"Yes, they are," Wohl said. "And I want to keep them that way. Reining them in a little when they first get here is probably going to prevent me from having to jump on them with both feet a little down the pike."
EIGHTEEN
"What we're going to do," Officer Jesus Martinez said, turning to Officer Charles McFadden as they stood at the urinals in the Seventh DistrictPOLICE PERSONNEL ONLY men's room, "is give your rich-kid rookie buddy the midnight-to-sunup shift."
"What are you pissed at him for?" Charley McFadden asked.
"You dumb shit! Where do you think Wohl heard that you two were boozing it up last night?"
"We wasn't boozing it up last night," McFadden argued.
"Tell that to Wohl," Martinez said, sarcastically.
"If we make him work from midnight, then who's going to be staking out the house from sunset to midnight? Somebody's going to have to be there."
McFadden's logic was beyond argument, which served to anger Martinez even more.
"That sonofabitch is trouble, Charley," he said, furiously. "And he ain'tnever going to make a cop."
"I think he's all right," McFadden said. "He just don't know what he' s doing; is all. He just came on the job, is all."
"You think what you want," Martinez said, zipping up his fly. "Be an asshole. Okay. This is what we'll do: We'll park Richboy outside the house from sunset to midnight. We'll go look for this Walton Williams. Then we'll split the midnight to sunrise. You go first, or me, I don't care."
"That would make him work what-what time is sunset, six? Say six hours, and we would only be working three hours apiece."
"Tough shit," Martinez said. "Look, asshole, Wohl meant it: until we catch this Williams guy, we're going to have to stake out the house from sunset to sunrise. So the thing to do is catch Williams, right? Who can do that better, you and me, or your rookie buddy? Shit, he don't even know where to look, much less what he should do if he should get lucky and fall over him."
Sergeant Ed Frizell raised the same question about the fair division of duty hours when making the stakeout of the Peebles residence official, but bowed to the logic that Officer Payne simply was not qualified to go looking for a suspect on his own. And he authorized three cars, one each for what he had now come to think of as Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and the Kid. He also independently reached the conclusion that unless Walton Williams was really stupid, or maybe stoned, he would spot the car sitting on Glengarry Lane as a police car, and would not attempt to burglarize the Peebles residence with it there. And that solved the problem of how just-about-wholly inexperienced Matt Payne would deal with the suspect if he encountered him; there would be no suspect to encounter.
At two-fifteen, when Staff Inspector Wohl walked into the office after having had luncheon with Detective Jason Washington atD' Allesandro's Steak Shop, on Henry Avenue, Sergeant Frizell informed him that Captain Henry C. Quaire, the commanding officer of the Homicide Bureau, had called, said it was important, and would Wohl please return his call at his earliest opportunity.
"Get him on the phone, please," Wohl said. Waving at Washington to come along, he went into his office.
One of the buttons on Wohl's phone began to flash the moment he sat down.
"Peter Wohl, Henry," he said. "What's up?"
"I just had a call from the State Trooper barracks in Quakertown, Inspector," Quaire said. "I think they found Miss Woodham."
"Hold it, Henry," Wohl said, and snapped his fingers. When Jason Washington looked at him, Wohl gestured for him to pick up the extension. "Jason's getting on the line."
"I'm on, Captain," Washington said, as, in a conditioned reflex, he took a notebook from his pocket, then a ballpoint pen.
"They-the Trooper barracks in Quakertown, Jason," Quaire went on, " have a mutilated corpse of a white female who meets Miss Woodham's description. Been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours. They fed it to NCIC and got a hit."
"Shit," Jason Washington said, bitterly.
"Where did they find it?" Wohl asked, taking a pencil from his desk drawer.
"In a summer cottage near a little town called Durham," Quaire said. "The location is:"
He paused, and Wohl had a mental image of him looking for a sheet of paper on which he had written down the information.
": 1.2 miles down a dirt road to the left, 4.4 miles west of US 611 on US 212."
Jason Washington parroted the specifics back to Quaire.
"That's right," Quaire said.
"They don't have anything on the doer, I suppose?" Washington said.
"They said all they have so far is what I just gave you," Quaire said.
"If they call back," Wohl said, "get it to me right away, will you?"
"Yes, sir," Quaire said, his tone showing annoyance.
That was stupid of me, Wohl thought. I shouldn't have told Quaire how to do his job.
"I didn't mean that the way it came out, Henry," Wohl said. "Sorry."
There was a pause, during which, Wohl knew, Henry Quaire was deciding whether to accept the apology.
"The last time we dealt with Quakertown, they were a real pain in the ass, Inspector," Quaire said, finally. "Resented our intrusion into their business. But I know a Trooper Captain in Harrisburg…"
Wohl considered that a moment.
"Let's save him until we need him, Henry," he said. "Maybe we'll be lucky this time."
"Call me if you think I can help," Quaire said.
"Thanks very much, Henry," Wohl said. "I'll keep you advised."
"Good luck," Quaire said, and hung up.
Wohl looked up at Washington.
"I'll get up there just as fast as I can," Washington said. "I'm wondering if I need Tony up there, too."
"Whatever you think," Wohl said.
"Would it be all right if I took the kid with me?" Washington said.
It took Wohl a moment to take his meaning.
"Payne, you mean? Sure. Whatever you need."
"It's in the sticks," Washington explained. "He might be useful to use the phone…"
"You can have whatever you want," Wohl said. "You want a Highway car to go with you?
"No, the kid ought to be enough," Washington said. "Highway and the Troopers have never been in love. Would you get in touch with Tony and tell him, and let him decide whether he wants to go up there, too?"
"Done."
"Maybe I can get a description of this sonofabitch anyway," Washington said. "Or the van."
"I was afraid we'd get something like this," Wohl said.
"It's not like Christmas finally coming is it?" Washington said, and walked out of Wohl's office.
Matt Payne was sitting at an ancient, lopsided table against the wall beside Sergeant Ed Frizell's desk, typing forms on a battered Underwood typewriter.
"Come on with me, Payne," Washington said.
Matt looked at him in surprise, and so did Sergeant Ed Frizell.
"Where's he going with you?" Frizell said.
"He's going with me, all right?" Washington said, and took Matt's arm and propelled him toward the door.
"I need him here," Frizell protested.
"Tell Wohl your problem," Washington said, and followed Matt outside.
"You know Route 611? To Doylestown, and then up along the river to Easton?" Washington asked.
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
"You drive," Washington said.
Matt got behind the wheel.
"Take a right," Washington ordered, "and then a left onto Red Lion."
"Yes, sir," Matt said, and started off.
There was a line of cars stopped for a red light at Red Lion Road. Matt started to slow.
"Go around them to the left," Washington ordered. "Be careful!"
And then he reached down and threw a switch. A siren started to howl.
"Try not to kill us," Washington ordered. "But the sooner we get out there, the better. Maybe we can find this sonofabitch before he does it again."