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His investigator’s mind is still on high speed.
“No, sir. Not on the deceased. His brother, however, is in the wind.”
“How’s that?”
“Kenneth J. ‘Kenny’ Jones, black male, age twenty-two, skipped out on a charge of possession with intent to distribute. Jumped his two-thousand-dollar bail after getting picked up in Germantown. Like his brother Reggie, Kenny’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Tried to sell crack cocaine to a couple of our guys working an undercover task force.”
Coughlin snorted, thought a moment, then said, “Maybe the doer popped the wrong brother by mistake?”
“Possible.”
“And the others who’d been pop-and-dropped all had some sexual crime component?”
“Yes, sir. All but the lawyer. And all the others had been shot.”
“But not the Jones boy? He was strangled.”
Harris nodded. “Correct.”
Coughlin looked at Hollaran. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
Frank Hollaran had worked with Denny Coughlin so many years he could finish his sentences.
“That it’s possible?” Hollaran asked. “Sure, boss. If somehow they’d heard about the pop-and-drops. But I doubt it’s happened in this case. Not enough time has elapsed. It can happen, probably will happen, especially with the cash rewards being offered.”
“What’re we talking about?” Payne asked.
“Copycats. Folks who mimic crimes they see in the news. That fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol talked about.”
Quaire, gesturing again at the newspaper on Washington’s desk, put in: “And now we have—cue the dramatic music—the Halloween Homicides.”
Payne offered: “Playing devil’s advocate, maybe it’s not so much a copycat as it is someone taking up Frank Fuller on the hefty bounty he offers for—what’s his phrase?—the evildoers.”
“Think that through, Matthew,” Washington said. “Who is going to claim those rewards? At least for the dead critters? They’d be admitting to murder.”
Payne shrugged.
“Regardless,” Coughlin said, “Jerry Carlucci is going to want to know what we’re doing about the problem. He’s planning on having a press conference at noon in the Executive Command Center. What he talks about depends on what he hears from us. And I’m sure he will denounce Fuller’s bounty.”
“Isn’t denouncing the bounty a bit hypocritical?” Payne asked.
“In what way?” Coughlin said.
“The Philadelphia Police Department is in bed with, for example, the FBI and the DEA, which do offer big rewards for fingering bad guys. And that nationwide Crimestoppers program pays five or ten grand for information leading to a conviction—just call their toll-free number. It pays up even if you remain anonymous. It’d make my job a helluva lot easier if someone called with something on these pop-and-drops.”
“We do ask for tips on catching criminals, Matty,” Coughlin said reasonably, “but we don’t encourage killing. There’s a difference, one somebody needs to point out to Frank Fuller.” He sighed deeply. “But good point. Carlucci will have to spin it in a positive way.”
He glanced at his watch. “Okay, everyone follow me upstairs. This was just the dress rehearsal.”
Payne didn’t move, causing Coughlin to raise an eyebrow in question.
“ ‘Everyone’ as in everyone?” Matt asked. “Am I allowed to leave the office?”
Coughlin, his voice taking an official tone, then said, “As of this moment, Sergeant Payne, assuming you can at some point soon get a decent shower and shave, I hereby order your release from desk duty.”
Coughlin looked around the office.
“Everyone think they can follow that order?”
