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The image on the screen then cut to a shot of what had become the familiar scene at Third and Arch. Except this time there was a sea of dark blue—uniformed police lining the sidewalks shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. And there were police cruisers parked bumper to bumper all along the curbs. There was a Medical Examiner’s Office van parked on the sidewalk, its rear doors open and a gurney with a full body bag being pushed inside.
And in front of the van were four people, their hands cuffed behind their backs, being led by blue shirts to the open rear doors of two Chevy Impala police cars parked at the curb. The first was a tiny, ancient, gray-haired black woman in a sacklike dress, then a skinny young teenage black girl in a white sleeveless jacket, and two teenage black males in jeans and hoodie sweatshirts.
A Tow Squad wrecker rolled past on Arch Street, a rusted-out mid- 1970s AMC Gremlin hanging backward behind it.
“—were each arrested on multiple counts of suspicion of murder, tampering with evidence at the scene of a crime, and various other criminal charges in connection with the murder last night of one Jossiah Miffin. Arrested were his grandmother and three teenagers, two boys who identified themselves as Miffin’s neighbors, and a girl who said she was his niece.”
The image went back to Carlucci’s face.
He went on pointedly: “If these
people had followed the proper procedure and called 911 for the police to handle the case of Miffin’s murder—and not brought the deceased to Lex Talionis—certain charges would never have been brought against them.” He paused, exhaled audibly, and in a calmer manner added, “So, in conclusion, let there be no mistake that, as I swore to do when I took my oath of office, I will see that the laws of this fine and just city are enforced to the letter. And, together, you and I will see Philadelphia return to normalcy. Thank you for your time. And may God bless you and the great city of Philadelphia.”
Corporal Kerry Rapier was in his wheeled nylon-mesh-fabric chair at the control panel, manipulating the images on the three banks of monitors. He rewound the recording back to where Carlucci was forcefully saying: “And never in all my years in this city . . .”
“I think three times is enough, Kerry,” Sergeant Matthew Payne said. “It was difficult enough to watch live the first time. I was convinced that his anger was being directed at the head of Task Force Operation Clean Sweep, who has accomplished exactly zero in his appointed duty.”
Payne was sitting at Conference Table One. Detective Anthony Harris sat beside him. Each had a commanding view of the three banks of TV monitors, all brightly lit with various images, ones that now included the new pop-and-drops. Before them on the table, each had a notebook computer wired into the communications network. Matt’s screensaver image showed a hundred tiny .45 ACP rounds continually ricocheting across the screen, looking like a copper-jacketed hollow-point meteor shower.
Next to Matt’s computer was a coffee-stained mug with the representation of a patch. On the patch was the downtown Philadelphia skyline with the statue of William Penn atop City Hall. Overlooking that was a Grim Reaper in a black cape and holding a golden scythe. And in gold letters the words PHILADELPHIA POLICE HOMICIDE DIVISION—OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS circled the patch.
Kerry Rapier said: “But, Matt, I just love that part where the spittle starts flying and he pounds the lectern with his iron fist while declaring, ‘. . . and I will not let it stand!’ Brilliant, just brilliant theater.”
Payne raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty damn sure he wasn’t acting. I’ve seen him blow his cork a time or three before.” He looked to the second bank of monitors. “Getting back to the task force task at hand, so to speak, let’s see if we can turn over some damn stone under the stone.”
Kerry Rapier checked the notes he’d written on his pad, then looked at the banks of monitors and said, “We have new information in the case files of Kendrik Mays, LeRoi Cheatham, Reggie Jones, and now Jossiah Miffin.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and those three dead we saw at the demolition site in Northern Liberties.”
“Not those now,” Payne said. “They were a block away from where Cheatham got popped, but they’re not even remotely connected to any of the pop-and-drops, including Cheatham’s.”
“I agree,” Harris said. “Unless the medical examiner finds some obvious cause of death—maybe poisoning?—my gut tells me that those are fast on their way to becoming cold cases. All we know is what caused the blunt trauma on the one—a damn wrecking ball—but that wasn’t necessarily the cause of death.”
“Gotcha,” Rapier said. He manipulated his control panel.
Kendrik Mays’s case file went to the main bank of monitors, his ugly mug staring down at them.
Rapier took the Colt .45 cursor and clicked on the link that took them to the crime-scene video. But the pointing device didn’t fire or have any muzzle smoke.
“What happened to that?” Payne asked.
“I disabled it before the mayor came in this morning,” Kerry said. “Decided it was a bit over the top. Anyway, as I told you in that text last night, Matt, forensics matched the prints at the Mays house to our mystery shooter, SNU 2010-56-9280.”
The video showed the Mays basement with inverted-V evidence markers everywhere. Rapier moved the cursor over the marker bearing the numeral “05” in the corner of the basement. It was next to a pistol on a dirt-encrusted, sweat-stained T-shirt. A box with a series of digitized buttons at its bottom then popped up. It held a sharp image of the revolver that they’d seen being photographed on the live feed the day before.
“Matt, you were right about the snub-nosed. It was a Chief ’s Special, not a Bodyguard.”
Manipulating the console joystick, Rapier rotated the image of the pistol, showing all the angles at which it had been photographed. He then moved the cursor to the series of digitized buttons. He clicked the button with a question mark on it, and up popped a translucent text box over the image of the pistol. It read: Weapon: Smith & Wesson Model 637-1 .38 Special revolver.
Serial Number: (Unknown; removed by grinding or filing)
Sold: (Unknown)
Seller: (Unknown)
Buyer: (Unknown)
Notes: Airweight Chief’s Special. 5-shot stainless-steel cylinder and 2-inch barrel, aluminum alloy J-frame. Black rubber Uncle Mike’s grips. Only two (2) rounds of Federal .38 caliber +p loaded in cylinder; other three (3) were spent shell casings of same round. Barrel riflings show evidence of firing. Fingerprints belonging to Kendrik LeShawn MAYS 2008-18-063914-POP-N-DROP.
“Then the ‘boom’ that killed Mays was the .38?” Payne said. “Not our mystery man’s .45 cal.?”
