Brownlee,” Wohl said, “has given us a sworn statement that his Rolex watch was taken from him at the time of his arrest, but never made it from the place of his arrest to either the evidence room or personal property at Central Lockup. Tiny just got the serial number of said timepiece from Bailey, Banks and Biddle—”
“And it matches?”
“It matches.”
“Who is Marcus Brownlee?” Matt asked.
“Didn’t McFadden fill you in?”
“I didn’t hear that name.”
“One of the drug guys the Five Squad busted at the Howard Johnson motel,” Wohl explained.
“Then we have them.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Wohl said. “I’ll fill you in later. What I want you to do now, once you work the box, is get Calhoun and the watch—the money would be nice, too, but that can wait—back to Philadelphia.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be damned careful with the chain of evidence on this one, Matt, if I have to tell you that. And make sure Mutt and Jeff do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s Calhoun now?”
“McFadden and Martinez have him at Harrisburg Police Headquarters.”
“Have them bring him to South Detectives at Twenty-fourth and Wolf,” Wohl ordered. “We’re using the First District detention cells downstairs as our own Central Lockup.”
“I don’t understand,” Matt said.
“I’m not trying to shoot you down, Matt—right now you’re at the head of my good-guy list for tying Calhoun to the box—but right now you don’t have to understand. Just do what I told you. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Yes, sir, ” Matt said. “One question: Do we let Calhoun know we got into the box? Or about the watch?”
Wohl thought that over for fifteen seconds, which seemed longer.
“Yeah, let him know. I’d rather he spend the time riding back here wondering what’s going to happen to him knowing we have his ass than trying to convince himself he shouldn’t be worried, we don’t have anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stay there and keep your eye on the Reynolds woman.”
The phone went dead in Matt’s ear when he was halfway through saying, “Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” the Hon. Jerome H. Carlucci said, looking around his conference table. “Where are we? Who wants to start?”
Present were Thomas J. Callis, Philadelphia’s district attorney; Taddeus Czernich, police commissioner; Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein; Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin; Inspector Peter Wohl; Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach; and Lieutenant J. K. Fellows.
In the wings, so to speak, in case they were needed, were Captain Michael Sabara and Detective Tony Harris (physically in the mayor’s outer office); Captain David Pekach and Lieutenant John J. Malone of the Highway Patrol (sitting in their cars in the courtyard of City Hall); and Lieutenant Daniel Justice, Jr., and Sergeant Jason Washington (within two rings of a telephone at the 1st District/South Detectives).
Inspector Wohl motioned with his hand to indicate that he thought Staff Inspector Weisbach was the man to bring the mayor—and for that matter, everybody else—up-to-date. Mike Weisbach first shook his head, then inclined it toward the head of the table. Peter Wohl followed his eyes and saw that the mayor was looking at him impatiently.
He started to stand up. The mayor waved him back into his seat.
“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. “The entire Five Squad has been arrested, and are presently being held in the detention cell of the First District.”
“What are we charging them with?”
“Right now, with misprision in office, specifically the theft, under cover of office, of evidence,” Wohl said. “Mr. Callis will, of course, add other charges later when we decide who’s going to be charged with what.”
“Does he mean the rape, Tony?” Carlucci asked.
“What Denny and Matt and I have been thinking, Jerry,” Callis said, pointing vaguely at Coughlin and Lowenstein, “is that once Prasko understands we have them for the theft of evidence—and simple grand larceny—once, in other words, he understands that they’re going down on that, we can let Prasko know we know about the rape, and get him to testify against the others, in exchange for his being allowed to plead guilty to violating the civil rights of Williams and Brownlee—and probably half a dozen others.”
“He plea-bargains to a federal rap and gets what?” Carlucci said.
“I talked to the U.S. Attorney just before I came over here, Jerry. Nothing’s set in cement, but he thinks he can find a judge willing to go along with five years on each charge, sentences to be served consecutively, so figure at least four charges, so twenty years.”
“Which means he’d really do what?” Carlucci asked coldly.
“He’d probably be out in six, seven years,” Callis said.