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The three A-SACs nodded.
“I didn’t go through you, Glenn,” he explained to Glenn Williamson, A-SAC (Administration), “I know Peter Wohl, and this was unofficial. But I think you should open a line of communication with Captain—What’s his name?”
“Duffy. Jack Duffy, Chief,” Williamson furnished. Williamson was a well-dressed man of forty-two who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair.
“—Duffy of—what’s his title, Glenn?”
“Assistant to the commissioner, Chief.”
“—whatever—as soon as possible. Either this afternoon, or first thing in the morning,” Davis finished.
For reasons SAC Davis really did not understand, cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not what he believed it should be. Getting anything out of them was like pulling teeth. When he had found the opportunity, he had discussed the problem with Commissioner Czernich. Czernich had told him that whenever he wanted anything from the Department, he should contact Captain Duffy, who would take care of whatever was requested. It had been Davis’s experience that bringing Duffy into the loop had served primarily to promptly inform Czernich that the FBI was asking for something; it had not measurably speeded up getting anything. The reverse, he thought, might actually be the case.
But now that Duffy was in the loop, Duffy would have to be consulted.
“Yes, sir.”
“You might mention I had an unofficial word with Wohl. Whatever you think best.”
“Yes, sir. How did it go with Wohl, sir?”
“Very interesting man. He had his straight man with him. I was thinking of lunch at Alfredo’s, and we wound up in a greasy spoon in South Philadelphia.”
“His straight man, sir?” A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young asked. Young was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.
“His driver. A young plainclothes cop named Payne. They have a little comedy routine they use on people Wohl’s annoyed with. I had to keep Wohl waiting twice, you see—”
“Oh, you met Payne, Chief?” A-SAC (Counterintelligence) Isaac J. Towne asked. He was a thirty-nine-year-old, balding Mormon, who took his religion seriously, a tall, hawk-featured man who had once told Davis, perfectly serious, that he regarded the Communists as the Antichrist.
“You know him?” Davis asked, surprised.
“I know about him,” Towne replied. “Actually, I know a good deal about him. Among other things, he’s the fellow who blew the brains of the serial rapist all over his van.”
“Oh, really?” A-SAC Young asked, genuine interest evident in his voice. Davis knew that Young had a fascination for what he had once called “real street cop stuff”; Davis suspected he was less interested in some of the white-collar crime that occupied a good deal of the FBI’s time and effort.
“How is it you know ‘a good deal about him,’ Isaac?” Davis asked.
“Well, when I saw the story in the papers, the name rang a bell, and I checked my files. We had just finished a CBI on him.” (Complete Background Investigation.)
“He’d applied for the FBI?”
“The Marine Corps. He was about to be commissioned.”
“Apparently he wasn’t?”
“He flunked the physical,” Towne said. “His father, his adoptive father, is Brewster Cortland Payne.”
“As in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and whatever else?”
“And Lester. Right, Chief.”
SAC Davis found that fascinating. He was himself an attorney, and although he had never actively practiced law, he was active in the Philadelphia Bar Association. He knew enough about the Bar in Philadelphia to know that Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester was one of the more prestigious firms.
“His ‘adoptive’ father, you said?”
“Yes, sir. His father was a Philadelphia cop. A sergeant. Killed in the line of duty. His mother remarried Payne, and Payne adopted the boy.”
That would stick in your mind, Davis thought, a street cop killed in the line of duty.
