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RPC Nine Ten seemed closest to the scene. Meach pressed a key to send two short attention beeps across the airways, then activated his microphone:
“All cars stand by. 1908 Market Street, the Inferno Lounge, report of a shooting and a hospital case. Nine Ten, you have the assignment.”
The response was immediate.
“Nine Ten, got it,” Officer Edward Schirmer called into the microphone of Radio Patrol Car Number Ten of the Ninth District, as Officer Lewis Roberts, who was driving the car down Walnut Street, reached down to the dashboard and activated the siren and flashing lights.
“Nine Seven in on that,” another voice reported, that of Officer Frederick E. Rogers, in RPC Nine Seven.
“Highway Thirteen, in on the 1908 Market,” responded Officer David Fowler.
“Nine Oh One, got it,” responded Officer Adolphus Hart, who was riding in one of the two vans assigned to the Ninth District.
Nine Oh One had five minutes before left the Police Administration Building at Eighth and Race streets, after having transferred two prisoners from the holding cells at the Ninth District to Central Lockup.
Officer Thomas Daniels, who was driving Nine Oh One, had for no good reason at all elected to drive up Market Street and was by happenstance able to be the first police vehicle responding to the “Shooting and Hospital Case” call to reach the scene.
There was nothing at all unusual about the location when they pulled to the curb. The Inferno Lounge’s neon-flames sign was not illuminated, and the establishment seemed to be closed for the night.
He stopped just long enough to permit Officer Hart to jump out of the van and walk quickly to the door of the Inferno, and to see if Hart could open the door. He couldn’t. Then he turned left on Ludlow Street, so that he could block the rear entrance.
Two civilians, a very large black man and a tall young white man, both very well dressed, were walking down Nineteenth Street, toward Market. They could have, Officer Daniels reasoned, just come out of the alley behind the Inferno.
Officer Daniels, sounding his horn, drove the van into the alley, blocking it, and jumped out of the van.
“Hold it right there, please!” he called out.
His order proved to be unnecessary. The two civilians had stopped, turned, and were looking at him with curiosity.
While a Pedestrian Stop was of course necessary, Officer Daniels made the snap judgment that it was unlikely that these two had anything to do with whatever—if anything—had happened at the Inferno. They hadn’t run, for one thing, and they didn’t look uncomfortable.
Officer Daniels had an unkind thought: This area was an unusual place to take a stroll after midnight, unless, of course, the two were cruising for women. Or men. Maybe they had just found each other.
“Excuse me, sir,” Daniels said. “May I please see some identification?”
The younger man laughed. Daniels glowered at him.
“We’re police officers,” the black man said. “What have you got?”
The younger one exhibited a detective’s badge.
“What’s going on here, Officer?” the black man asked.
Officer Daniels hesitated just perceptibly before replying: “Shooting and hospital case inside the Inferno.”
“Was the front door open?” the black man asked.
“No.”
“I’ll go block the front,” the black man said. “The rear door to this place is halfway down the alley. There’s usually a garbage can full of beer bottles, and so on.” He turned to the young white man. “You go with him, Matt.”
The young man sort of stooped, and when he stood erect again, there was a snub-nose revolver in his hand.
Officer Daniels looked dubiously at the black man.
“I told you to go with him,” the black man said to Officer Daniels, a tone of command in his voice. Then he started to trot toward Market Street.
Officer Daniels ran after the young white man and caught up with him.
