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“Dutch Moffitt and he went way back. They went to the FBI National Academy together.”
He did not add, wondering why he didn’t, that the Moffitts and McGrorys, having made friends at the FBI Academy in Quantico, had kept it up. They visited each other, the Moffitts and their kids staying at the McGrory house in Absecon for the beach in the summer, and the McGrorys and their house apes staying with the Moffitts in Philly for, for example, the Mummers’ parades, or just because they wanted to go visit.
The wives got on well. Lieutenant Bob McGrory had told Knotts he had heard from his weeping wife that Dutch had stopped a bullet before he heard officially. Dutch’s Jeannie had called McGrory’s Mary-Ellen the minute she got back from the hospital. Mary-Ellen had parked the kids with her mother and gone right to Philly.
“I met him a couple of times,” Captain Stu Simons, riding alone in the backseat, said. “VIP protection details, stuff like that. He was a nice guy. It’s a fucking shame, what happened to him.”
“You said it,” Bill Knotts said.
“They catch him yet, the one that got away?”
“I think so,” Captain Simons said. “I think I heard something. They canceled the GRM (General Radio Message) for him.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Knotts said. “It was a busy night.”
“I hope they fry the sonofabitch,” Captain Kozniski said.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Captain Simons said. “He’ll get some bleeding-heart lawyer to defend him, and they’ll wind up suing Moffitt’s estate for violation of the bastard’s civil rights.”
Major Bill Knotts suddenly shifted very quickly on his seat, and looked out the window.
Captain Kozniski looked at him curiously.
“That shouldn’t be there,” Knotts said, aloud, but as if to himself.
“Whatever it was, I missed it,” Captain Kozniski said.
“There was a Jaguar back there, on a dirt road.”
“Somebody taking a piss,” Captain Kozniski said.
“Or getting a little,” Simons said.
“You want me to call it in, Major?” Captain Kozniski said.
“We’re here,” Knotts said simply.
Captain Kozniski eased slowly off on the accelerator, and when the car had slowed to sixty, began tapping the brakes. The highway was divided here by a median, and he looked for a place to cross it. The Ford bottomed out as they bounced across the median.
“Jesus Christ, Gerry!” Simons called out. “All we need is to wipe the muffler off!”
Captain Kozniski ignored him. “Where was it, Major?” he asked.
“Farther down,” Knotts said. “Where the hell are we? Anybody notice?”
“We’re three, four miles east of State Fifty-four,” Captain Kozniski replied with certainty.
It took them five minutes to find the car, and then another two minutes to find another place to cross the median again.
“Stay on the shoulder,” Knotts ordered, as they approached the dirt road.
Captain Kozniski stopped the car, and Knotts got out. Kozniski followed him, and then Simons. There was the sudden glare of a flashlight, and then Simons walked back to the car and got in the front seat and turned on the radio.
Knotts, carefully keeping out of the grass-free part of the road so as not to disturb tire tracks, approached the car, which was stopped, headed away from the highway, in the middle of the road.
“Give me a flashlight, please,” he said, and put his hand out. Kozniski handed him his flashlight. Knotts flashed the light inside the car. It was empty. He moved the beam of the light very slowly around the front of the car.
“Major!” Captain Simons called. “It’s a hit on the NCIC computer. NCIC says it was reported stolen in Philadelphia.”
