So what does that mean? That we go Dutch treat, which would make the most sense, or is Peter Wohl going to get stuck with the tab?
Fortunately, that is not my problem. So why am I worrying about it?
He concentrated on his steamed clams, boiled lobster, and on making his two beers last through everything.
It would be inappropriate for Matthew M. Payne, the junior police officer present, to get sloshed during lunch with his betters.
Second junior police officer, he corrected himself: I am no longer low man on the Special Operations totem pole. Officer Tom O'Mara is.
O'Mara, Matt thought, somewhat surprised, does not seem at all uncomfortable in the presence of all the white shirts, and heavyhitter while shirts, at that. You'd think he would be; for the ordinary cop, chief inspectors are sort of a mix between the cardinal of the Spanish Inquisition and God himself.
But, when you think twice, Tom O 'Mara is not an ordinary police officer in the sense that Charley McFadden was-and for that matter, detective or not, still is-an ordinary cop. He belongs to the club. His father is a captain. The reputation is hereditary: Until proven otherwise, the son of a good cop is a good cop.
Some of that, now that I think about it, also applies to me. In a sense, I am a hereditary member of the club. Because of Denny Coughlin, and/or because both my biological father and my Uncle Dutch got killed on duty.
The correct term is "fraternity," an association of brothers, from the Latin word meaning brother, as in Delta Phi Omicron at the University of Pennsylvania, where, despite your noble, two years service as Treasurer, you didn't have a fucking clue what the word " fraternity" really meant.
"You look deep in thought, Matty," Chief Coughlin said, breaking abruptly into his mental meandering. "You all right?"
"I don't think I should have had the second dozen steamed clams," Matt replied. "But aside from that, I'm fine."
"You should have three dozen, Payne," Mr. Larkin said. "I'm paying."
"No, you're not!" Staff Inspector Peter Wohl said.
"We'll have none of that!" Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl said.
"Don't be silly, Charley," Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin said.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, just so we all stay friends," Larkin said, "I'll flip anybody else here with a representation allowance. Loser pays."
"What the hell is a 'representation allowance'?" Chief Wohl asked.
"Your tax dollars at work, Augie," Larkin said. "When high-ranking Secret Service people such as myself are forced to go out with the local Keystone Cops, we're supposed to keep them happy by grabbing the tab. They call it a 'representation allowance.'"
"Screw you, Charley," Coughlin said, laughing. "'Keystone Cops'!"
"Shut up, Denny. Let him pay," Chief Lowenstein said. "But order another round first."
There was laughter.
"Except for him," Peter Wohl said, pointing at Matt. "I want him sober when he translates that psychological profile into English."
"Sir, I can go out to the Schoolhouse right now, if you'd like."
"What I was thinking, Matt," Wohl said seriously, "was that the most efficient way to handle it would be for you to take it to your apartment and translate it there. Then O'Mara could run it by my dad's house, where we can have a look at it. Then Tom can take it out to the Schoolhouse, retype it, and duplicate it. By then Captain Pekach will have been able to set up distribution by Highway."
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "You don't want me to come by Chief Wohl's house?"
"I don't see any reason for you to come out there," Wohl said.
Am I being told I don't belong there, or is he giving me time off?
"Yes, sir," Matt said. "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Larkin."
"Thanks for the ride, Matt," Mr. Larkin said.
The only place there was room in Matt's apartment for a desk was in his bedroom, and even there he had to look long and hard for a desk small enough to fit. He'd finally found an unpainted "student's desk" in Sears Roebuck that fit, but wasn't quite sturdy enough for the standard IBM electric typewriter he had inherited from his father's office. Every time the carriage slammed back and forth for a new line, the desk shifted with a painful squeak.
Tom O'Mara made himself comfortable on Matt's bed, first by sitting on it, and then, when he became bored with that, by lying down on it and watching television with the sound turned off, so as not to disturb Matt's mental labor.
It took him the better part of an hour to translate first Amy's really incredibly bad handwriting, and then to reorganize what she had written, and then finally to incorporate what Wohl and Larkin had brought up in their meeting. Finally, he was satisfied that he had come up with what Wohl and Larkin wanted. He typed one more copy, pulled it from the typewriter, and handed it to O'Mara.
This individual is almost certainly:
Mentally unbalanced, believing that he has a special relationship with God. He may believe that God speaks to him directly.
IMPORTANTLY: He would not make a public announcement of this relationship.
Highly intelligent.
Well educated, most likely a college graduate, but almost certainly has some college education.
Well spoken, possessed of a good vocabulary.
An expert typist, with access to a current model IBM typewriter (one with a "type ball").
This individual is probably: A male Caucasian. Twenty-five to forty years old.
Asexual (that is, he's unmarried, and has no wife, or homo- or hetero-sexual partner or sex life).
"A loner" (that is, has very few, or no friends). Living alone.
Neat and orderly, possibly to an excessive degree, and dresses conservatively.
Of ordinary, or slightly less than ordinary, physical appearance. A chess player, not a football player.
Self-assured, possibly to an excessive degree. (That is, tends to become annoyed, even angry, with anyone who disagrees with him.)
An Episcopalian, Presbyterian, Methodist, (less likely, a Roman Catholic) but not an active member of any church group.
Works in an office. A nondrinker.
Either a nonsmoker or a chain cigarette smoker.
This individual is possibly:
An engineer, either civil or electronic, or an accountant, or someone who works with figures.
A veteran, possibly discharged for medical (including psychological) reasons. Possibly a former junior officer.
Someone who has come to the attention of the authorities as the result of a complaint he has made when he has felt he has been wronged. (For example, complaining about neighbor's loud party, or loud radio, damage to his lawn, et cetera, by neighborhood children.)
As O'Mara read it, Matt glanced up at the silent TV mounted on a hospital-room shelf over the door. O'Mara had been watching an old cops-and-robbers movie.
I wonder how he can tell the good guys from the bad guys? They all look like 1930s-era gangsters.
"Your sister was able to come up with all this just from that nutty note that screwball wrote?" O'Mara asked, visibly awed.
"My sister is a genius. It runs in the family."
"Shit!" O'Mara said.
After a pause, Matt thought, while he decided I was not serious.
"Well, I'd better run this out to the brass," O'Mara said, and finally pushed himself upright and got off the bed.
At the head of the stairs, O'Mara stopped. "How do I get out?" Matt recalled that O'Mara had parked Wohl's car in front of the building. Despite the NO PARKING signs, no white hat was going to ticket what was obviously the unmarked car of a senior white shirt. He had unlocked the plate-glass door to the lobby with his key, and then locked it again after them. It would now be necessary to repeat the process to let O'Mara out.