"At Quantico," Payne replied. "The Marine base."
"I know what it is," Stennis said. "How come your records don't say anything about you being in the Corps?"
"I was never in the Corps," Payne replied. "I was in the Platoon Leader Program. I went there two summers."
"What happened?" Stennis asked. Payne understood, he saw, what he was really asking: If you were in the Platoon Leader Program, how come you 're here, and not a second lieutenant in the Corps?
"I busted the commissioning physical," Payne said.
"You tell them that when you joined the Department?" Stennis demanded, sharply.
"Yes, sir."
They locked eyes for a moment, long enough for Stennis to decide that Payne was telling the truth.
Is that why he came in? Stennis wondered. Because he flunked the Marine Corps physical, and wants to prove he's a man, anyway? Well, what the hell is wrong with that?
"Well, that was pretty good shooting," Stennis said.
"I could do better if the pistol had better sights," Payne said, adding, "and this could use a trigger job, too."
Stennis's anger returned.
"Well, Payne," he replied sarcastically, "I'm afraid you'll just have to learn to cope with what the Department thinks they should give you."
He turned and walked back to the firing line.
Almost immediately, he felt like a hypocrite. Wiseass or not, the kid was right. You couldn't get a very good sight picture with the standard service revolver. The front sight was simply a piece of rounded metal, part of the barrel. The rear sight was simply an indentation in the frame. Stennis's own revolver was equipped with adjustable sights-a sharply defined front sight, and a rear sight that was adjustable for both height and windage, with a sharply defined aperture. That, coupled with a carefully honed action, a "trigger job," which permitted a smooth "let off," resulted in a pistol capable of significantly greater accuracy than an off-the-shelf revolver.
And Stennis was suddenly very much aware that his personal pistol was not regulation, and that he got away with carrying it solely because no one in the Department was liable to carefully scrutinize the pistol carried by the Police Academy's Firearms Instructor.
When he reached the firing line, he was not especially surprised to see Chief Inspector Heinrich "Heine" Matdorf, Chief of the Training Bureaus, and thus sort of the headmaster of the Police Academy, standing at the end of the line, to the right, where a concrete pathway led to the main Police Academy Building.
Heine Matdorf, a large, portly, red-faced man who was nearly bald, believed in keeping an eye on what was going on. Stennis liked him, even if they could not be called friends. When Matdorf had come to the Training Bureau two years before, he had made everyone nervous by his unannounced visits to classrooms and training sites. He was taciturn, and his blue eyes seemed cold.
But they had quickly learned that he was not hypercritical, as prone to offer a word of approval as a word of criticism. The new broom had swept only those areas in need of it.
As was his custom, Stennis acknowledged the presence of Chief Matdorf with a nod, expecting a nod in return. But Matdorf surprised him by walking over to him.
"Chief," Stennis greeted him.
"That kid you were talking to, Payne?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want a word with him," Matdorf said. "Stick around."
"He put six shots into the head, first time up," Stennis offered.
Matdorf grunted again, but didn't otherwise respond.
Matthew Payne finished pasting his target and walked back to the firing line. Stennis saw in his eyes that he was curious, but not uneasy, to see Chief Matdorf standing there beside him.
"You know who I am?" Matdorf asked as Payne walked up.
"Yes, sir."
"We met at Captain Moffitt's wake," Chief Matdorf said. "Chief Coughlin introduced us."
"Yes, sir, I remember."
What the hell was this kid doing at Dutch Moffitt's wake? And Chief Coughlin introduced him to Matdorf?
"I just had a call from Chief Coughlin about you," Matdorf said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Turn in your gear," Matdorf said. "Clean out your locker. If anybody asks what you're doing, tell them 'just what I'm told.' At eightthirty tomorrow morning, report to Captain Sabara at Highway Patrol. You know where that is? Bustleton and Bowler?"
"I don't understand."
"I'm sure Captain Sabara will explain everything to you tomorrow morning," Matdorf said. "If I didn't make this clear, you won't be coming back here."
"And I'm to… clean out my locker right now?"
"That's right," Matdorf said. "And don't tell anybody where you're going."
"Yes, sir," Payne said. Stennis saw that he didn't like what he had been told, but was smart enough to sense that asking Chief Matdorf would be futile.
"So get on with it," Matdorf said.
"Yes, sir," Payne said. Then he picked up his earmuffs and other shooting equipment from the firing position and walked off the line.
"You don't say anything to anybody about him going to Highway, either, Dick," Matdorf said.
"No, sir," Stennis said.
"Curiosity about to eat you up?" Matdorf asked, flashing a rare, shy smile.
"Yes, sir."
"The reason he was at Dutch Moffitt's funeral was that Dutch was his uncle."
"I didn't know that."
"His father was a cop, too. Sergeant John X. Moffitt," Matdorf went on. "He got himself killed answering a silent burglar alarm in a gas station in West Philadelphia."
"I didn't know that, either. What are they going to do with him in Highway?" Stennis asked, and then, without giving Matdorf a chance to reply, went on, "How come his name is Payne?"
"His mother remarried; the new husband adopted him," Matdorf said. " And I don't know what they're going to do with him in Highway. This was one of those times when I didn't think I should ask too many questions."
"Coughlin set it up?" Stennis asked.
Matdorf nodded. "Chief Coughlin and the boy's father went through the Academy together. They were pretty tight. I know, because I was in the same class."
His face expressionless, Matdorf met Stennis's eyes for a long moment. Then he turned and walked off the firing line.
EIGHT
When Peter Wohl drove into the parking lot behind the Police Administration Building at Eighth and Arch, he pulled up to the gasoline pump and filled the Ford's gas tank.
It took 19.7 gallons. He had heard somewhere that the Ford held 22 gallons. That meant that despite the gas gauge needle pointing below E, he really had been in no danger of running out of gas.
There was a moral to be drawn from that, he thought, as he drove around the parking lot, looking for a place to park. For yea, though I walk along the edge of the crumbling cliff, I seem to have an unnatural good luck that keeps me from falling off.
He pulled the Ford into one of the parking slots reserved for official visitors and got out, leaving the windows open a crack to let the heat out. There was, he rationalized, not much of a chance that even the most dedicated radio thief would attempt to practice his profession in the Roundhouse parking lot.
The Police Administration Building was universally known as the Roundhouse. It was not really round, but curved. The building and its interior walls, including even those of the elevators, were curved. It was, he thought, called the Roundhouse because that came easier to the tongue than "Curved House."
He entered the building by the rear door. Inside, to the right, was a door leading to the Arraignment Room. The Roundhouse, in addition to housing the administrative offices of the Police Department on the upper floors, was also a jail. Prisoners were transported from the districts around the city to a basement facility where they were fingerprinted, photographed, and put in holding cells until it was their turn to face the magistrate, who would hear the complaint against them, and either turn them loose or decide what their bail, if any, should be.