Washington turned to Sergeant Kenny and offered his hand.
“My name is Washington, Sergeant,” he said.
“How are you?” Kenny said. “Payne said you were about as big as me.”
“And this is Mr. Cohen, an assistant district attorney.” They shook hands.
“Detective Lassiter was supposed to tell you we would be here as soon as we got ourselves settled…”
“She’s in with the chief. Come on, I’ll take you in.”
“Thank you.”
“You got any kin down this way, Lieutenant?” Kenny asked.
“Not so far as I know, but a first glance at the genetic evidence does seem to make that a distinct possibility, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Walter Davis, a tall, well-built, well-dressed-in a gray pin-striped, three-piece suit-man in his middle forties, who was the special agent in charge (the “SAC”) of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, sensed his secretary’s presence at his office door and raised his eyes to her from the documents on his desk.
“Yes, Helen?” he asked, a slight tone of impatience in his voice. He had asked not to be disturbed if at all possible.
“I know, I know. But it’s Burton White, the SAC in Mobile…”
“Put him through. Thank you, Helen.”
Walter Davis had known Burton White since they had been at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and they had crossed paths often since. They had risen through the ranks together. Not quite as high together, as Philadelphia was a more important post than Mobile.
It is always pleasant, Davis thought, as he waited for the light on his telephone to illuminate, to touch base with a peer who has not risen quite as far as oneself.
The light came on, and Davis grabbed the phone.
“Burton, you old sonofabitch! How are you, buddy? How’s things down there in the sunny South?”
“It’s raining, and this is the Heart of Dixie, Walt. It says so on our license plates.”
“Well, it’s good to hear your voice, buddy. What can Philadelphia do for our outpost in the Heart of Dixie?”
“I’m having a little problem with the local cops. Your local cops. I thought you might be able to help me-the Bureau- out on this.”
“Do whatever I can, you know that. My local cops? What are they doing way down there?”
“You had a murder up there…”
“We have a lot of murders up here.”
“This one was of a young woman raped and murdered in her apartment. It was on the NCIC, looking for a similar modus operandi.”
“That one made the front pages. It seems like the cops were actually on the scene, but couldn’t take the door because there was no sign of forced entry. They took a beating for a while in the press.”
“Well, one of my agents heard about the case, and then there was a similar modus operandi in a little village across the bay from here, and he went to check it out…”
“And it was the man the locals here are looking for? Good for you, Walt! A little favorable publicity never hurts the Bureau, does it? You’re sure you’ve got the right man?”
“When he got over there, your locals were already there.”
“You don’t say. That’s odd. I had lunch with the Commissioner-Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani-yesterday, and he didn’t say anything to me.”
The sonofabitch! There’s no way Philadelphia cops would go all the way to Alabama without Mariani knowing all about it. And he didn’t say a goddamn word!
“There were Philadelphia Homicide cops there, plus an assistant D.A.”
“Well, your man took over, didn’t he, Burton?”
“He ran into a stone wall, Walt. I was hoping you could speak to somebody up there.”
“You didn’t get any names, by chance?”
“There was a Lieutenant Washington, a Sergeant Payne, and a female detective-I don’t have a name on her-an assistant D.A. named Cohen, and some wiseass of a reporter named O’Hara, who accused my agent of shamelessly trying to steal the arrest. Do you think you could say a word in the appropriate ear up there?”
Of course I could. And then Mariani would shove it down my throat. With great joy.
“No. I don’t think I could, Burton.”
“ ‘No’? Just like that? ‘No’?”
“Let me tell you about the locals you’re dealing with, Burton,” Davis said. “Starting with the sergeant. You remember a couple of months ago, when one of my people had to put down a terrorist?”
“The guy with the machine gun? A real O.K. Corral shoot-out? ”
“That’s the case. Well, he had with him a local cop who, it has been reliably reported to me, said, ‘Some of my best friends are FBI agents, but I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one.’ ”
“A real wiseass, eh?”
“Whose father is a senior partner in what is probably our most important law firm. That’s the sergeant. The lieutenant is probably Jason Washington. Is he a great big black fellow? ”
“That’s the man. My agent says he’s enormous.”
“Who is married to a lady who moves in the same exalted arty circles as our mayor, and incidentally is the best Homicide investigator I’ve ever known.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Cohen is one of our two-hundred-odd assistant district attorneys. He specializes in the prosecution of homicides. He is generally held in high esteem-on a scale ranging upward from one to two hundred, he would be mighty close to two hundred, in other words-by those who know him. Including me.”
“Well, they didn’t behave with anything like professional courtesy, no matter who they are. They stood right there while this belligerent reporter-”
“And that would be Mr. Michael J. O’Hara, Burton, the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter of the Philadelphia Bulletin,” Davis interrupted, “whom I have been assiduously attempting to cultivate since they made me the SAC here. Without conspicuous success. I can only hope your agent didn’t antagonize him.”
There was silence on the line for a long moment, before Davis continued.
“So, for the reasons mentioned, Burton, no, I cannot say a word in the appropriate ear here. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to stay away-far away-from these people unless they ask for your assistance, in which case I suggest you be the spirit of cooperation.”
“Chief Yancey,” Jason Washington said, “I would be very grateful if there were someplace private where I could confer with Mr. Cohen and Sergeant Payne for a few minutes before we talk to Mr. Daniels.”
“You’re welcome to use this,” the chief said.
“You are very kind, sir,” Washington said, and waited for the others to leave.
“What’s this, Jason?” Cohen asked the moment the door closed.
“With the caveat that what I suggest would have to have your approval-not implied approval, and certainly not grudging approval-I am going to suggest a scenario for the initial interview.”
“Shoot.”
“Sergeant Kenny will handcuff and shackle Mr. Daniels in his cell, and bring him… here, I suppose, inasmuch as they do not have an interview room as such, would be as good a place as any, and I think the chief would make it available to us-and handcuff him to a heavy and, it is to be hoped, uncomfortable chair, if such can be located.
“Here, for ten minutes, he will wait-with Sergeant Kenny standing out of his sight behind his chair-while absolutely nothing happens. It will, I think, in his frame of mind, seem like much longer.
“It is possible that he will feel the call of nature, and I hope this indeed happens, because it will give Sergeant Kenny the opportunity to lead him-after he takes, say, five minutes getting permission to do so, while another silent officer stands behind the chair-back to his cell, and then back here, all the time in handcuffs and shackles. The ten-minute time clock will start again, if this happens, on his return here.
“I think his only experience with being either handcuffed or shackled was when he was first detained by the concerned citizens. There is a feeling of both helplessness and humiliation when one is shackled and handcuffed.”
“You don’t want to go too far with that, Jason,” Cohen said.