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“Let me be clear,” Finley said. “I do not need this job. I took it because I love this city. And because you asked me. That is, Ed asked me to work with him.”
Carlucci looked at him.
And you—maybe both of you—will report back to Frank Fuller what you perceive to be my failures.
“Look,” Carlucci went on evenly, “I take great pride in my time on the force. And, as mayor, I continue to take great pride in seeing that our laws are enforced, our people protected.”
“Then what do you plan to do?” Finley said. “Two families are about to visit the morgue and have to identify their dead teenage son and daughter. And that animal put a young mother through hell by kidnapping her child!”
“We’re as disgusted by this as you are, James,” Carlucci said. “The first thing we’re doing is putting more uniforms on the street, beginning with a surge in Center City.”
He looked at Coughlin, who nodded.
“Including all of the Mounted Patrol Unit,” Coughlin added.
“‘Mounted Patrol’?” Finley repeated.
“Officers on horseback,” Coughlin said. “Very effective, both from the vantage point of being higher and seeing more ground and from the ability to cover a lot of that ground quickly. There’s also a PR aspect—the public really likes seeing the horses, and are more prone to interact with the officers, take pictures, that sort of thing.”
Stein nodded thoughtfully.
Carlucci then turned and looked between Finley and Stein as he went on: “But know that even if we put a uniform on every street corner, there simply is no definitive way to protect against a thug hell-bent on killing. Take, for example, John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. Both were surrounded by layers of Secret Service agents actively looking for a possible attack, yet determined men still got to them. So, even if we’d had a uniform dive in front of the girl, there’s no guarantee it would’ve saved her from being stabbed.”
“Murders are up and our case clearance rates are down,” Coughlin put in, “because things are different now. Back in the day, most victims knew their killers, and it was only a matter of time—usually within the first forty-eight hours—before we connected those dots, caught the doer, and gave the district attorney’s office a solid case to put them away.”
“But . . . ?” Finley said, crossing his arms.
“Today, though, random stranger-on-stranger crime—murders, robberies, purse snatchings, carjackings—it’s everywhere. Drug dealers kill one another battling for turf—something that might explain what happened again just yesterday in Kensington. And these murders this morning could have been, say, some gang’s rite of initiation. Anything’s possible. We will know more from our investigations.” He paused, then added, “But understand that budget shortfalls have hit us hard, too. We’re stretched thin. Our department is down significantly from our onetime strength of eight thousand. I’ve had to cancel two police academy sessions. And I won’t get into our outdated gear, et cetera. If it weren’t for federal grants for equipment and things like the FOP getting local supporters to donate body armor, we’d be in trouble.”
“The Fraternal Order of Police is having to do that?” Finley said, then, with a look of frustration, slowly shook his head as he looked down at his shoes.
Behind Finley, on the television, the attractive female reporter had turned from looking into the camera and was reaching up with her microphone, putting it before a nicely tanned male in his mid-twenties who looked as if he’d just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers advertisement.
The caption at the bottom of the screen read HOMICIDE SGT. MATTHEW PAYNE ON PARK MURDERS: “WE WILL NOT REST UNTIL WE FIND WHO COMMITTED THESE ATROCITIES.”
Jesus, Coughlin thought, don’t let Finley see Matty or he’ll really get his shorts in a knot.
Then he glanced at the mayor, who had a slight grin as he looked at the TV, and guessed he was having similar thoughts.
But Jerry’s probably smirking because he’s hoping that it gets under Finley’s skin.
Then Coughlin looked back toward Finley, and on the television saw the caption had changed to A POLICE SOURCE REPORTS THAT SGT. PAYNE WAS CLEARED LAST WEEK BY INTERNAL AFFAIRS IN NOVEMBER’S SHOOT-OUT ON CASINO BOARDWALK THAT LEFT 3 DEAD.
Finley looked up and saw that everyone was looking behind him.
He turned to the television just as the caption changed to SGT. PAYNE IS ALSO KNOWN AS THE WYATT EARP OF THE MAIN LINE.
“Damn it!” Finley said. “And now him!”
“What?” Carlucci said, now stone-faced, purposefully having lost the grin. “Payne gets his man. It’s what you said you wanted.”
Finley’s head jerked. He met the mayor’s eyes.
Here it comes, Coughlin thought.
Finley, he’s playing you like a fine instrument . . .
“What I want,” James Finley snapped, “is for there to be fewer killings so he will have fewer bastards to go after—and fewer chances for him to get in shoot-outs that wind up sensationalized in the media with that Wild West tagline!”
