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“You also have a suicidal tendency,” Sergeant Dannelly said. “I ever tell you that?”
Two beeps on the radio cut off the conversation.
“Roosevelt Boulevard and Harbison,” the dispatcher’s voice said. “The Waikiki Diner. Assist officer. Police by phone. Roosevelt Boulevard and Harbison. The Waikiki Diner. Assist officer. Police by phone.”
“Jesus Christ!” Officer Waldron said.
“That’s got to be the captain,” Dannelly said.
“Report of a robbery, shooting, and hospital case,” the dispatcher said. “All cars going in on the assist, Harbison and the Boulevard, flash information on a robbery at that location. Be on the lookout for Caucasian male, long blond hair, brown jacket, direction taken unknown, armed with a gun.”
As Sergeant Dannelly reached for the microphone, without waiting for orders, Officer Waldron had dropped the transmission shift lever into D-2, and flipped the switches activating the flashing light assembly and the siren, and then shoved his foot to the floor.
“Highway Two-B in on that,” Sergeant Dannelly said into the microphone.
The Ford, its engine screaming in protest, tires squealing, accelerated the rest of the way around Oxford Circle and back down Roosevelt Boulevard toward the Waikiki Diner.
The second response came on the heels of Highway Two B’s: “Two-Oh-One in on that Waikiki Diner.” It was not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Two-Oh-One was not that instant responding to the call.
The Waikiki Diner was in the territory of the Second Police District. Two-Oh-One was a Second Police District patrol wagon, a Ford van.
Philadelphia police, unlike those of every other major city, respond to all calls for any kind of assistance.
If you break a leg, call the cops! If Uncle Harry has a heart attack, call the cops! If you get your fingers in the Waring blender, call the cops!
A paddy wagon will respond, and haul you to the hospital. Not in great comfort, for the back of the van holds only a stretcher, and there is no array of high-tech lifesaving apparatus. But it will cart you to the hospital as fast as humanly possible.
Paddy wagons are police vehicles, driven by armed sworn police officers, normally young muscular officers without much time on the job. Young muscles are often needed to carry large citizens down three flights of stairs, and to restrain bellicose drunks, for the paddy wagon also still performs the function it did when it was pulled by horses, and “paddy” was a pejorative term for those of Irish heritage. Paddy wagon duty is recognized to be a good way to introduce young police officers to what it’s really like on the streets.
When the “assist officer” call came over the radio, Two-Oh-One was parked outside Sid’s Steak Sandwiches & Hamburgers on the corner of Cottman and Summerdale avenues, across from Northeast High School. Officer Francis Mason was at the wheel and Officer Patrick Foley was inside Sid’s, where he had ordered a couple of cheese steaks and two large Cokes to go, and then visited the gentlemen’s rest facility. He and Francis had attended a function of the Fraternal Order of Police the night before, and he had taken advantage of the free beer bar. He’d had the runs all day.
Officer Mason, when he got the call, picked up the microphone and said Two-Oh-One was responding, flicked up the siren and lights, and reached over and pushed open the passenger side door. It was ninety seconds, but seemed much longer, before Officer Foley appeared, on the run, a pained look on his face, fastening his gun belt, and jumped in the van.
Officer Mason made a U-turn on Summerdale Avenue; skidded to a stop at Cottman; waited until there was a break in the traffic; and then turned onto Cottman, running on the left side of the avenue, against oncoming traffic, until he was finally able to force himself into the inside right lane.
“I think I shit my pants,” Officer Foley said.
The broadcast was also received by a vehicle parked in the parking lot of LaSalle College at Twentieth Street and Olney Avenue, where a crew from WCBL-TV had just finished taping yet another student protest over yet another tuition increase. After a moment’s indecision, Miss Penny Bakersfield, the reporter, told the driver that there might be something in the car for “Nine’s News,” if he thought he could get there in a hurry.
Highway Two-B made a wide sweeping U-turn, its tires screeching, from the northbound center lane of Roosevelt Boulevard into the southbound right lane and then into the parking lot of the Waikiki Diner.
There were no police cars evident in the parking lot; that made it almost certain that the “assist officer, shots fired” call had come from Captain Dutch Moffitt, who had either been in his unmarked car, or his own car.
Sergeant Dannelly had the door open before Highway Two-B lurched to a stop in front of the diner. Pistol drawn, he ran into the building, with Waldron on his heels.
A blond woman was on her knees beside Dutch Moffitt, who seemed to be sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Dannelly pushed her out of the way, saw the blank look in Moffitt’s eyes, and then felt for a pulse.
“He ran out the back,” the woman said, very softly.
“Go after him!” Dannelly ordered Waldron. “I’ll go around outside.”
He pushed himself to his feet and ran back out of the diner. He recognized the signs of fury in himself—some miserable fucking pissant shit had shot Dutch, the best goddamn captain in the department—and told himself to take it easy.
He stopped and took two deep breaths and then started to run around the diner building. Then he changed his mind. He ran to the car, whose doors were still open, switched the radio to the J-Band, and picked up the microphone.
“Highway Two-B to radio. Will you have all Highway cars switch to J-Band, please.”
He waited a moment, to give radio time to relay the message, and to give everybody time to switch frequencies, and then put the mike to his lips again.
