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“At this very moment, he is being interviewed by the man I believe to be the best interrogator in the department.”
“But he has not confessed?”
“There was a witness, Mr. Savarese. He has positively identified him.”
“But he has not confessed,” Savarese insisted.
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about,” Coughlin said. “Under the circumstances—”
“What circumstances?”
“To bring this animal to trial, Mr. Savarese, it would be necessary to identify the victim of his unspeakable behavior to the court and his defense counsel—”
“We are speaking, aren’t we, as man-to-man?” Savarese interrupted.
“Yes, we are.”
“I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot permit my granddaughter to suffer any more than she has already suffered.”
“I understand that,” Coughlin said. “More important, Mr. Callis, the district attorney, understands that.”
“There is only one situation that I can imagine that would guarantee that what happened to my granddaughter would not become public knowledge . . . ,” Savarese said.
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Mr. Savarese,” Coughlin said.
“. . . and that would be the unavailability of this animal to stand trial,” Savarese finished.
“That sounds to me, Mr. Savarese, as if you are suggesting this animal be killed.”
“What I said, Mr. Coughlin, is that the only way I can see that my granddaughter’s name will not be dragged through the sewer, as it would be if there was to be a trial, would be if there was no trial. And there can be no trial if there is no accused.”
“The man we’re talking about was not arrested on a rape charge, Mr. Savarese, but on a wide array of other charges that should see him sent away for a very long time.”
“What you have this man on, Mr. Coughlin,” Savarese said patiently, as if explaining something to a backward child, “is nothing more than allegations that he stole from drug dealers. He will not spend much time—if, indeed, any—in prison.”
The waiter appeared with Savarese’s eggs Benedict and Coughlin’s scrapple and scrambled eggs.
Coughlin had not seen him coming, and when he looked up at him in surprise, he knew from the look on the waiter’s face that he had heard at least the end—the “time in prison”—of Savarese’s last sentence.
He laid the food before the two of them and fled.
“I’m surprised you know about the charges,” Coughlin said.
“And I’m surprised that you got to this animal before I did,” Savarese said. “Perhaps we have both underestimated the other.”
“I’ve never underestimated you, Mr. Savarese, but I think you may have underestimated me. Or at least the Philadelphia Police Department.”
“Why would you say that?” Savarese said.
“Mr. Ronald R. Ketcham is now under the protection of the U.S. Marshals’ Service . . .”
“I don’t believe I know the name, Mr. Coughlin.”
“. . . as a material witness to an unlawful abduction on federal property.”
“As I said, I don’t believe I know the name, Mr. Coughlin.”
“Oh, I think you know the name, Mr. Savarese,” Coughlin said. “And a good deal about Mr. Ketcham. I’m sure Joey Fiorello told you everything Phil Chason found out about him.”
