His joining the army or navy simply was not a viable option because he needed to be near home to help care for his mother, who suffered from diabetes and could not get around by herself. So he had enrolled in Community College of Philadelphia to acquire the necessary credits-then about a year thereafter, while talking to another student as they scanned a bulletin board in the school’s Career Center, learned that SEPTA required only a high school diploma or General Equivalency Diploma.
Theo Clarke, anxious to do something job-wise, thought that he could put in time as a SEPTA transit officer-policing was policing, he decided, and he would get to go through the police academy same as the others-and continue with school and then at some point possibly look at transferring to the PPD.
He found that he actually liked being a SEPTA transit officer, especially because transit cops had authority all across the mass transit system, not just limited to one small area of the city.
While pursuing and arresting people who jumped over the turnstiles to evade paying the subway fare did get somewhat repetitious, he found that it could occasionally get interesting.
The bad guys whom the SEPTA police chased on the trains were, after all, if not the exact same bad guys who the Philadelphia Police Department chased-and oftentimes they were-then they could be equally as bad. They committed the same crimes-assaults, robberies, illegal drug sales, and the like. They just happened to do it on SEPTA property.
And of course there always was the steady stream of fare evaders.
The philosophy of the SEPTA police chief was that the bad guys-and, too often, the bad girls-who jumped the turnstiles were of course guilty (a) of theft of service but also (b) of being generally up to no good. They weren’t, to put a point on it, jumping the turnstiles during their commute to and from work or school-they were looking for an opportunity to commit a crime.
Thus, it wasn’t just a philosophy-and when the chief mustered his SEPTA patrols to crack down on fare evaders, there followed an immediate drop in the rates of other more serious crimes committed on the mass transit system.
Which was why Transit Officer Theo Clarke often found himself watching, as now, the crowds embarking and disembarking the train cars at the elevated Somerset station.
This being Kensington, he knew it was only a short matter of time before he would nab some miscreant leaping over-or, his favorite because they looked so ridiculous, crawling under-the rotating arms of a turnstile.
And, also entirely probable, committing a worse offense.
Clarke had been standing by the concourse exit for not even ten minutes when his eyes caught sight of a male walking in a crouch at the back of the last group exiting the train.
His first thought: That dude’s hiding something that’s making him walk that way.
Clarke saw that the male was short, maybe five-four, and chunky. He looked Hispanic-Probably Puerto Rican, Theo thought-and maybe around his own age. He wore a black stocking cap pulled low on his head. He had on a gray sweatshirt-the right cuff of which he suddenly realized was blackened.
Like it’s been on fire. What’s up with that?
Transit Officer Clarke started walking toward him to get a closer look, and then saw that the male was very carefully cradling his hand-That’s why the dude’s walking funny-and that the flesh of the hand was a bright red with black streaks.
Clarke intercepted him.
“You okay?” Clarke said. “What happened to your hand?”
When the male looked up and saw a uniformed policeman looming over him, his tired eyes grew wide.
Clarke knew that wasn’t an unusual reaction to occur in Somerset station, where he figured at any given time a majority of people could be under the influence of some drug, legal or illicit, and thus Clarke, though remaining cautious, did not immediately read anything into it.
The injured male, whose arm with the burned hand then began shaking uncontrollably, did not respond to his questions.
“What’s your name?” Clarke pursued.
“Juan,” Ruben Mora lied.
“You really need to get that injury looked at, Juan,” Clarke said, then pointed past the concourse exit. “There’s a hospital ER just a few blocks away.”
For Clarke, it unfortunately was a regular occurrence to come across someone who had overdosed-not necessarily on the El, though that of course had happened. Just two days earlier he had had to administer a prefilled syringe of naloxone hydrochloride that he recently had begun carrying as part of his kit to a nineteen-year-old white female-the naloxone blocking and reversing the effects of opioid painkillers, such as Oxycontin, and heroin-and then had EMTs transport her the short distance down Kensington Avenue to the emergency room at Temple University Episcopal Hospital on West Lehigh Avenue.
“Yeah, it hurts bad,” Ruben Mora said.
Mora then looked from Transit Officer Clarke to his burned hand. Then all at once his eyes drooped, his shoulders slumped-and he collapsed to the ground.
“Damn!” Transit Officer Clarke blurted.
He quickly knelt and then lifted Mora off the ground. He threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and began trotting toward the exit, calling out, “Make way! Clear a path!” as he went.
After maneuvering down the stairs and reaching street level, Clarke carried Mora to the marked Ford Crown Victoria that he had left parked in the spot at the curb marked OFFICIAL SEPTA USE ONLY.
Transit Officer Clarke opened the Police Interceptor’s back door behind the driver’s, then squatted and carefully leaned forward, dropping Mora onto the backseat. He then hopped behind the wheel, activated the emergency lights and siren, then looked over his shoulder as he yanked the gear selector into drive.
“C’mon, c’mon, make a hole!” Clarke said, stabbing his right index finger at the control panel button between the seats that added a louder BRAAAAP! BRAAAAAP! horn sound to the Woop-Woop! of the siren.
At the third BRAAAAP! a delivery van braked hard, creating an opening, and Clarke caused the Ford’s rear tires to squeal as he took it, the engine roaring as he accelerated down Kensington Avenue.
[FOUR]
Office of the First Deputy Police Commissioner
The Roundhouse, Philadelphia
Saturday, December 15, 5:15 P.M.
“The difference with the murder of the reporter and his wife,” Matt Payne explained to First Deputy Police Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Lieutenant Jason Washington, “beyond it being a slaughter-terrible word, but that’s exactly what they did to the O’Briens-is that those responsible wanted everyone to know they did it. They basically left a calling card saying, ‘Hey, we did it before, and we’ll do it again.’”
Washington shook his head. “Mickey O’Hara said this cartel-”
“The New Acuña Cartel, Jason,” Payne provided.
“-this New Acuña Cartel did the same to another reporter who worked for O’Brien in Texas?”
Payne nodded. “Tomas Rodriguez, thirty-five, a husband and father who fled Acuña with his family after the cartel tortured and killed his photographer, and then hung his body with a note saying, in essence, ‘We warned you. Stop the reporting. Or else.’ The cartel hunted down Tomas and his family in San Antonio. Left his bloody head on his laptop with a note, and I quote verbatim, ‘The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son.’ I saw the photograph of it. Those are images you never forget.”
“My God,” Coughlin said. “The butchering of human beings is beyond simply uncivilized. It’s savage. . barbaric.”
“And tragically it’s starting to happen more and more,” Payne said. “I’ve certainly seen more than I ever expected.” He paused. “So we basically know who’s responsible. But, and I’m getting this from Jim Byrth, the cartels are hiring hit squads.”