Then he saw that the signal bars were low.
“Shit!”
Nesbitt typed out a text message to Matt and sent it:
“Paco,” Chad Nesbitt said anxiously, “you must not tell anyone about this! Understand? Not until I figure out what to do.”
He nodded, and said, “S?. Muchas gracias.”
[THREE] Temple Burn Unit Temple University Hospital North Broad and West Tioga Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:43 A.M.
Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski came pounding down the third-floor corridor, her hands on either side of her ample hips. One held her police radio and the other her Glock pistol, both in their respective holsters, in an attempt to keep them from banging against her as she ran.
She turned the corner. Just as she glimpsed what looked like a scuffle at the southeast end of the corridor, she ran smack into a gurney that was being pushed up the corridor. When she hit it, both she and the gurney went flying.
The Hispanic orderly who had been pushing the gurney got knocked on his ass.
After a second, Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski regained her footing. Ignoring the gurney, and not saying a word to the Hispanic orderly, she rushed toward the two men scuffling. She recognized now that one was Joseph Olde.
The orderly righted the gurney, then calmly continued pushing it up the corridor. He got to the corner and made the turn.
About the time that Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski reached the end of the corridor and the altercation, the other uniform and a young male civilian had managed to pull apart Olde and the other older man, who were on the ground. The young male civilian now stood between them as they started to regain their composure and get up.
“That, Benjamin,” Joseph Olde said indignantly as he attempted to straighten his necktie, “was completely uncalled-”
From far down the corridor, there suddenly came the sound of a rapid series of shots. At least ten of them.
“What the hell?” Payne said as he automatically pulled out his black Officer’s Model Colt.45.
“You can’t use that in here!” Dr. Law said.
Payne looked at her incredulously. “What would you have me use, Doc, a fucking tongue depressor?”
“Drop the gun!” Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski ordered as she reached for her Glock. She did not yet have it drawn from her holster.
Payne blurted, “Three-six-nine!” using the old Philadelphia Police Radio code for police officer. He pulled back his shirt to show his badge on his belt.
Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski, finally with her weapon out, looked at the male blue shirt, who nodded. He already had his gun drawn. And he had his left hand on the police radio microphone on his shoulder, his head cocked toward it, calling for backup-“Assist officer! Shots fired! Temple Burn Unit. Third floor. Broad and Tioga.” Then he repeated it.
“You four!” Payne ordered, herding Dr. Law, the Benjamins, and Jason Olde toward the swing doors. “In there and get down. Bolt the doors if you can!”
He pointed to the blue shirts. “You two cover this door! No one gets in after the Benjamin girl or anyone else!”
Then Payne ran up the corridor, stopped at the corner, and carefully checked down that corridor. All he saw was the empty gurney. It was standing by the stairwell exit door.
He turned the corner and ran in a crouch, holding his pistol up and ready. His elbows were bent, the gun close to his chest.
He was halfway down the corridor when the left swinging door to Skipper Olde’s ICU flew open. Out ran the Hispanic male orderly in the blue scrubs. He had a black semiautomatic in his hand.
Did he pop Skipper? Shit! “Police!” Payne yelled. “Drop the goddamn gun!”
The orderly did not slow. And he damn sure did not drop the gun. In a flash, he ran right to the steel door of the stairwell, leaning his shoulder into it as his hip smacked the horizontal bar that unlatched its lock.
The door flew open. And the Hispanic male went through the doorway. “Shit!” Payne said.
He took off after him.
The steel door was starting to swing closed when Payne reached it. Payne kicked it open, his right foot slamming the horizontal bar. He stopped and checked to see if it was clear to continue, then heard the fast footfalls echoing down the concrete stairwell. He could see the man’s left hand sliding down the inside handrail as he went.
Payne looked down the stairwell to see if there would be an opportunity to get a clear shot. There wasn’t.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered as he started down the steps, taking two at time.
As he passed the steel door to the second floor, he saw that he was gaining a little on the man, whose hand was sliding on the handrail only half a floor below him.
Payne tried to take three steps at time and damn near rolled his ankle. It twisted, a flare of fire burning deep in his muscle. He went back to taking only two steps at a time.
He heard the metallic bang of the horizontal bar getting hit on the first floor’s steel door.
“Police!” he yelled again. “Stop!”
Maybe he doesn’t understand English? “Police” is-what?-something like “polic?a”?
But what the hell is “stop” in Spanish?
Shit. Who’s kidding who?
He knows what the hell I want…
Payne reached the door and kicked it open. The door swung open onto the sidewalk on Tioga. The Shriners Children’s Hospital was across the street. He looked left and saw people running away, clearly in fear. He started to look around the leading edge of the open door when he heard two shots being fired-and the unmistakable sound of bullets impacting metal.
Payne dropped to his knees.
A glance up the door revealed two exit holes, the thin sheet metal with two ragged holes roughly resembling a king’s crown.
“You sonofabitch!” Payne said.
He quickly stuck his head around the edge of the door and back again.
His split-second view had shown him the man running down the middle of the street, holding his right hand up as he fed the pistol a fresh magazine of ammunition.
Payne popped to his feet and gave chase, running along the sidewalk to use the cars parked at the curb for cover and concealment.
The man cut the corner at Germantown Avenue and started running up it. Payne started to cross Tioga to follow, but the loud horn of a taxicab he hadn’t seen coming forced him back on the sidewalk. He checked again for any traffic, then bolted up Germantown Avenue.
Payne kept looking for an opportunity to shoot. But there were people on the sidewalks and vehicles beyond the running Hispanic male, all of them in what would be the field of fire.
As the man approached the intersection of Germantown and Venango, the traffic light changed. The vehicles started moving east and west, effectively blocking the male’s path. At the corner, he made a right onto Venango, and Payne, looking over his shoulder, crossed over Germantown Avenue to follow.
Two blocks later, at Camac Street, the man again got caught by the changing of the traffic light. This time he cut down an alleyway behind the row houses there.
Payne, breathing heavily, turned down the alley. But when he got there, he saw that the only row houses there were the ones facing acing Venango Street. Behind them, the alleyway opened up for more than half a block. The other row houses had been torn down, leaving a huge vacant area.
And the man was running right down the middle of it, wide open.
Payne could hear the sirens of squad cars in the direction of the burn center. But he had no way of directing them to his location.
Payne once more shouted, “Stop! Police!”
Surprising him, the man did stop-only to turn and fire off two shots.
The shots struck the pavement near Payne. He dropped to one knee and, trying not to let his heaving chest botch his aim, squeezed off one round, then a second one.
The second shot found the Hispanic male. He went down, rolling as he hit the ground, holding his left thigh with his left hand.
Payne stood and started toward him cautiously, shouting, “Drop the goddamn weapon! Now, goddammit!”
From where he lay, the Hispanic male rolled and fired another round at Payne, causing Payne to seek cover behind a tree. Then the man popped up and took off, running with a bit of a limp.
“Sonofabitch!” Payne muttered to himself. “The fucker just won’t quit.”
Up ahead, Payne saw that vehicles were again stopped at a traffic light, this time at Old York Street. And the light was about to cycle from red to green.
Good! I can close the gap again.
But then Payne watched in surprise as, just before the lights changed, the man ran up to the first car in line. It was an older silver Chevrolet Caprice sedan-The Whale Car, Payne thought, for whatever reason remembering its nickname. The man grabbed the handle to the driver’s door, flung it open before the driver-a fat middle-aged black male-even knew that anyone was there, put the muzzle of the pistol to the driver’s left cheek, and started shouting at him.
Payne could not hear what he was saying, but it was obvious what was happening. And the fat driver clearly understood he was being carjacked. He was frantically rushing to undo his seat belt.
Payne ran with what energy he had left.
The Hispanic male grabbed the fat driver by the shirt collar and yanked him to the street. The Chevy Caprice, having been in gear, started to roll on its own, and the man then ran alongside and jumped in, hitting the accelerator. There was a squeal of tires and then the driver’s door slammed shut.
Payne ran over to the man on the ground, who appeared dazed as he tried to sit up.
“Are you okay?” Payne said.
“Don’t shoot me!” the terrified black man said.
Payne shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m police.”
He then looked down Tioga and saw the tail of the Caprice disappear in the distance. He shook his head.
His mind wandered back to the Platoon Leader’s Program at Marine Base, Quantico.
What’d that wise guy crack in the tactical course at Quantico? “When in doubt, empty the fucking magazine!”
[FOUR] Executive Command Center The Roundhouse Eighth and Race Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 11:30 A.M.
“Okay,” Police Commissioner Ralph Mariani said to First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin. “Who wants to get me up to speed on where we stand? The mayor is screaming bloody murder, if you will pardon the phrase.”
Coughlin made a motion with his hand, effectively passing the request on to Deputy Commissioner Howard Walker, the two-star Chief of Science amp; Technology. Walker had not been Denny Coughlin’s first choice to work directly under him, but Mariani had said he’d had his reasons for installing him in the job.
Walker was a very tall and slender black man of fifty. He had a cleanly shaven head, a long thin nose, and wore tiny round Ben Franklin glasses. He spoke with a soft intelligent voice like that of a cleric, with a somewhat pious air about him. His domain of Science amp; Technology included the Forensic Sciences, Communications, and Information Systems Divisions-the latter two, of course, with oversight of the Executive Command Center.
The ECC was the nerve center of the Philadelphia Police Department Headquarters. It was situated between the offices of the police commissioner and the first deputy police commissioner, in an area that had once been another office and a large conference room, the wall between them now torn down.
Also present in the ECC were Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, commanding officer of the Detective Bureau; Captain Henry Quaire, Chief of the Homicide Unit; Homicide Lieutenant Jason Washington; and Corporal Kerry Rapier, an impossibly small white man with soft features who looked far younger than his twenty-five years. All wore coats and ties, except Rapier, who was in his police uniform, a pair of silver-outlined blue chevrons on each sleeve.
The cost of the ECC had been paid in large part with federal dollars. It had been built just before the City of Philadelphia hosted the Democratic National Convention. The politicians coming from Washington, D.C., fearing a terrorist attack with so many of them being present in one place at once, wanted proper protection in the City of Brotherly Love. And they were more than happy to let taxpayers from Boise, Idaho, to Tupelo, Mississippi, help pay for the best technology that Philadelphia could acquire.
The room was carpeted in a charcoal-colored industrial carpet, in the center of which were two T-shaped, dark gray, Formica-topped conference tables. Each table seated twenty-six and had accommodations for that many notebook computers beside a small forest of black stalk microphones and the multiline telephone consoles. Gray leather office chairs on casters ringed the table, and forty black armless leather chairs along two walls formed somewhat of a long couch.
On the ten-foot-tall walls opposite the line of armless chairs were banks of sixty-inch high-definition LCD flat-screen TVs, frameless and mounted edge to edge. One bank of nine created a single giant image. Two other banks of nine TVs had different images on each, or eighteen different picture feeds.
These consisted of live video. Broadcasts of local and cable news shows were on a half-dozen. Another half-dozen cycled feeds from the cameras of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. These somewhat grainy black-and-white DOT shots showed traffic on major arteries-such as Interstate Highway 95 along the Delaware River and the Schuylkill Expressway along that river-and on heavily traveled secondary streets. If the Philadelphia Police Department’s Long Rangers were flying, the DOT images would rotate with those of the thermal and standard color videos sent from the Aviation Unit’s Bell 206 L-4 helicopters.
In addition to the network of telephones, the Executive Command Center had secure communications networks with other city and state police departments, as well as the federal law enforcement agencies, including the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the United States Secret Service, and all those agencies under the Department of Homeland Security. There was even assigned seating for the liaisons from those agencies.
It was indeed an impressive mass of high technology. So much so that Police Commissioner Mariani was prone to hold all of his press conferences in the ECC just for the gee-whiz backdrop it provided for photo ops.
While it was true that the Executive Command Center served to aid in the collection, assimilation, and analysis of information, not everyone blindly believed the great wizardry of the room to be all that magical in the catching of criminals.
Denny Coughlin, for example, was a devout believer that nothing beat the basics for gathering intel-and the basics meant shoe leather pounding the streets, cops talking with citizens. Or what was in many circles now called “humint,” short for human intelligence.
But Coughlin and his peers were willing to admit that the eyes in the sky (and everywhere else) of the ECC did serve a purpose. Pulling together so many different things in one place did manage to communicate the information of people and places and events in an effective manner. And the ECC also met a political component, that of interagency cooperation. Despite the fact that many felt the term “interagency cooperation” more often than not was an oxymoron akin to jumbo shrimp, working with the feds was necessary, and the ECC provided an appropriate environment for that.
“We shall begin, Commissioner Mariani,” Howard Walker said, “with the Philly Inn.”
He turned to Corporal Rapier. “Kerry, please punch up number thirteen on the main screen.”
All of the TVs were serially numbered, starting with the main bank of nine TVs that showed the one enormous video feed. It was number one. The second bank had numbers two through ten, and the third eleven through nineteen. (In the event the main bank became nine individual images, its screen numbering went to 1a, 1b, 1c, and through to 1i.) On the lower right-hand corner of each TV was a digitally produced numeral in a circle, either a black or a white orb, depending on which provided the best contrast to the main image. TV number thirteen was, of course, in the third bank of TVs.
TV number one, the big one, was showing a real-time feed of the front fa?ade of City Hall.
When Corporal Rapier manipulated his console, his fingers flying across the keyboard, the image that was on TV number thirteen suddenly was duplicated-but much bigger-as the image on the main bank of TVs, replacing City Hall.
It was a color shot of the crime scene at the Philly Inn. It was made by a high-definition camera mounted to the crime-scene lab truck at the back of the motel. The yellow tape was still strung up, but there was no noticeable activity, even when Corporal Rapier used the console joystick to pan and zoom the area.
In the bottom right-hand corner was:
Philly Inn 7004 Frankford Avenue 1135 hours, 09 Sept “As you can see,” Walker said, “there is not much going on at the scene.”
No shit, Denny Coughlin thought. Thank God for gee-whiz gizmos. I don’t know how we would’ve learned this otherwise.
But he saw that his boss was nodding thoughtfully, impressed with the crisp imagery. And Coughlin did have to admit that the huge screen and its clarity made one at least feel like they were indeed on the scene.
But isn’t that just an artificial sense of accomplishment? “Kerry,” Walker said, “transpose number fourteen on that.”
A second later, a box appeared in the lower right, just above the text there. It was a list of data:
Cause: Explosion. Ninety percent probability from a methamphetamine lab.
Known Dead: Two Hispanic males, approximate age mid-20s, no known history. Both suffered fourth-degree burns. One of the deceased suffered a cut to the throat. Jagged flesh of cut thought to be made by serrated blade of knife found at scene.
Known Injured: Two, a White male and a White female. Male is one J. Warren Olde, age 27. Female is one Rebecca Benjamin, age 25. Olde suffered extreme burns, possibly/probably fourth-degree. Benjamin suffered lesser burns but serious blunt-force trauma. Both now in Temple Burn Ward ICU.
“That data,” Walker then added, “is due at any moment to be updated. As we know, Olde is now dead.”
“Yes, we do,” Police Commissioner Mariani said dryly.
“So let’s go to that,” Walker said almost excitedly.
“Why not the scene of the shooting at the Reading Terminal Market?” Mariani asked.
Coughlin thought he saw Walker wince.
“It would appear that the security camera system there has been neglected,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Meaning what exactly?” Mariani snapped.
“Compromised,” Walker said carefully. “Rendered inoperative.”
“Then we have nothing from this morning’s shooting.”
Walker shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing yet.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“We do have this,” Walker said. “Corporal Rapier, number fifteen, please, and put sixteen on it.”
The image of the Philly Inn disappeared and was replaced with a static shot of the Reading Terminal Market. The image even had text across it, reading, Visit Historic Reading Terminal Market!
Coughlin, despite great effort to hold it back, snorted.
Matt Lowenstein, Henry Quaire, and Jason Washington were showing rapt interest in their shoes’ tips and the color and texture of the carpet-anything not to make eye contact with one another.
“What in the hell is that?” Mariani said incredulously.
“Well, sir,” Walker said, “because we have no live feeds from the market, we pulled a stock image off the Internet to serve as a placeholder.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Mariani sighed disgustedly. “What’s in here-a million bucks’ worth of gadgets? Two million?-and we’ve got a goddamn Chamber of Commerce promo picture of a crime scene!”
“We are working on a live feed, sir.” He waved his hand at the bank of TVs showing newscasts. “And we do have an image of the market via the FOX 29 news cameras, but it’s not a steady real-time feed.”
TV number sixteen popped up in a corner of the big image as an inset. It read:
Cause: Shooting. One hundred percent probability drug-related. Heroin-based product recovered at the scene, also 42 5.7- x 28-mm shell casings and 10 9-mm shell casings, and a Ruger P89 9-mm semi-auto pistol.
Known Dead: Two. One a Hispanic male, one Devon A. Desmond, age 22. Dual U.S.-Jamaican citizenship. Last Known Address 1805 E Boston St, Phila. Employed by the Mexican Mercado. One a White female juvenile, age 16, name of Kathleen Gingerich. Last Known Address a rural route in Lancaster County, Penna. Family owns Beiler’s Bakery.
Known Injured: Three, a White male and two White females. Male is one John Todd, of Phila. Two females are Japanese Nationals, approximate age 30, attending a convention of clothes designers at the Phila. Convention Center. Local address the Marriott Hotel at Filbert amp; 12th. All suffered bullet wounds believed to be from the 9-mm Ruger firearm. None life-threatening. Transported to Hahnemann Hospital.
“Kerry,” Walker then said. “Let’s go to seventeen.”
The main screen showed a crisp, clear, full-color image of the Temple University Hospital. There was a mix of unmarked Crown Victoria Interceptors and marked police cars, all with their lights flashing, lining the curbs.
The text in the lower right-hand corner read:
Temple University Hospital
Broad amp; Tioga 1158 hours, 24 Sept “And here we have a real-time feed of the hospital,” Walker said. He turned and looked at Corporal Rapier. “Eighteen, please, Kerry.”
The color image was replaced with a somewhat grainy black-and-white exterior shot of the Temple University Hospital. There were cars in the street and people on the sidewalk. But none moved. The image was frozen. The text read:
Temple University Hospital
CCD #21. POV: Eastward from Tioga/Broad 1046 hours, 24 Sept “You might find this one interesting,” Walker said. “Run it, Kerry.”
A second later, the cars began rolling and the people walking.
Then, at street level, an exit door to the hospital flew open. It almost struck two pedestrians. A Hispanic male wearing blue scrubs and holding a gun came out of the doorway. He immediately turned right and, as the steel exit door began to shut, ran down the sidewalk toward Germantown Avenue. The pedestrians started fleeing in the opposite direction.
“Jesus!” Mariani blurted. “There’s our doer!”
“Yes, sir!” Walker said a little too proudly.
The steel exit door then flew open again. Sergeant Matt Payne in plainclothes slowly came out in a crouch.
The Hispanic male, running down the center of Tioga, then turned and shot back at the exit door.
The camera clearly showed Matt Payne drop to his knees, then glance up at the door. After taking a quick look around the door edge, he took off after the doer, keeping to the sidewalk. The doer turned left on Germantown Avenue. When Payne went to follow, everyone in the room saw what he hadn’t-the taxicab flying down Tioga.
“Oh shit!” Henry Quaire blurted.
But then they saw Payne freeze and the cab swerve.
Payne then disappeared around the corner, headed up Germantown Avenue. And the black-and-white image froze again.
“We’re working,” Walker announced, “on getting any surveillance camera imagery along the route that Sergeant Payne stated he took in pursuit of the doer. Also, we have men reviewing the last two days of imagery from this same camera. They’re looking for foot and auto traffic anomalies or patterns on that sidewalk in case the victim was targeted, but randomly-”
“What about images from cameras inside the Burn Unit?” Matt Lowenstein asked, wondering why Walker would waste time with that.
“Those belong to the school,” Walker said with clear disdain. “They’re being cooperative, but due to technical compatibility problems, we’re having to use their equipment on site to review the very limited material they actually have. And I’m afraid it’s rather inferior to anything that we have here. Budgetary, you know. Someone had to decide whether to buy the latest scalpel or security camera…”
“Well, the good news,” said Henry Quaire, “is that what we just saw showswithout a doubt that the doer shot at Matt. He had every right to shoot back.”
“Commissioner Coughlin,” Lieutenant Jason Washington said, “what about Matt? What do we-or I-do with him now?”
Coughlin looked at ease. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Mariani repeated.
Coughlin nodded. “There was the discharge of his firearm. So until Internal Affairs officially clears him on that, he’s on administrative duty. Which works out fine, because I pretty much had him assigned to that already. He’s due out at the airport”-he looked at this wristwatch-“in about three hours.”
“Your call, Denny,” Mariani said.
“I would suggest one thing, Commissioner,” Coughlin said.
He pointed to the main screen. The video had started to loop, and now showed the critter kicking open the exit door and scattering the pedestrians.
When Mariani’s eyes went to it, the Hispanic was taking shots at the door and Payne was dropping to his knees.
“I wouldn’t let His Honor the Mayor see that,” Denny Coughlin went on. “He’s liable to slip it to the media. I think he likes that Wyatt Earp persona of Payne’s. Makes folks see that his administration stands with the police and isn’t afraid to boldly go after the bad guys.”
There were chuckles.
“Commissioner Walker,” Corporal Rapier suddenly said. “Some fresh imagery coming in. Shall I put it up on the main screen?”
“Yes, of course, Kerry. Punch it up.”
All eyes turned to the big screen.
The black-and-white shot of Payne running down the sidewalk with his pistol raised disappeared. In its place, up popped a new full-color video feed. It was an aerial shot, somewhat shaky and at times pixilated, the image turning momentarily to colored dots and squares. That suggested it was being shot by one of the Aviation Unit’s Bell helicopter Long Rangers.
When the image became stable, it clearly showed a Philadelphia Police Marine Unit boat making a slow circle on a river. The vessel was a twenty-four-foot-long Boston Whaler, its fiberglass hull silver with the department’s blue-and-yellow-stripe color scheme. It had a two-hundred-horsepower Evinrude outboard. The light bar atop the aluminum tower was pulsing red and blue.
In the lower right-hand part of the screen, text popped up:
Schuylkill River at Grays Ferry Avenue Bridge 1158 hours, 24 Sept “What the hell are we looking at?” Mariani said. “Some sort of fishing expedition?”
Walker looked at Corporal Rapier.
“Well, Kerry, anything on it?”
Corporal Rapier shook his head. “No, sir. All we just got was a call from the Marine Unit stating that they just recovered a body that was bobbing in the Schuylkill.”