"No Wanted posters like the others?" Coughlin asked.
Tony thought, How did he know that?
Simple answer: Because he didn't become the second most important white shirt in the building by being a lazy cop.
The uniform shirt for all ranks sergeant and above was white, thus the expression "white shirt"; those in ranks of corporal down to police recruit wore blue shirts, and were referred to accordingly.
Now, his well-honed investigative mind has been putting together the pieces, and one piece is that Gartner wasn't wanted for any crime.
"No, sir," Tony Harris said after a moment. "None of the three last night."
"Tell them about the piss," Payne said.
"What?" Hollaran blurted.
Everyone looked at Matt, then at Tony.
"When we got the search warrant for Gartner's office-outside of which was parked Nguyen's motorcycle-we found no obvious signs anybody'd been whacked inside. But we did find piss poured all over the place."
"Tony said it had to be gallons," Payne added lightly. "We're guessing some animal's. I mean, four-legged animal."
Coughlin shook his head in wonder.
"Doesn't matter if it turns out to be from a human," Quaire said. "Urine is mostly worthless for our purposes."
"Really?" Payne said.
"Uh-huh," Quaire said. "I thought you knew it doesn't have enough traceable DNA to make it useful. It's just… well, piss."
There were chuckles.
"At the risk of repeating myself, Matthew," Jason Washington offered, "we do come across strange things in our business."
Coughlin then said, "Okay, and what about the third guy?"
"One Reginald 'Reggie' Jones. Black male, age twenty. A great big boy, maybe goes two-forty, two-fifty. And with one of those round baby faces. Well, before he got beaten up. Someone kicked the living shit out of him. Brutal beating. He could have died from that, or from strangulation. Two of those plastic zip ties-two short ones put end to end to make one long one-were cinched tight around his throat."
He paused as they considered that.
Then Harris said, "Jones was a small-time dealer. What he had was more of a consumption habit. But he did have a couple busts for selling coke. He was on probation for possession. Word is that… this is not exactly PC-"
"Oh, no," Payne gasped dramatically, "we've never heard something that was politically incorrect uttered in the Roundhouse!"
There were grins, including Tony's.
"Say it, Tony," Coughlin said, his face serious. "We need to know e verything."
"Reggie Jones was backward."
"Backward?"
"More or less retarded," Tony said.
"And now he's deceased," Payne said, "making him number eight."
"No warrants?" Coughlin went on.
His investigator's mind is still on high speed.
"No, sir. Not on the deceased. His brother, however, is in the wind."
"How's that?"
"Kenneth J. 'Kenny' Jones, black male, age twenty-two, skipped out on a charge of possession with intent to distribute. Jumped his two-thousand-dollar bail after getting picked up in Germantown. Like his brother Reggie, Kenny's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Tried to sell crack cocaine to a couple of our guys working an undercover task force."
Coughlin snorted, thought a moment, then said, "Maybe the doer popped the wrong brother by mistake?"
"Possible."
"And the others who'd been pop-and-dropped all had some sexual crime component?"
"Yes, sir. All but the lawyer. And all the others had been shot."
"But not the Jones boy? He was strangled."
Harris nodded. "Correct."
Coughlin looked at Hollaran. "You're thinking what I'm thinking?"
Frank Hollaran had worked with Denny Coughlin so many years he could finish his sentences.
"That it's possible?" Hollaran asked. "Sure, boss. If somehow they'd heard about the pop-and-drops. But I doubt it's happened in this case. Not enough time has elapsed. It can happen, probably will happen, especially with the cash rewards being offered."
"What're we talking about?" Payne asked.
"Copycats. Folks who mimic crimes they see in the news. That fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol talked about."
Quaire, gesturing again at the newspaper on Washington's desk, put in: "And now we have-cue the dramatic music-the Halloween Homicides."
Payne offered: "Playing devil's advocate, maybe it's not so much a copycat as it is someone taking up Frank Fuller on the hefty bounty he offers for-what's his phrase?-the evildoers."
"Think that through, Matthew," Washington said. "Who is going to claim those rewards? At least for the dead critters? They'd be admitting to murder."
Payne shrugged.
"Regardless," Coughlin said, "Jerry Carlucci is going to want to know what we're doing about the problem. He's planning on having a press conference at noon in the Executive Command Center. What he talks about depends on what he hears from us. And I'm sure he will denounce Fuller's bounty."
"Isn't denouncing the bounty a bit hypocritical?" Payne asked.
"In what way?" Coughlin said.
"The Philadelphia Police Department is in bed with, for example, the FBI and the DEA, which do offer big rewards for fingering bad guys. And that nationwide Crimestoppers program pays five or ten grand for information leading to a conviction-just call their toll-free number. It pays up even if you remain anonymous. It'd make my job a helluva lot easier if someone called with something on these pop-and-drops."
"We do ask for tips on catching criminals, Matty," Coughlin said reasonably, "but we don't encourage killing. There's a difference, one somebody needs to point out to Frank Fuller." He sighed deeply. "But good point. Carlucci will have to spin it in a positive way."
He glanced at his watch. "Okay, everyone follow me upstairs. This was just the dress rehearsal."
Payne didn't move, causing Coughlin to raise an eyebrow in question.
" 'Everyone' as in everyone?" Matt asked. "Am I allowed to leave the office?"
Coughlin, his voice taking an official tone, then said, "As of this moment, Sergeant Payne, assuming you can at some point soon get a decent shower and shave, I hereby order your release from desk duty."
Coughlin looked around the office.
"Everyone think they can follow that order?"
There was a chorus of "Yes, sir." [FOUR] 5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 9:35 A.M. There were three official emergency vehicles parked at the curb in front of the Bazelon's row house, all with various doors open and the red-and-blue light bars on their roofs flashing. Two were white Chevy Impala squad cars assigned to the Twelfth District, and the third was a somewhat battered white Ford panel van that had a blue-and-gold stripe running the length of the vehicle and blue block lettering that spelled out MEDICAL EXAMINER.
On the wooden front porch of the row house, two Philadelphia Police Department blue shirts were on either side of a rocking chair, one a male standing and writing notes and the other a female down on one knee. The young woman cop was speaking softly to eighteen-year-old Sasha Bazelon, who sat in the rocker, her face in her hands, her body visibly shaking as she sobbed.
Standing nearby on the sidewalk was a small crowd of fifteen people, mostly adult men and women holding Bibles, all watching with looks of deep sadness or abject helplessness. A couple of the women were dabbing at their cheeks with white cotton handkerchiefs. They wore what Mrs. Joelle Bazelon would have said was their Sunday Go-to-Meeting Clothing.