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“They don’t want to get involved. In other words, they’re scared. That press release and the way the press swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker, made things worse.”
“So if you catch these guys, you have one witness?”
“There’s no question of ‘if’ we catch them, Tommy,” Lowenstein said. “The question is how, and what we do with them.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” the district attorney said.
“Okay. Two things bug me about this job,” Lowenstein said. “First, something that’s been building up the last couple of years. Witnesses not wanting to get involved. A lot of scumbags are walking around out there because witnesses suddenly have developed trouble with their memories.”
Callis nodded. “They’re afraid. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“In a minute, I’ll tell you. The second things is I don’t like the idea of a bunch of schwartzer thugs dressing up like Arabs—”
“Americans of African des
cent, you mean, of course, Chief?” Callis interrupted softly.
“—and announcing they’re not really stick-up artists—in this case, murderers—but soldiers in some liberation army.”
“And blaming the Jews for all their troubles?”
“Yeah. Blaming us Jews for all their troubles,” Lowenstein said. “That bothers me personally, but I’m here as the chief inspector of Detectives of the City of Philadelphia. Okay?”
“No offense, Matt.”
“I called Jason Washington last night—” Lowenstein said, and then interrupted himself. “I tried to call you, Peter, but all I got was your answering machine. Then I called your driver, and all I got there was a smart-ass message on his answering machine. So I gave up and called Washington without checking with you. I hope you’re not sore. I thought it was necessary.”
“Don’t be silly,” Wohl said. “But if you are referring to Officer Payne, he is my administrative assistant, not my driver. Only full inspectors and better get drivers.”
“I don’t think it will be too long, Chief,” Callis said, “before Peter is a full inspector, do you?”
“What about Washington, Chief?” Wohl asked.
“He has a relationship with Arthur X,” Lowenstein went on. “I asked him to call him.”
Arthur X, a Negro male, thirty-six years of age, 175 pounds, who shaved his head, and wore flowing robes, had been born Arthur John Thomlinson. He had replaced Thomlinson with X on the basis that Thomlinson was a slave name. Arthur X was head of the Philadelphia Islamic Temple, which was established in a former movie palace on North Broad Street.
He had converted an estimated three thousand people to his version of Islam. The men wore suits and ties, and the women white robes, including headgear that covered most of their faces.
“And?” Tommy Callis asked.
“He told Jason he never heard of the Islamic Liberation Army.”
“Did Jason believe him? Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“He and Jason have an understanding. He doesn’t lie to Jason, and Jason doesn’t lie to him. Jason said he had the feeling that Arthur didn’t like their using the term ‘Islamic.’ That’s his word.”
“He didn’t volunteer who he thought these people might be, by any chance?”
“Jason didn’t ask. He said if he asked, and Arthur told him—Jason said he didn’t think Arthur knew, but he certainly could find out—then we would owe him one. I told you, Tommy, we already know who they are.”
“So why did you have Washington call Arthur X?”
“To make sure that when we go to pick these scumbags up, we wouldn’t be running into the Fruit of Islam screaming religious and/or racial persecution.”
