Then he gave a report, the essentials and the flavor, of both the personal conference he had had in Washington the day before and the two telephone calls he had had that morning before going off to lunch with Staff Inspector Wohl and his straight man.
"I had lunch today with Staff Inspector Wohl of the Philadelphia Police Department," he announced. "Everybody know who Wohl is?"
The three A-SACs nodded.
"I didn't go through you, Glenn," he explained to Glenn Williamson, A-SAC (Administration), "I know Peter Wohl, and this was unofficial. But I think you should open a line of communication with CaptainWhat's his name?"
"Duffy. Jack Duffy, Chief," Williamson furnished. Williamson was a well-dressed man of forty-two who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair.
"-Duffy of-what's his title, Glenn?"
"Assistant to the commissioner, Chief."
"-whatever-as soon as possible. Either this afternoon, or first thing in the morning," Davis finished.
For reasons SAC Davis really did not understand, cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not what he believed it should be. Getting anything out of them was like pulling teeth. When he had found the opportunity, he had discussed the problem with Commissioner Czernick. Czernick had told him that whenever he wanted anything from the Department, he should contact Captain Duffy, who would take care of whatever was requested. It had been Davis's experience that bringing Duffy into the loop had served primarily to promptly inform Czernick that the FBI was asking for something; it had not measurably speeded up getting anything. The reverse, he thought, might actually be the case.
But now that Duffy was in the loop, Duffy would have to be consulted.
"Yes, sir."
"You might mention I had an unofficial word with Wohl. Whatever you think best."
"Yes, sir. How did it go with Wohl, sir?"
"Very interesting man. He had his straight man with him. I was thinking of lunch at Alfredo's, and we wound up in a greasy spoon in South Philadelphia."
"His straight man, sir?" A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young asked. Young was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.
"His driver. A young plainclothes cop named Payne. They have a little comedy routine they use on people Wohl's annoyed with. I had to keep Wohl waiting twice, you see-"
"Oh, you met Payne, Chief?" A-SAC (Counterintelligence) Isaac J. Towne asked. He was a thirty-nine-year-old, balding Mormon, who took his religion seriously, a tall, hawk-featured man who had once told Davis, perfectly serious, that he regarded the Communists as the Antichrist.
"You know him?" Davis asked, surprised.
"I know about him," Towne replied. "Actually, I know a good deal about him. Among other things, he's the fellow who blew the brains of the serial rapist all over his van."
"Oh, really?" A-SAC Young asked, genuine interest evident in his voice. Davis knew that Young had a fascination for what he had once called "real street cop stuff"; Davis suspected he was less interested in some of the white-collar crime that occupied a good deal of the FBI's time and effort.
"How is it you know 'a good deal about him,' Isaac?" Davis asked.
"Well, when I saw the story in the papers, the name rang a bell, and I checked my files. We had just finished a CBI on him." (Complete Background Investigation.)
"He'd applied for the FBI?"
"The Marine Corps. He was about to be commissioned."
"Apparently he wasn't?"
"He flunked the physical," Towne said. "His father, hisadoptive father, is Brewster Cortland Payne."
"As in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and whatever else?"
"And Lester. Right, Chief."
SAC Davis found that fascinating. He was himself an attorney, and although he had never actively practiced law, he was active in the Philadelphia Bar Association. He knew enough about the Bar in Philadelphia to know that Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester was one of the more prestigious firms.
"His 'adoptive' father, you said?"
"Yes, sir. His father was a Philadelphia cop. A sergeant. Killed in the line of duty. His mother remarried Payne, and Payne adopted the boy."
That would stick in your mind, Davis thought, a street cop killed in the line of duty.
"I wonder why he became a cop?" Davis wondered aloud, and then, without waiting for a reply, asked, "You say he was the man who shot the serial rapist?"
"Right, Chief. In the head, with his service revolver. Blew his brains all over the inside of his van."
And that, too, would stick in your mind, wouldn't it, Isaac?
"I seem to remember seeing something about that in the papers," Davis said. "But as I was saying, Wohl, once he'd made his annoyance with me quite clear, was very cooperative.
He's going to photocopy everything in his files and have this Payne fellow bring it over here tomorrow."
The three A-SACs nodded their understanding.
"I just had a thought," Davis went on. "Do you happen to recall precisely why Payne failed the Marine Corps physical?"
Isaac Young searched his memory, then shook his head. "No."
"Can you find out?" Davis ordered. "The FBI is always looking for outstanding young men."
"Right, Chief," Isaac Young said.
"And when Officer Payne delivers the material from Inspector Wohl, I think one of us should receive it. Tell the receptionist. Make sure she understands. Show him around the office."
"Right, Chief," Young said.
I mean, after all, Davis thought, why would a bright young man of good family want to be a cop when he could be an FBI agent?
And if that doesn't turn out, it can't hurt to have a friendespecially a kid like that, who must hear all sorts of interesting things in the Department.
Matt Payne, feeding documents into the Xerox machine, jumped when Peter Wohl spoke in his ear.
"I have bled enough for the city for one day," Wohl announced. "I am going home and get into a cold martini or a hot blonde, whichever comes first."
"Yes, sir." Matt chuckled. "I'll see you in the morning."
"One of the wounds from which I'm bleeding has to do with what you're doing-"
"Sir?" Matt asked, confused.
"I just got off the phone with Commissioner Czernick," Wohl went on. "I don't know what Davis's agenda really is, and I wondered why he came to me with the request for all that stuff. One possibility was that he didn't want the commissioner to know he was asking for it. With that in mind, I called the commissioner and told him where and with whom we had lunch-" He saw the confused look still on Payne's face and stopped.
"I'm-I don't follow you, Inspector," Matt said.
"For reasons I'm sure I don't have to explain, we are very careful what we pass to the FBI," Wohl said.
I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about.
"Yes, sir."
"Nothing goes over to them unless the commissioner approves it. Denny Coughlin or Matt Lowenstein might slip them something quietly, but since career suicide is not one of my aims, I won't, and Davis must know that."
"So why did he ask you?"
"Right. So I called the commissioner. The commissioner told me I had done the right thing in calling him, and that I should use my good judgment in giving him whatever I felt like giving him."
"Okay," Matt said thoughtfully.
"Two minutes after I hung up, Czernick called back. 'Peter,' he said, 'I've been thinking it over, and I think I know why Davis went directly to you.' So I said, 'Yes, sir?' and he said, 'It's because you and the Payne kid look more like FBI agents than cops. Hahaha!' And then he hung up."