"Amy says that he was psychologically castrated when he failed the marine corps physical, and is becoming a policeman to prove his manhood," B.C. said.
"She talks to you like that? When I was a boy-"
"All the girls you knew were virgins who didn't even know what ' castrated' meant," Foster said, laughing. "But Amy has a point, and she's really concerned."
"I don't think I quite understand," Brewster Payne said.
"What if Matt can't make it as a policeman? He really doesn't know what he's letting himself in for. What if he fails? Double castration, so to speak."
"I have confidence that Matt can do anything he sets his mind to do," Brewster Payne said. "And I'm beginning to wonder if sending your sister to medical school was such a good idea. I'm afraid that we can expect henceforth that she will ascribe a Freudian motive to everything any one of us does, from entering a tennis tournament to getting married."
Patricia and Amelia Payne came down the wide staircase from the second floor. They were dressed almost identically, in simple black dresses, strings of pearls, black hats, and gloves.
Brewster Payne had what he thought a moment later was an unkind thought. He wondered how many men were lucky enough to have wives who were better looking than their daughters.
"Where's Matt?" Patricia Payne asked.
The two men shrugged.
Amelia Payne turned and shouted up the stairs.
"Matty, for God's sake, will you come?"
"Keep your goddamned pants on, Amy," Matt's voice replied.
"It is such a joy for a father to see what refined and well-mannered children he has raised," Brewster C. Payne II said.
Matt came down the stairs two at a time, a moment later, shrugging into a jacket; his tie, untied, hanging loosely around his neck. He looked, Brewster Payne thought, about eighteen years old. And he wondered if Matt really understood what he was getting into with the police, if he could indeed cope with it.
"Since there's so many of us," Patricia said, "I guess we had better go in the station wagon."
"I asked Newt to get the black car out," Brewster Payne said, meeting his wife's eyes. "And to drive us."
"Oh, Brew!" she said.
"I considered the station wagon," Brewster Payne said. "And finally decided the black car was the best solution to the problem."
"What problem?" Matt asked.
"How to avoid anything that could possibly upset your grandmother," Patricia Payne said. "All right, Brew. If you think so, then let's go."
They collected Foster and B.C. from the patio, and then filed outside. Newt, the handyman, who was rarely seen in anything but ancient paint-splattered clothing, was standing, freshly shaved and dressed in a suit, and holding a gray chauffeur's cap in his hand by the open rear door of a black Cadillac Fleetwood.
When Peter Wohl reached the Marshutz amp; Sons Funeral Home, there were six Highway Patrol motorcycles in the driveway, their riders standing together. Behind them was Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin's Oldsmobile. Behind that was a Cadillac limousine with a "FUNERAL" flag on its right fender, then a Cadillac hearse, then finally two Ford Highway Patrol cars.
When Peter drove in, Sergeant Tom Lenihan, Denny Coughlin's aide, got out of the Olds and held up his hand for Peter to stop.
"They're waiting for you inside, Inspector," he said. "Park your car. After the funeral, there will be cars to bring you all back here."
Peter parked the car behind the building beside other police cars, marked and unmarked, and a few privately owned cars, and then walked into the funeral home. The corridor was crowded with uniformed police officers, one of them a New Jersey state trooper lieutenant in a blueand-gray uniform. Wohl wondered who he was.
As he walked toward them, Wohl saw that the Blue Room, where Dutch had been laid out for the wake, and which had been full of flowers, was now virtually empty except for the casket itself, which was now closed, and covered with an American flag.
"We were getting worried about you, Peter," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said to him. "The Moffitts left just a couple of minutes ago. I think Jeannie maybe expected you to be here when they closed the coffin."
"I took Miss Dutton to identify Gallagher," Peter replied. "And I just left Homicide. Vice turned up a suspect who seems to know something about why Nelson was killed."
"I thought maybe you'd run into the commissioner," Coughlin said.
He's pissed that I 'm late. Well, to hell with it. I couldn't 't help it.
"Was the commissioner looking for me?" Peter asked. "I think you could say that, yes," Coughlin said, sarcastically.
"Chief, I'm missing something here," Wohl said. "If I've held things up here, I'm really sorry."
Coughlin looked at him for a long moment. "You really don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"
"No, sir."
"You haven't seen theLedger? Nobody's shown it to you? Said anything about it?"
"TheLedger? No, sir."
"When was the last time you saw Mickey O'Hara? Or talked to him?"
"I saw him a week, ten days ago," Peter said, after some thought. "I ran into him in Wanamaker's."
"Not in the last two, three days? You haven't seen him, or talked to him?"
"No, sir," Peter said, and then started to ask, "Chief-"
"Now that we're all here," an impeccably suited representative of Marshutz amp; Sons interrupted him, "I'd like to say a few words about what we're all going to do taking our part in the ceremonies."
"You ride from here to Saint Dominic's with me," Chief Inspector Coughlin ordered, earning himself a look of annoyance from the funeral director.
"With one exception," the man from Marshutz began, "pallbearer positions will reflect the rank of the pallbearer. Chief Inspector Coughlin will be at the right front of the casket, with Staff Inspector Wohl on the left. Immediately behind Chief Inspector Coughlin, the one exception I mentioned, will be Lieutenant McGrory of the New Jersey State Police. From then on, left, right, left, right, positions are assigned by rank. I have had a list typed up…"
Patrol cars from the Seventh District were on hand to block intersections between Marshutz amp; Sons and Saint Dominic's Roman Catholic Church.
When Dutch Moffitt's flag-draped casket had been rolled into the hearse, Dennis Coughlin and Peter Wohl walked forward to Coughlin's Oldsmobile. The Highway Patrol motorcycle men kicked their machines into life and turned on the flashing lights. Then, very slowly, the small convoy pulled away from the funeral home.
The officers from the Seventh District cars saluted as the hearse rolled past them.
"Tom, have you got theLedger up there with you?" Denny Coughlin asked, from the backseat of the Oldsmobile.
"Yes, sir. And theBulletin. "
"Pass them back to Inspector Wohl, would you please, Tom? He hasn't seen them."
When Sergeant Lenihan held the papers up, Wohl leaned forward and took them.
"You never saw any of that before, Peter?" Coughlin asked, when Wohl had read Mickey O'Hara's story in theBulletin and the editorial in theLedger.
"No, sir," Peter said. "Is there anything to it? Did Gallagher get pushed in front of the train?"
"No, and there are witnesses who saw the whole thing," Coughlin said. "Unfortunately, they are one cop-Martinez, McFadden's partner-and the engineer of the elevated train. Both of whom could be expected to lie to protect a cop."