Badge of Honour 06 - The Murderers (45 page)

But it was nice when he was working the day shift, and could sit down at the kitchen table and have breakfast with Joellen and Woodrow Junior. Having breakfast like that every day was one of the things Woodrow looked forward to, when he got his time in and went home to Hartsville.

He got out of bed and took a quick shower and a careful shave, then put on his terry-cloth bathrobe and went down to the kitchen. He really hated it when he dribbled coffee or egg or redeye gravy or something on a clean uniform shirt and had to change it, so he ate in his bathrobe. All you had to do if you made a pig of yourself on your bathrobe was throw it in the washing machine. Joellen knew he took pride in the way he looked in his uniform, and always had one clean and pressed waiting for him. That was a lot of work, and Woodrow knew it, and made a genuine effort not to get his uniform dirty, so that what Joellen did for him would not be wasted.

“I was about to come see if you were going to take breakfast with us,” Joellen said when he walked in the kitchen.

“I could smell that cooking,” Woodrow said. “It would wake a dead man.”

Joellen smiled and kissed him.

“Good morning, son.”

“Good morning, sir,” Woodrow Junior said. He was wearing a white shirt and a blue sweater and a necktie. He was a junior at Cardinal Dougherty High School, and they had a dress code there. More important, they taught Christian morals, even if they weren’t Protestant Christians. It would have been nicer if Third Abyssinian had a church-run school that Woodrow Junior could have gone to, but they didn’t.

And he certainly couldn’t have sent Woodrow Junior to a public high school. The corridors of the public schools, Woodrow sometimes thought, were not a bit better than the corners of the neighborhood. You could buy anything in there, and it was no place to send your child unless you didn’t care what was going to happen to him, what he would see, what punks would give him trouble.

Woodrow thought it was a truly Christian act on the part of the Catholics to let Protestant Baptist boys like Woodrow into their schools. And there were a lot of them. There was a charge, of course, but in Woodrow’s case it was reduced because Joellen went over there every day and helped out in the cafeteria for free.

Woodrow sat down at the kitchen table. Woodrow Junior bent his head, and standing behind her husband, Joellen closed her eyes and bent her head.

“Dear Lord, we thank You for Your bounty which we are now about to receive, and for Thy many other blessings. We ask You to watch over us. Through Thy Son, our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.”

Joellen and Woodrow Junior said, “Amen,” and Joellen put breakfast on the table: sunny-side-up eggs and ham, redeye gravy and grits, and the biscuits Mamma Dear had taught Joellen to make before the Good Lord took her into heaven.

Then Woodrow went upstairs and put on his uniform, and started to get his gun out of the drawer. He glanced down at his shoes and almost swore. There was a scratch across the toe of the left one, and the toe of the right one was smudged. He wondered when that had happened. He closed the drawer in the dresser where he kept his gun, and went back down to the kitchen.

Joellen watched as he put on a pair of rubber gloves and very carefully polished his shoes.

“Woodrow Junior would have done that if you’d have told him,” Joellen said.

“I messed them up, I’ll make them right,” he said.

Then he went back upstairs, got his gun from the drawer, went back downstairs, kissed Joellen good-bye. He got his uniform cap and his nightstick from the hall clothes hanger and left the house.

It was seven blocks to the District Headquarters at Twenty-second and Hunting Park Avenue.

Woodrow walked briskly, looking to see what he could see, thinking that when roll call was over and he went on patrol he’d cruise the alleys. He’d been off for seventy hours, and there was no telling what might have happened in that time.

It was a morning like any other. There was absolutely nothing different about it that would have made him suspect that before the day was over, he would be in the office of the Northwest Police Division Inspector, getting his hand shook, and having his picture made with the Mayor of the City of Philadelphia.

“Whatever did you do to it?” the Senior Maintenance Advisor asked, in what Matt thought was mingled horror and joy as he calculated the size of the repair bill.

Well, I was chasing a murder suspect down by the refineries in Chester, and I had to turn the headlights off so that he wouldn’t know he was being followed
.

“I ran over a bumper,” Matt said.

“I’ll say you did!”

“You should have left it where you did it,” one of the maintenance technicians volunteered, his tone suggesting Matt deserved a prize for Idiot of the Year. “Called a wrecker. No telling how much damage to the suspension you did driving it in.”

Imported Motor Cars, Ltd., Inc., evidently felt such enormous sympathy for him, or figured they could make up the cost when they presented him with the bill, that they gave him a loaner. A new 911 Demonstrator. Matt suspected that sometime in the next day or two he would receive a call from Imported Motor Cars, Ltd., Inc., asking him, taking into consideration what the repair bill for repairing the damage he had done to his old car would be, would he be interested in a very special deal on the car he was now driving?

He then went to his apartment. There was no one there. Helene Kellog had apparently gone off with Wally Milham someplace—Wally had said that it would be three o’clock, maybe later, before the lab was finished testing the guns taken from the river—or possibly had calmed down enough to go to work.

There was evidence of her presence in the apartment—a can of hair spray, a mascara brush, and a jar of deodorant on the sink in his bathroom—when he stripped out of Wohl’s clothes and went to take a shower.

That reminded him that he had not telephoned Amanda on the pretense that she should not be concerned if she called the apartment and a woman answered.

The hot water of the shower exacerbated whatever the hell he had been rolling around in on the Chester pier had done to his face and hands. When he wiped the condensation off the mirror to shave, he looked like a lobster. A lobster with a three-square-inch albino white spot on the right cheek, which served to make the rest of his face look even redder.

And shaving hurt, even with an electric razor.

He had just about finished dressing when the telephone rang.

That’s obviously Inspector Wohl, calling to apologize for having spoken harshly to me, and to express the gratitude and admiration of the entire Police Department for my brilliant detecting
.

Or the President of the United States, (b) being quite as likely as (a)
.

Jesus, maybe it’s Amanda!

“Hello.”

“You’re a hard man to find, Matt,” the familiar voice of Mrs. Irene Craig, his father’s secretary, said. “Hold on.” Faintly, he could hear her add, presumably over the intercom to his father, “Triumph! Perseverance pays!”

“Matt? Good morning.”

“Good morning, Dad.”

“I’ve been concerned about you, and not only because we rather expected to see you at home last night and no one seems to know where you are.”

“Sorry, I was working.”

“Are you working now?”

“No. I just got out of the shower.”

“I don’t suppose you would have time to come by the office for a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir, I could.”

“Fine, I’ll see you shortly,” his father said, and hung up.

He did that
, Matt hypothesized, correctly,
so that I wouldn’t have time to come up with an excuse not to go to his office. I wonder what he wants
.

“I don’t suppose you would believe I fell asleep under a sunlamp?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Irene Craig. “You’ll have to do better than that. Would you like some coffee, Matt?”

“Very much, thank you. Black, please.”

His father waved him into one of two green leather-upholstered chairs facing his desk.

“Two, Irene, please, and then hold my calls,” his father said.

He waited until Mrs. Craig had served the coffee, left, and closed the door behind her.

“What did happen to your face?”

“I fell into something that, according to Amy, was some kind of caustic.”

“Amy’s had a look at you?”

Matt nodded.

“How did it happen?”

“I was working.”

“That’s what I told your mother, that you were probably working. First, when you didn’t show up for dinner as promised, and again when you didn’t show up by bedtime, and a third time when Amanda Spencer called at midnight.”

“Amanda called out there?”

“She was concerned for you,” Matt’s father said. “Apparently, she called the apartment several times. A woman answered one time, and then she called back and there was a man, who either didn’t know where you are or wouldn’t tell her.”

“God!”

“Your mother said it must have been very difficult for Amanda to call us.”

“Oh, boy!”

“I wasn’t aware that you and Amanda were close,” Matt’s father said, carefully.

Matt met his eyes.

“That’s been a very recent development,” Matt said after a moment. “I don’t suppose it makes me any less of a sonofabitch, but…there was nothing between us before Penny killed herself.”

“I didn’t think there had been,” his father said. “You’ve never been duplicitous. Your mother, however, told me that she saw Amanda looking at you, quote, ‘in a certain way,’ unquote, at Martha Peebles’s party.”

“Jesus, that’s the second time I heard that. I hope the Detweilers didn’t see it.”

“So do I,” his father said. He came around from behind his desk and handed Matt a small sheet of notepaper.

“Your mother told Amanda that she would have you call her as soon as we found you,” he said. “The first number is her office number, the second her apartment. I think you’d better call her; she’s quite upset.”

“What does Mother think of me?”

“I think she’s happy for you, Matt,” Brewster Cortland Payne II said, and walked toward his door. “I am.”

He left the office and closed the door behind him.

Matt reached for the telephone.

The ordinances spelled out in some detail what was “ordinary, acceptable” garbage and what was “special types of refuse” and proscribed, for example, the placing of toxic material or explosive material or liquids in ordinary containers.

The setting of open fires within the City was prohibited under most conditions, with a few exceptions provided, such as the burning of leaves at certain times of the year under carefully delineated conditions.

Violation of most provisions was considered a Summary Offense, the least serious of the three classifications of crimes against the Peace and Dignity of the City and County of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The other, more serious, classifications were Misdemeanors (for example, simple assault and theft of property worth less than $2000) and Felonies (for example, Murder, Rape, and Armed Robbery).

It was spelled out in some detail what malefactors could expect to receive in the way of punishment for littering the streets with garbage, for example, with small fines growing to potentially large fines, and growing periods of imprisonment for second, third, and subsequent offenses.

Similarly, there were pages of small type outlining the myriad punishments which could be assessed against malefactors who were found guilty of setting open fires in violation of various applicable sections of the ordinances, likewise growing in severity depending on the size and type of fire set, the type material set ablaze, under what circumstances, and the number of times the accused had been previously convicted of offending the Peace and Dignity of the City, County, and Commonwealth by so doing.

As a general rule of thumb, the residents of Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey’s beat were not cognizant of the effort that had been made by their government to carefully balance the rights of the individual against the overall peace and dignity of the community insofar as garbage and setting fires were concerned. Or if they were aware of the applicable ordinances in these regards, they decided that their chances of having to face the stern bar of justice for violating them was at best remote.

If they had a garbage can, or a cardboard box, or some other container that could be used as a substitute, and if they remembered what day the garbageman came, they often—but by no means always, or even routinely—put their garbage on the curb for pickup.

It had been Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey’s experience that a substantial, and growing, number of the trash—white, brown, and black—who had moved into the neighborhood had decided the least difficult means of disposing of their trash was to either carry it into (or throw it out the window into) their back-yards and alleys when the garbage cans inside their houses filled to overflowing, or the smell became unbearable.

There was little he could do about this. The criminal justice system of Philadelphia was no longer able to cope with many Summary Offenses, and issuing a citation for littering was nothing more than a waste of his time and the taxpayers’ money. He would show up in court, the accused would not, and the magistrates were reluctant to issue a bench warrant for someone accused of littering a back street in North Philadelphia. The police had more important things to do with their time.

He privately thought that if the trash wanted to live in their own filth, so be it.

At a certain point in time, however, backyards became filled to overflowing with refuse. Just about as frequently, the piles of garbage became rat-infested. When either or both of these circumstances occurred, the trash’s solution to an immediate problem was to set the garbage on fire. This both chased the rats away and reduced the height of the garbage piles.

It was at this point that Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey drew the line. This was a violation of the law that presented a clear and present danger to innocent persons.

Even trash had rights. It was not fair or just that they get somebody else’s rats. And not all the people on Woodrow’s beat were trash. There were a lot of folks who reminded Woodrow of Mamma Dear and Daddy, hardworking, Christian people who had worked all their lives to buy their own home, and when they’d finally finished, about the time they went on retirement, they found that the neighborhood’s having gone to hell meant they couldn’t sell their house for beans, and were stuck in the neighborhood with the trash.

It was, in Woodrow’s mind, a sin that trash should set fires that could burn down the houses next door, taking all the poor old folks had left in the world.

Woodrow did not think of it, as some people concerned with social justice certainly would, as taking the law into his own hands. He thought of it first as something that had to be done, and rationalized that he was providing a genuine service to the people he had sworn to protect.

He dealt with people who set fires in his own way, without getting the overworked criminal justice system involved. And over the last couple of years, the word had gone out on his beat that burning garbage was socially unacceptable conduct, and that doing so brought swift punishment.

Officer Bailey was thus surprised and angry when through the open window of RPC 3913, as he rode slowly down an alley behind Shedwick Street, his nostrils detected the peculiar smell of burning garbage.

He stopped the car, put his head out the window and sniffed, and then backed the car up.

There was smoke rising above the wooden fence separating the backyard of a row house from the alley.

He was less surprised when he searched his memory and came up with the identity of the occupant of the house. White trash, and a junkie. White trash born right here in Philadelphia. His name, Woodrow recalled, was James Howard Leslie. White Male, twenty-six, 150 pounds, five feet nine. He had been in and out of some kind of confinement since he was twelve. Lived with some brown-trash Puerto Rican woman. Not married to her. Three kids; none of them looked like they ever had a decent meal.

Now he had a mental image of him. Junkie type. Long, dirty hair, looked like he hadn’t had a bath—and probably hadn’t—in two weeks. Had a little scraggly beard on the point of his chin. Called himself “Speed.”

Officer Bailey got out of his car, taking his stick with him. There was a gate in the fence, held shut with a chain and a rusty lock. Woodrow put his stick in the chain and twisted. The chain and rusty lock held; the rotten wood of the fence crushed under the pressure and gave way.

Woodrow pulled the gate open and entered the backyard. His anger grew. The fire was coming from a pile of garbage against the fence. The fire would almost certainly set the fence on fire. He saw a rat scurry out from the pile.

Flames flickered on the garbage pile. There was an old tire on the pile. Once a tire caught fire, you could hardly put it out. Tires burned hot and hard and gave off thick smoke.

First things first; get the fire out.

There was a grease can with a Texaco sign on it. Woodrow picked it up. It was empty, but there was the smell of gasoline.

“Trash!” Woodrow muttered in angry contempt.

Speed had used gasoline to start the fire. That was dangerous.

Moving quickly, Woodrow went to a water spigot. He knew where to find it, even behind the trash. All these houses were alike, like they were stamped out with a cookie cutter.

He rinsed out the Texaco grease bucket twice, then filled it up with water.

It took six buckets of water to put the fire out, and Woodrow threw a seventh one on the garbage, to be sure. As he looked for a hint of smoke, he glanced at his shoes. The shoes he had shined with such care just two hours before were now covered with filth.

Then he went to the rear door of the residence and knocked on it. There was no response. Woodrow knocked again, and again there was no response. Woodrow gave the door a couple of good licks with his stick.

“Who the fuck is that?” a voice demanded in indignation.

“Speed, get your trashy ass out here!”

James Howard Leslie appeared behind the dirty glass of his kitchen door, and then opened it.

He did not seem particularly happy to see Officer Bailey, but neither did he seem at all concerned. He was wearing dirty blue jeans, a bead necklace, and nothing else.

“What’s happening?” Mr. Leslie inquired.

Officer Bailey lost his temper. He caught Mr. Leslie’s wrist and twisted it behind his back. Then he marched Mr. Leslie off his porch and to the smoldering pile of garbage, and manipulated Mr. Leslie’s body so that his nose was perhaps six inches from the garbage.

“That’s what’s happening, Speed,” Officer Bailey said.

“Man, you’re hurting me! What the fuck!”

“You trying to burn the neighborhood down, Speed? What’s the matter with you? You lost the sense you were born with?”

“What the fuck is the big deal? So I burned some garbage! So what the fuck?”

At this point in similar situations, it was normally Officer Bailey’s practice to first hurt the trash a little, either with a slap in the face or by jabbing them in the abdomen with his stick to get their attention. To further get their attention, he would then put handcuffs about their wrists and search them for weapons and illegal substances. Very often he encountered the latter, if only a few specks of spilled marijuana in their pockets.

Then he would explain in some detail what crimes they had committed, with special emphasis on the punishments provided by law. If he had found illegal substances on their persons, so much the better.

By then, the malefactor would be contrite. He did not want to go through the inconvenience he knew would be associated with an arrest: detention in the Thirty-ninth District, followed by transportation way the hell downtown to Central Lockup. And then several hours in Central Lockup before being arraigned before a magistrate.

The malefactors knew that the magistrate would probably release them on their own recognizance, and that if they actually got to trial they would walk, but it was a fucking pain in the ass to go through all that bullshit.

Officer Bailey would at some point shortly thereafter inform the trash there was a way to avoid all the inconvenience. They could make their backyard so clean they could eat off it. Get rid of all the garbage, right down to where there once had been grass. Get it all in plastic bags or something, and put it out on the street so the garbageman could take it off.

And keep it that way from now on, or Officer Bailey, who was going to check, would come down on their trashy asses like a ton of bricks, they could believe that.

Far more often than not, the malefactors would agree to this alternate solution of the problem at hand.

Mr. Leslie had, indeed, heard stories about the old black cop who had a hair up his ass about burning garbage, and had heard stories that if he caught you, he’d make you clean up the whole goddamned place or throw your ass in jail.

He was debating—
Jesus Christ, I’m tired
—whether it would be better to let the cop lock him up, or clean up the yard. It would take fucking forever to get all this shit out of here.

Mr. Leslie was not given the opportunity to make a choice.

Officer Bailey just spun him around and, guiding him with one hand on his arm and the other on his shoulder, led him to the cop car. He opened the door and guided Mr. Leslie to a seat in the rear.

Then he returned to the backyard, and the pile of garbage. He took a mechanical pencil from his pocket, squatted beside the garbage, and began to shove things aside. The first item he uncovered was a wedding picture.

He looked at it carefully.

“Lord almighty!” he said wonderingly.

He stirred the garbage a bit more. He was looking for the frame it was logical to assume would be with a photograph of what was supposed to be the happiest moment of a man’s life. He could not find one.

He stopped stirring, and, still squatting, was motionless in thought for about thirty seconds.

Then he stood up and walked to Leslie’s house. He rapped on the door with his nightstick until the brown-trash Puerto Rican woman appeared.

She stared at him with contempt.

“
Teléfono?
” Officer Bailey inquired.

The brown-trash woman just looked at him.

He looked over her shoulder, saw a telephone sitting on top of the refrigerator, pointed to it and repeated, “
Teléfono
.”

Her expression didn’t change, but she shrugged, which Officer Bailey decided could be interpreted to mean that she had given him permission to enter her home.

And now the phone won’t work. They won’t have paid that bill either
.

There was a dial tone.

“Homicide, Detective Kramer.”

“Detective, this is Officer Woodrow W. Bailey, of the Thirty-ninth District.”

“What can I do for you, Bailey?”

“I’d like to talk to somebody working the job of that police officer, Kellog, who was murdered.”

“What have you got, Bailey?”