Payne had fired five shots, all the cylinder of his snub-nosed Smith amp; Wesson Undercover held. One bullet, in what Jason Washington believed (and, more importantly, Payne realized) was blind luck, had struck the van driver in the back of the head.
The van had crashed into a tree. When Payne jerked the door open, he found the looney-tune's next intended victim, already stripped naked and trussed up like a Christmas turkey, under a tarpaulin in the back.
When Police Radio had put out thebeep beep beep, assist officer, shots fired, hospital case the second response had been "M-Mary One in on the shots fired."
M-Mary One was the radio call assigned to Jerry Carlucci's official Cadillac. The mayor had been on the way to his Chestnut Hill home after speaking at a dinner in South Philadelphia.
The lifelong cop in Jerry Carlucci could no more resist responding to anassist officer shots fired than he could pass up a chance to speak to a group of potential voters. Then, too, he sensed that there were a lot of voters out there who liked to see pictures in the newspapers, or on television, of their mayor at a crime scene, personally leading the war against crime.
Mickey O'Hara had also been working the streets that night. The next morning'sBulletin had a three-column picture of Mayor Carlucci, standing so that the snub-nosed revolver on his belt was visible under his jacket, with his arm around Officer Payne's shoulder. In the accompanying story by Michael J. O'Hara,Bulletin Staff Writer, Officer Payne was described by the mayor as both "administrative assistant" to Peter Wohl and as "the type of well-educated, dedicated, courageous young police officer" now, under his direction, being recruited for the Police Department.
The mayor's description of Matt Payne as Wohl's administrative assistant had erased any notions Wohl might have had to transfer Officer Payne someplace else.
He had joked about it to Washington: "Thank God for our mayor. I didn't even know what an administrative assistant was, and now I have one." But Washington sensed that Wohl was really not at all displeased.
For one thing, a "driver," analogous to an aide-de-camp for a general officer in the military services, was a perquisite of inspectors, chief inspectors, and deputy commissioners. Wohl was only a staff inspector, but he was also the only division commanding officer who was not at least an inspector. Before the mayor's off-the-cuff designation of Matt Payne as his "administrative assistant," Wohl had not had a driver, and there would have been cracks about delusions of glory from the corps of inspectors and chief inspectors, more than a few of whom thought they should have been given command of Special Operations, if he had asked for one.
But most important, Washington thought, was that Wohl needed not only a driver, but one like Matt Payne. It may have sounded like bullshit when The Dago said it for the papers, but Washington could find nothing wrong with the notion of young police officers who were in fact well educated, dedicated, and courageous.
"Detective D'Amata said it was 'high noon at the OK Corral' at the furniture store," Matt Payne said.
There he goes again. "Detective D'Amata," said with respect, instead of just D'Amata, or for that matter "Joe." Joe D'Amata would not be at all annoyed to be called by his first name by Matt. So far as D'Amata' s concerned, Matt stopped being a rookie when he shot the serial rapist.
"Meaning what?"
"He said the doers really shot the place up. He said they found twenty-six bullets."
"There was a gun battle?"
"No. That's what he said was interesting. They just shot off their guns. Not even the victim had a gun."
"There was just the one victim?"
"He was the maintenance man; he walked in on it."
"They have a lead on the doers?"
"I think Detective D'Amata has a good idea. He said that the witnesses were still pretty shaky; he wanted them to calm down a little before he showed them pictures."
"That may work, and it may not," Washington said. "A lot of people, with good reason, are nervous about having to go to court and point their fingers. Particularly at scumbags like these, a gang of them."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
Washington met his eyes.
"I am not going to tell you anymore not to call me 'sir,'" he said.
"Sorry," Matt said, throwing up his hands. "It just slips out."
"Let me show you what the postman brought today," Washington said. He went to the table by the door and returned with a postcard and handed it to Matt.
It was a printed form, Number 73-41, (Revised 3/72) issued by the Personnel Department of the City of Philadelphia, headed FINAL RESULTS OF EXAMINATIONS. It informed Jason Washington that his Final Average on the Examination for Police Sergeant was 96.52 and that his Rank on List was 3.
"Jesus!" Payne exclaimed happily.
"You asked what the occasion was," Washington said.
"Well, congratulations!" Matt said enthusiastically. "I didn't even know you had taken the examination."
"I'd almost forgotten I had," Washington said.
Matt looked at him with curiosity in his eyes, but did not ask.
"Two days after Wohl shanghaied me to Special Operations," Washington explained, "I put my name in. I almost didn't take it. I never cracked a book."
"But you came in third," Matt said.
"As I said, Officer Payne, you may now call me 'sir.'"
"Well, I think this is splendid!"
Spoken like a true Main Line WASP. "Splendid."
"Splendid?" Washington asked dryly.
"I think so."
"Thank you, Matt," Washington said.
"So what happens to you now? Will they transfer you?"
"I devoutly hope so," Washington said. "Back to Homicide."
"I'd hate to see you go."
Now that I think about it, I'm not so sure I want to go back to Homicide. Not as a sergeant.
"I don't think Peter Wohl will let me go anywhere until we catch the cop killer," Washington said.
"Is that the way that works? It's up to the inspector?"
"No. The way it works is that assignments of newly promoted people are made by Personnel. They evaluate the individual in terms of vacancies, his future career, and the good of the Department. After a good deal of thought and paper-pushing, they reach a decision, and the promotee-is that right, 'promotee'?"
"Why not?" Matt chuckled.
"-thepromotee gets his new assignment. Providing of course, that certain members of the hierarchy, Denny Coughlin, for example, and Matt Lowenstein, people like that, and, of course, our own beloved commander, P. Wohl, agree. If they don't like the promotee's assignment, they somehow manage to get it changed to one they do like. The operative words are 'for the good of the Department.'"
"I think I understand," Matt said.
There was the sound of a key in the door. Jason Washington started toward it, but it opened before he could reach it.
It was a very tall, sharply featured woman, her hair drawn tight against an angular skull.
She looks, Matt thought, like one of the Egyptian bas-reliefs in the museum.
Martha (Mrs. Jason) Washington, wearing a flowing pale green dress, stepped into the apartment. Behind her was the doorman, carrying a very large framed picture, wrapped in kraft paper.
"Take that from him, please," she ordered.
Washington put his hand in his pocket, gave the doorman a couple of dollar bills, and relieved him of the picture.
"Hello, Matt," Martha Washington said.
"Good evening," Matt said.
"What's this?" Jason asked.
"I thought you could tell from the shape," she said. "It's a bathtub."
Jason Washington tore the kraft paper away. It was a turn-of-thecentury oil painting of a voluptuous nude, reclining on her side.
"Finally, some art I can understand and appreciate," Washington said.
"Inspector Wohl's got one almost just like that," Matt said.