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He unfastened her seat belt, reached into her lap, reclaimed his cellular, and then pulled her out of the car.
There was blood on her dress, but when he put his hand to it, she pushed him away, as if he was taking liberties with her person. He led her around the corner and sort of leaned her against a Ford van.
Then he went to the victims.
“It’s over,” he said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“All right? All right?” the woman snapped at him. “What the hell is the matter with you? Are you drunk, or what? Can’t you hear that screaming?”
“I’m calling for assistance,” Matt said. “Help will be here soon.”
He punched in 911 on his cellular as he walked back to Terry.
“Police Radio.” Mrs. Angelina Carracelli, who had been on the job for twenty-two years, answered his call on the second ring.
“This is Sergeant Payne, 471. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance.”
Mrs. Carracelli waited for the sergeant to provide greater details. When none were forthcoming, she said, “Sergeant?”
“Radio,” Sergeant Payne said, a little distantly. “That’s not exactly accurate. I’m doing fine. I don’t need assistance. But there are people here who do.”
“You said ‘shots fired,’ Sergeant?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of shots fired.”
“What is your location, Sergeant?”
“I’m going to need two ambulances-no, three. And the fire department. There’s spilled gas.”
“What is your location, Sergeant?”
“I’m in the parking lot next to La Famiglia Restaurant on South Front Street.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you in uniform, Sergeant?”
“Oh, no, I’m not in uniform,” Matt chuckled.
Mrs. Carracelli made several quick decisions. First, that the call was legitimate, not someone’s idea of a joke. That there was something wrong with the sergeant. His voice was strange, and he sounded a little disoriented. He might be injured, or even wounded.
She muted the telephone line and pushed the appropriate switches.
Every police radio in Philadelphia heard three shrill beeps, and then the call:
“Assist the Officer, South Front Street, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. Assist the Officer, parking lot by La Famiglia Restaurant unit block South Front Street. Shots fired. All officers use caution, plainclothes police on the scene.”
The three shrill beeps and the call were also heard in the Buick Rendezvous, which was carrying Mr. and Mrs. Casimir Bolinski up Market Street toward the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.
“Shit,” Mr. Michael J. O’Hara said, as he put the Rendezvous into a screeching U-turn. “That’s where Matty is!” As they followed the black Suburban up Market Street in their unmarked Crown Victoria, Lieutenant Gerry McGuire and Sergeant Al Nevins heard the same call.
McGuire found the microphone.
“Dan Seven-four and Dan Seven-five, stay with the assignment,” he said into it, and then he tossed the microphone to Nevins as he desperately looked for a hole in the oncoming traffic on Market Street in which he could make a U-turn.
“Radio,” Sergeant Nevins said to the microphone, “Dan Seven-one in on the Assist Officer on Front Street. Be advised there is probably an officer in plainclothes on the scene.”
