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Every police officer in Philadelphia reacted emotionally to the murder of Captain Dutch Moffitt—If the bad guys can get away with shooting a cop, what’s next?—but it was taken as a personal affront by every man in Highway.
The result was that eight thousand police officers, most especially including every member of the Highway Patrol, were searching for Gerald Vincent Gallagher.
He was found by two rookie cops, working undercover in Narcotics, whose names were Charley McFadden and Jesus Martinez. And it wasn’t a question of just stumbling onto the dirty little scumbag, either. On their own time, not even getting overtime, they had staked out Pratt Street Terminal, where Charley McFadden had an idea the miserable pissant would eventually show up.
And he had, and Charley and Jesus had chased the scumbag down the elevated tracks until Charles Vincent Gallagher had slipped, fallen onto the third rail, fried himself, and then been cut into many pieces under the wheels of a train.
Once they’d gotten their pictures in the newspaper, of course, Jesus’s and Charley’s effectiveness as undercover Narcs came to an end. And at a very awkward time for them, as Lieutenant David Pekach, having been promoted to captain, had been transferred out of Narcotics, and his replacement, a real shit heel, in their judgment, immediately made it clear that he felt no obligation to honor Lieutenant Pekach’s implied promise to keep them in Narcotics in plainclothes if they did a good job on the job.
They had, however, also come to the attention of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, who was arguably the most influential of the seven chief inspectors in the Department. Denny Coughlin saw in Charley McFadden something of himself. In other words, a good, hardworking Irish Catholic lad from South Philadelphia who was obviously destined to be a better than average cop. And Coughlin knew that once a rookie had worked the streets undercover, he regarded being put back in uniform as a demotion.
So he arranged for Officer McFadden to be assigned, temporarily, to the 12th District, in plainclothes, to work on an auto burglary detail. Chief Coughlin felt no such kinship for Officer Martinez—for one thing, the little Mexican didn’t look big enough to be a real cop, and for another, Coughlin was made vaguely uneasy by someone who had the same name as the Son of God himself—but fair was fair, and he arranged for Jesus Martinez to be similarly assigned.
Then when Mayor Carlucci had set up Special Operations and given it to Peter Wohl, the problem of what to do with McFadden and Martinez was, as far as Denny Coughlin was concerned, solved. He sent them over to Special Operations. Peter Wohl was a smart cop; he’d figure out something useful for them to do.
The subordination of Highway Patrol to the new Special Operations Division had been regarded by many, most, Highway guys as bullshit. It was wondered, aloud, why the mayor, who was a real Highway guy, had let the commissioner get away with it.
Giving command of Special Operations (and thus, Highway) to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl made it even worse. Everybody knew what staff inspectors did. Not that locking up judges and city commissioners and other big shots like that on the take wasn’t important, but it wasn’t the same thing as being out on the street, one-on-one, with the worst scumbags in Philadelphia.
Wohl seemed to prove what a Roundhouse asshole he was when he was reliably quoted as saying that anyone who willingly got on a motorcycle wasn’t playing with a full deck. Every Highway Patrolman had to go through extensive motorcycle training (“Wheel School”) and prove he could really ride a motorcycle, and they didn’t like some Roundhouse politically savvy supercop making fun of that.
That was all bad enough, but what really pissed people off, the straw that broke the fucking camel’s back, so to speak, was Wohl’s probationary Highway Patrolman idea. Wohl said that he would approve the transfer into Highway of outstanding young cops who didn’t have four or five years on the job. He would put them to work under a Highway supervisor for six months. At any time during the six months, the supervisor could recommend, in writing, that the rookie be transferred out of Highway. But he had to give his reasons. In other words, if the rookie didn’t screw up, he was in. He would get himself sent to Wheel School and if he got through that, he could go buy himself a pair of boots, breeches, and a crushed-crown brimmed cap.
T
he first two probationary Highway Patrolmen were Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden.
Officer Charley McFadden pulled open the top left-hand drawer of his dresser and took his Smith & Wesson Military & Police .38 Special caliber service revolver from under a pile of Jockey shorts and slipped it into his holster.
Then he went down the stairs two at a time.
“See you later, Mom!” he called at the bottom.
“Ask Margaret if she’d like to come to supper,” Agnes McFadden said. “If you can spare the time for your mother.”
“I’ll ask,” Charley said, and went out the door.
He ran across Fitzgerald Street, down two houses, and up the steps to the porch. The door opened as he got there.
Margaret was wearing her nurse suit. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she didn’t. Charley wasn’t sure exactly how that worked, but he did know that she was a real knockout in her starched white uniform. Not that she wasn’t in regular clothes too, of course. But there was something about that white uniform that turned Charley on.
“Hi!” she said.
“Hi!”
She stood on her toes and kissed him. Chastely, but on the lips.
She had an armful of books.
“How come the books?”
“Classes in the morning,” she said. “Then I agreed to fill in at the emergency room from one to seven.”
“I get off at four,” he said, disappointed.
“I need the money,” she said, and then corrected herself. “We need the money. And I’m getting double-time.”
They went down the stairs. Charley unlocked the door of his Volkswagen.
