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On the inside of the tape, there were a number of police officers, in uniform, and others with badges visible on their civilian clothing. Captain Alex Smith, the Thirty-fifth District commander, and Lieutenant Lew Sawyer were talking to a woman with a badge on her dress, whom Matt remembered after a moment to be Captain Helene Durwinsky, the commanding officer of the Special Victims Unit, and a man with a lieutenant’s badge hanging on his suit jacket. He saw Detectives Domenico and Ellis, of Special Victims, standing a few feet from the white shirts, with several other detectives Matt didn’t recognize.
“You got the word?” Captain Smith said.
There was no question what “the word” was, but Matt didn’t know if Smith was speaking to him or Joe D’Amata.
“With no explanation, sir,” D’Amata replied.
“It may have something to do with Phil’s Philly,” Captain Smith said dryly. “On which-according to my wife, one of Phil’s most devoted listeners-about forty-five minutes ago, Mrs. McGrory spoke at some length about Miss Williamson being raped and tortured while the police stood not caring outside her door.”
“Oh, shit!” D’Amata said.
“I just talked to her,” Matt said. “I used her kitchen to talk to the brother. She didn’t say anything about talking to that ass… Phil’s Philly.”
Phil’s Philly was a very popular radio talk show. Philadelphians dissatisfied with something in the City of Brotherly Love could call the number, and be reasonably sure both of a sympathetic ear on the part of Phil Donaldson, and that Mr. Donaldson would then call-on the air-whoever had wronged the caller, to indignantly demand an explanation, an apology, and immediate corrective action.
“Well, she did,” Captain Smith went on. “My wife said that Phil’s first call was to Commissioner Mariani, and when Commissioner Mariani ‘was not available’ to take the call, Phil called the mayor. Who made the mistake of taking the call.”
Three unmarked cars pulled up shortly thereafter, within moments of each other. Television and still cameras recorded Deputy Commissioner Dennis V. Coughlin and Captain F. X. Hollaran as they walked into the apartment complex, ducked under the POLICE LINE tape, and walked up to Captain Smith’s group. Smith and Sawyer, who were in uniform, saluted.
The press then recorded the same out-of-the-car-and-under — the-tape movement of Captain Henry C. Quaire and Lieutenant Jason Washington, and then turned their attention to Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein.
Lowenstein ducked under the tape and then spoke, while the cameras rolled, to the two young uniformed officers standing in front of the assembled press.
“Do you know who I am?” Lowenstein demanded, firmly, as flashbulbs went off and television cameras followed his movements.
“Yes, sir,” both young officers replied, in unison.
“Most of the ladies and gentlemen of the press will respect this crime scene tape,” Lowenstein said, pointing to it. “That one”-he pointed to Mickey O’Hara-"will more than likely try to sneak under it. If he does, use whatever force you feel is appropriate. Like breaking his arms and legs.”
“Yes, sir,” both young officers said, earnestly, in unison.
Mickey O’Hara laughed with delight.
Chief Lowenstein then walked up to the group around Deputy Commissioner Coughlin. The uniformed officers saluted him.
“I can’t believe you did that!” Coughlin said, not quite able to restrain a smile. “What the hell was that about?”
Chief Lowenstein was one of a tiny group of senior police officers who was not awed by either Deputy Commissioner Coughlin’s rank or his persona, possibly because they had graduated from the Police Academy together and had been close personal friends ever since.
“You all looked guilty as hell,” Lowenstein said. “Playing right into Philadelphia Phil’s hand. I decided a little levity was in order.”
“I hope Mickey doesn’t try to get past the tape,” Captain Hollaran said. “That female uniform’s got her eye on him.”
Deputy Commissioner Coughlin followed the nod of Hollaran’s head, saw a very determined, very slight, very young female police officer, her baton in her hands, glowering at Mickey O’Hara, who outweighed her by fifty pounds. Coughlin had a very difficult time not laughing out loud.
He returned his attention to the group and settled his eyes on Matt.
“Sergeant,” he ordered, “take us someplace where we can talk privately.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “Will you follow me, please, Commissioner? ”
He led the procession to the front stairs of the building and up them to Cheryl Williamson’s apartment. This was not the time, he decided, to take further advantage of Mrs. McGrory’s hospitality.
He led the procession into Cheryl Williamson’s kitchen. It was crowded with all of them in it.
“This will all seem a lot less amusing if that little scene is on the six o’clock news, and the mayor sees it,” Coughlin said. “Jesus, Matt!”
“I’d rather have that on the tube,” Lowenstein said, “than poor Smitty here on it trying to explain the law that kept his uniforms from taking the door when-maybe, just maybe-the doer was inside raping and murdering the young woman.”
