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Wohl nodded, and then pushed himself up from the table.
In the ten minutes Peter Wohl had been in his car en route from his apartment to Special Operations, there had been three calls for W-William One.
That meant, he believed, that the police radio operator had been instructed, most likely by the Hon. Taddeus Czernich, commissioner of police, but possibly by the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia, to keep trying to locate Staff Inspector Peter Wohl until you find him.
He had not responded to the calls for W-William One because he was absolutely sure that the message for him would be to immediately report to the commissioner. It was bad enough that Monahan had been killed while he was charged with his protection; he didn’t want to face Czernich and/or the mayor and have to tell him that although Mrs. Monahan said she saw a cop shoot him, there were no wounds in the body, or that the two groups of cops who were supposed to be sitting on Monahan told conflicting stories and he wasn’t sure who was telling the truth.
There had also been two calls on the Supervisor Band that he had listened to with half a mind. They were not intended for him. Someone was trying to reach I-Isaac Seventeen. The only reason he paid any attention to the calls at all was because, in the happy, happy days of yore when he had not been W-William One, commanding officer of the Special Operations Division, he had been I-Isaac Seventeen, just one more simple staff inspector.
I wonder who I-Isaac Seventeen is now, and I wonder why W-William Seven wants to talk to him.
Jesus H. Christ! As far as turning my brain back on is concerned, that shower didn’t do me a goddamn bit of good.
He grabbed the microphone.
“W-William Seven, I-Isaac Seventeen.”
“Isaac Seventeen, can you meet me at the medical examiner’s?”
Even with the frequency clipped tones of the radio, Jason Washington’s deep melodic voice was unmistakable.
“Isaac Seventeen, on the way.”
Wohl tossed the microphone onto the seat beside him, braked sharply, and then made a wide sweeping U-turn, tires squealing in protest, and headed for the medical examiner’s office.
Jason wouldn’t want me there unless he has learned something.
The ME probably found the bullet puncture that damned redhead couldn’t find. It’s not much, but it’s something!
Jason Washington was sitting in his car outside the medical examiner’s office when Wohl pulled into the parking lot. There was a space next to him. Wohl pulled into it, and then got in Washington’s car.
“I suspect when you walk in there,” Washington said, “there will be a message for you to call the commissioner immediately. So let’s take a minute here.”
“They’ve been calling me on the radio every three minutes,” Wohl said. “That Isaac Seventeen business was clever, Jason, thank you.”
“It will prove to be clever if Czernich, or somebody else who remembers you used to be Isaac Seventeen and will run to Czernich, wasn’t listening to the radio.”
“I thought of that too. I owe you another one, Jason.”
“I talked to the cops who were sitting on Mr. Monahan,” Washington said, cutting him off. “I think they’re all telling the truth.”
“How can that be?”
“A guy named Kallanan was taking his turn walking around the house just before six. I happen to know him. When I did my civic duty in the Black Police Officer’s Association, I worked with him. I was treasurer when he was secretary. Good man.”
“Okay. I’ll take your word.”
“He said it was a couple of minutes before six when he came out of the alley and started down Sylvester Street. He said that the relief RPC was already there. He said he couldn’t see into the relief RPC clearly—the side windows were mostly frozen over—but he remembers that two of the guys inside were wearing—what do you call those hats with earflaps?”
“I know what you mean.”
“Okay. Two guys were wearing winter hats, for lack of a better word. And that the driver was black. He could see that well.”
“He didn’t recognize anybody?”
“No. It was still pretty dark. The windshield was fogged over. He saw what I just told you.”
“Okay.”
