said, "You can't be serious. You don't really think-"
Payne turned and looked at him.
"Hell no, Tony. Not all nine, anyway. All I know is that my uniform in the unmarked just now said that that paper she's waving is a Wanted sheet, and she's screaming at that uniform on the sidewalk, 'I want my reward!'"
"Is that Mickey?" Jason Washington suddenly asked.
Matt and Tony turned and saw the wiry Irishman with a video camera in his hands. He was holding it high above his head, clearly recording the confrontation between the uniform and the woman. He now wore the blue T-shirt with the white handcuffs and MAKE HIS DAY: KISS A COP AT CRIMEFREEPHILLY.COM.
Payne grinned.
Sonofabitch must have been staking out the place, too.
Going to take some doing to get him to sit on that video-if that's even likely.
Then he felt his cell phone vibrate, and he looked at the text message on its screen: