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COMMENTS (3)
From PutGodbackinPhilly (1:48 p.m.):
How on earth can something like this be possible? Is there no place in our city of brotherly love that?s not safe? This is what happens when we stop teaching The Bible. What part of “Thou Shalt Not Kill!” do these people not understand?
Recommend [12] Click Here to Report Abuse From PhillyEaglesFan (2:34 p.m.):
Amen, sister. And thank God for our men in blue.
Recommend [14] Click Here to Report Abuse From Hung.Up.Badge.But.Not.Gun (2:56 p.m.):
I talked to an inside source, too, and was told that this was a hit job. Maybe not a professional one, but the burn victim (there?s more to that story that I cannot share) was targeted. So sad to see this happening in Philly. I?ll say it again: Shoot?em all and let the Good Lord sort?em out.
Recommend [6] Click Here to Report Abuse What bullshit! Delgado thought.
He clicked on the page to leave a comment, then typed one and clicked SEND.
After a moment, his message appeared last on the list of comments:
From Death.Before.Dishonor (3:20 p.m.):
What about “Thou Shalt Not Steal”??
The only sad thing about what happened is the gun didn?t empty all of its bullets into that pendejo! Skipper deserved every damn bullet!
Recommend [0] Click Here to Report Abuse Delgado shook his head disgustedly, then shut down the Dell rental lap top. He pulled out his USB flash drive. And then he walked out of the kiosk, headed to the Transportation Security Administration checkpoint for Concourse E.
[FOUR] Delaware Expressway (I-95 North), Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 3:45 P.M.
Philadelphia Police Department Sergeant Matt Payne was behind the wheel of his white Ford rental sedan. Texas Rangers Sergeant Jim Byrth was in the front passenger bucket seat looking out the window at the Delaware River and, on the other side of that, New Jersey. The Hat was sitting upside down on the backseat.
When Payne’s cellular telephone started ringing, he had to do some juggling in order to answer it.
And the first thing he did was toss his “specialty” pretzel onto the dashboard.
As Payne and Byrth had headed for Baggage Claim D, the Texan had suddenly said, “Hey, look! Soft pretzels! I didn’t eat a damn thing on that lousy flight. C’mon. The Great State of Texas is treating.”
The pretzels had been huge, each weighing at least a pound. Payne had been impressed, but not to the point where he’d have paid for one.
The two cops had chewed on theirs while waiting for Byrth’s one leather suitcase to show up on the baggage carousel. And then chewed on them on the walk to Terminal E. And then after that during the drive up I-95.
When they had walked up to the rental car where Payne had left it in the Terminal E OFFICIAL POLICE USE ONLY parking spot, Payne had pushed the button on his key fob that remotely unlocked the trunk. Byrth tossed his leather suitcase inside, then put down his pretzel and went about opening the suitcase.
Payne had watched with curiosity as Byrth then removed from it a pair of Smith amp; Wesson chrome handcuffs.
Byrth felt him watching and said, “I left the standard-issue leg irons and transport belt in my truck at the airport in Houston. Figured you’d have some I could borrow if necessary.”
“I think we can find something suitable. Maybe even rope.”
Byrth slipped the cuffs into the right patch pocket of his blazer, then pulled from the suitcase two hard-plastic clamshell boxes. He put them side by side on the carpeted floor of the trunk. They were identical. Payne thought they looked like the case that had been on Denny Coughlin’s desk, the one containing the police department-issued Glock 17 pistol. Except these boxes were smooth-sided, with no markings whatever. There was only a combination lock and a luggage name tag on each.
Wordlessly, Byrth spun the dials of one combination lock, then the other, and removed them. Next he slid open the latches of the box on the right and opened up the box.
Now, Payne saw, the box did look like the one on Coughlin’s desk. It held a black semiautomatic pistol in a dense black foam cushioning that was customized to fit the exact contours of the gun.
Payne smiled.
A Colt Combat Commander.
Customized and engraved with a Texas Ranger badge.
Very nice gun.
When Byrth opened the other clamshell, Payne saw that it also had the black foam cushioning, but this one had been custom-fitted to securely hold five magazines, a polymer box labeled.45ACP TACTICAL JHP, 230-GRAIN, 50 ROUNDS, and a black leather skeleton holster.
Tactical jacketed hollow points.
Same rounds we use.
Byrth took out one of the magazines. He snapped back the top of the polymer box to reveal the shiny brass bullets inside.
“This’ll take just a second, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“No problem,” Payne replied. He added, “So you like the.45, too?”
Byrth clenched a magazine in his right hand and was pulling rounds from the box and using his thumb to feed them one by one into the top of the magazine.
“Too?” Byrth repeated. “I take it you’re a fan, then.”
Payne said, “You ever hear the story of the pacifist who got in the cop’s face and whined, ‘How come you carry a.45, tough guy?’ ”
Byrth grinned and made a soft grunt.
“Yeah,” he said. “And the cop replied, ‘Because they don’t make a fucking.46.’”
“That was no story,” Payne said. “That was me.”
Byrth chuckled.
Payne then discreetly reached inside his shirt and brought out his Colt Officer’s Model, taking care to keep it concealed from passersby.
Byrth nodded appreciatively. “I sometimes carry an Officer’s as my backup.”
He fed the eighth round to the magazine he’d been charging, then took a single round from the polymer box. He picked up the pistol, pulled back its slide, slipped the single round into the throat, and let the slide go forward. The moving of the slide backward caused the hammer to go into the cocked position. He then used his right thumb to throw the lever on the left rear of the slide, thereby leaving the pistol “cocked and locked.” And he slid the charged magazine into its place in the grip of the pistol.
He reached back into the clamshell box and took out the black leather skeleton holster. He unbuckled his belt and threaded the holster onto it so that it rode on his right hip inside his navy blazer. He secured the pistol in it. Finally, he loaded a second magazine, then a third. These he slipped into the front pockets of his pants, one magazine in each pocket.
He looked at Payne with what Payne thought was a look of satisfaction.
“Okay,” Byrth said with a smile. “I feel whole.”
“I know what you mean,” Payne said, securing his Officer’s Model back under his waistband.
“Excuse me, Jim,” Payne said motioning with the phone as they drove up I-95. “This won’t take a second.”
Jim Byrth shook his head in a gesture that said, No problem, then casually took in the river view.
Payne noticed motion at Byrth’s left hand, which he rested on his left thigh. He looked more closely and saw that Byrth had a small dry white bean on the top of his fingers. He manipulated the bean by moving the fingers in series-tumbling it end over end from his pointing finger to his middle finger to his ring finger to his pinky, then tumbling it back to the pointing finger.
He moved the bean quickly. It was evident that Byrth had had plenty of practice.
Some kind of nervous energy going on there, Jim?
Payne turned his attention to the highway. Into his cell phone he said, “Hi, Amy. Can I call you back in a bit?”
He listened for a moment.
“Yeah, that’s what I want to talk with you about.” He paused. “No, Amy, I didn’t ‘kill another one.’ I could do without your attempt at sarcasm.”