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That hadn’t happened, for a number of reasons never really spelled out, but certainly including the fact that Inspector Peter Wohl, the commanding officer of Special Operations, probably could not have won an election for the most popular white shirt in the department.
For one thing, at thirty-seven, he was the youngest inspector in the department. For another, he already had, in the opinion of many inspectors and chief inspectors, too much authority. And in the course of his career-especially when he had been a staff inspector in Internal Affairs, again the youngest man to hold that rank-he had put a number of dirty cops, some of them high ranking, in the slam.
Almost all police officers of all ranks, although they don’t like to admit it, have ambivalent feelings toward dirty cops, and the cops who catch them and send them to the slam. Dirty cops deserve the slam, and the guys who put them there deserve the gratitude and admiration of every honest police officer.
On the other hand, Jesus Christ, Ol’Harry was a good cop for seventeen years before this happened, and how’s his family going to make out while he’s doing time? And when he gets out, no pension, no nothing. I’m glad he’s not on my conscience.
When Wohl-after having placed second of eleven examinees on the written examination for promotion to inspector- appeared before the senior officers conducting the oral part of the exam, his ability to handle the conflicting emotions that dealing with dirty cops evoked was one of the reasons he got promoted.
So while just about everyone agreed that Dignitary Protection belonged in Special Operations, it didn’t go there. It stayed a separate unit.
There was so much going on between Dignitary Protection and Special Operations, however, that Inspector Wohl had decided there should be one man charged with liaison between the two. He had assigned this duty-in addition to his other duties-to Detective Matthew M. Payne.
It was no secret anywhere in the department that Inspector Wohl was Detective Payne’s rabbi, and there were many who thought that this was the reason Payne was given the assignment. And to a degree, the suspicions had a basis in fact.
The function of a rabbi is to groom a young police officer for greater responsibility-and higher rank-down the line. As he had risen upward in the police department, Inspector Wohl’s rabbi had been Inspector, then Chief Inspector, then Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin.
As Commissioner Coughlin had risen upward through the ranks, his rabbi had been Captain, and ultimately the Hon. Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Philadelphia, who had liked to boast that he had held every rank in the police department except policewoman, before answering the people’s call to elective public office.
And His Honor, too, had had a rabbi. His had been-ultimately, before he retired-Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, whose only son Peter had entered the Police Academy at twenty, two weeks after he had graduated from Temple University.
Wohl did think that learning about Dignitary Protection would do Detective Payne some good-the more a cop knew about the department, the better-but another major reason was efficiency.
Whoever sat in at the meetings at Dignitary Protection would be expected to report to Wohl precisely what had happened, and what would be asked of Special Operations.
Matt Payne not only had the ability to write a report quickly and accurately, but he had almost permanently attached to his right wrist a state-of-the-art laptop computer, on which and through which the final reports of what happened at the Dignitary Protection meeting would be written and transmitted to Inspector Wohl’s desktop computer long before Detective Payne himself could return to Special Operations headquarters in what once had been the U.S. Army’s Frankford Arsenal.
As Payne was about to push open the door to the auditorium, Sergeant Al Nevins, a stocky, barrel-chested forty-five-year — old, trotted across the lobby and caught his arm.
Nevins was one of the two sergeants permanently assigned to Dignitary Protection.
“God loves me,” he said. “You’re early. I was afraid you’d show up on time, and I put out the arm for you, and radio reported they couldn’t find you.” He offered no explanation, instead turned and, raising his voice, called across the lobby, “Lieutenant Payne’s here.”
Lieutenant Gerry McGuire, the commanding officer of Dignitary Protection-a somewhat plump, pleasant-looking forty-five-year-old-walked across the lobby to them. He was-surprising Matt-in uniform.
“I tried to have Al reach out for you, Matt,” McGuire said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re going to do this, now, in the Ritz-Carlton.”
“Who’s coming to town, sir?” Matt asked.
“Stan Colt,” Lieutenant McGuire said.
“My life is now complete,” Matt said.
Stan Colt was an almost unbelievably handsome and muscular actor who had begun his theatrical career in a rock band, used the fame that had brought him to get a minor part in a police series on television, and then used that to get his first role in a theatrical motion picture, playing a detective. That motion picture had been spectacularly successful, largely, Matt thought, because of the special effects. There had been a half-dozen follow-ons, none of which Matt had seen-the first one had reminded him of the comic books he’d read as a kid; in one scene Stan Colt had fired twenty-two shots without reloading from a seven-shot. 45 Colt, held sideward-but he understood they had all done exceedingly well at the box office.
“Matt,” McGuire said, “be aware that the mayor and the commissioner look upon him as a Philadelphia icon, right up there with Benjamin Franklin.” He looked at his watch and added, “I mean now, we’re due there at nine-thirty.”
He waved Matt ahead of him across the lobby. Sergeant Nevins followed them.
“What’s going on at the Ritz-Carlton?” Matt asked.
“Mr. Colt’s advance party is there,” Lieutenant McGuire replied. “And possibly the archbishop, though more likely Monsignor Schneider. And the commissioner said he might drop by. Colt’s people are calling it a ‘previsit breakfast conference. ’ ”
“What’s going on?”
“West Catholic High School is going to give Mr. Colt his high school diploma,” McGuire said. “Which he apparently didn’t get before he went off to show business and fame. In connection with this, there will be two expensive lunches, two even more expensive dinners, and a star-studded performance featuring Mr. Colt and a number of friends. The proceeds will all go to the West Catholic Building Fund. The archbishop, I understand, is thrilled. And the mayor and the commissioner are thrilled whenever the archbishop is thrilled.”
“I get the picture,” Matt said.
