W. Griffin: Final Justice

Mickey knew that some people-just about any cop- would think what he should have done was simply turn the memory chip over to the cops, to assist them in their search for the murderers.

Mickey had several problems with that. For one thing, if the cops had the memory chip, there was no way he could get copies of the pictures before the Bulletin went to bed at 3 A.M. For another, while Mickey thought it was important that the public get to see the bodies of Kenny Charlton and the Puerto Rican, Latina, whatever, lady lying where they had fallen, there were families involved, and there was no reason the families had to see how fucking gruesome it actually was. Seeing Daddy and Momma in the Bulletin lying dead was going to be bad enough.

When he had finished, he picked up his telephone with one hand, and with the other slid out a shelf on his desk to which a list of telephone numbers was affixed under celluloid. He found what he wanted and punched it in.

“First District, Corporal Foley.”

“Mickey O’Hara, Jerry. Did they pick up the Roy Rogers doers yet?”

“Not yet, Mick. They’re still looking.”

“You’re sure, Jerry?”

“Jesus, yeah, I’m sure. I thought they would have something by now. Every cop in Philadelphia’s down here looking for them.”

"Thank you, Jerry.”

He dropped the telephone into its cradle, looked at the gray monitor before him, a cursor blinking on it, and then tapped the balls of his fingers together as he searched for the lead sentence of what he was about to write. He wanted to get it right.

After a moment, it came to him.

CESlug-Massive Manhunt Begins for Roy Rogers Murderers

By Michael J. O’Hara, Bulletin Staff Writer,Photos by Michael J. O’Hara

Philadelphia April 27-Philadelphia police began a massive manhunt just before midnight, confident they would quickly apprehend the two young black men eyewitnesses say first shot to death Mrs. Maria Manuela Fernandez, kitchen supervisor of the Roy Rogers restaurant at South Broad and Snyder Streets, during a robbery and then shot Police Officer Kenneth J. Charlton, of the First District, who responded to the call, killing him instantly. Amal al Zaid, a maintenance worker at the restaurant, told this reporter Mrs. Fernandez, a single mother of three, was shot without warning by one of the robbers as she was on the telephone reporting the robbery to police authorities, and then ambushed Officer Charlton as he entered the restaurant a few minutes later.

Five minutes and 250 words later, Mickey gave the computer screen a quick read, cursed the goddamn sci-fi movie typeface, then inserted a missing comma and pushed the Send key.

Then he turned to the printer, picked the photographs from the tray, put the ones intended for the cops into a large manila envelope, and, carrying the ones from which he had deleted the blood, walked out of his office and across the city room to the city editor.

“These the pics?” the city editor asked.

“I thought you should see them in color,” Mickey said. “I appended them to my piece, but they’ll look black-and-white on the El Cheapo network.”

The city editor examined the photographs.

“No blood,” he said. It was both a question and a statement.

“You noticed, did you, you perceptible sonofabitch?”

“Nice work, Mickey,” the city editor said.

Mickey O’Hara held up his hands in a what are you going to do? gesture, then walked out of the city room.

He got in his car, which was parked in a slot marked with a RESERVED FOR MR. O’HARA sign, and drove to the Roundhouse, where he parked in a slot marked with a RESERVED FOR INSPECTORS sign, and then entered the building.

The uniforms behind the plate-glass window pushed the solenoid that opened the door to the lobby.

One of the uniforms, a corporal, called: “I thought you’d be out at the Roy Rogers, Mickey.”

Mickey waved the manila envelope in his hand.

“Been there, done that,” he said, and walked across the lobby to the elevator. He rode it to the first floor, and then walked down the corridor until he came to a door marked HOMICIDE.

He pushed it open, then made his way past a locked barrier by putting his hand behind it and pushing the hidden solenoid switch.

There was only one detective in the room, a younger man who looked like he needed both a new razor and a month’s good meals.

“Got you minding the store, have they, Fenson?”

“What can I do for you, O’Hara?” the detective asked.

“Washington’s the lieutenant?”

“This week at least,” Fenson said.

Lieutenant Jason Washington had taken the examination for promotion to captain. It was universally expected that he would pass.

“I hear the results of the sergeant’s exam will be out tomorrow,” he said. “The lieutenant’s and captain’s should be right after that.”

“Can you imagine him in a uniform, addressing some uniform roll call in a district?” Fenson asked.

“No, I can’t,” O’Hara admitted. “Is Washington here?”

“He’s out at the Roy Rogers scene. What can I do for you?”

“It’s a question of what I can do for you,” O’Hara said. “Can you get Washington on the horn and tell him I’ve got a picture of the doers? A lousy picture, I admit, but a picture. ”

He laid it on the detective’s desk.

“You’re sure this is them? And you’re right, it’s a lousy picture.”

“I’m sure,” O’Hara said. “I took it.”

“Washington called a couple of minutes ago and said he was coming in,” the detective said.

Mickey O’Hara used the gentlemen’s rest facility, then sipped on a paper cup of tepid coffee.

Eight minutes after that, an enormous-six feet three, 225 pounds-superbly tailored, very black man came into Homicide. Known behind his back as “The Black Buddha,” Lieutenant Jason Washington regarded himself-and was generally regarded by others-as the best homicide detective in Philadelphia, and possibly the best homicide detective between Bangor, Maine, and Key West, Florida.

“Michael, my friend, how are you?” he greeted O’Hara with obvious sincerity, plus a warm smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Hey, Jason,” O’Hara said. “I have a lousy picture of the doers.”

He pointed to the photograph lying on the detective’s desk. Washington picked it up, examined it carefully, then looked at O’Hara.

“I concur in your judgment of the quality,” he said. “And the source, Mickey?”

“I went in on the robbery-in-progress call,” O’Hara said. “When I got there, these two were leaving. I took that picture. ”

“And you believe these were the doers?”

“Yeah, that’s them,” O’Hara said. “They match the description I got from one of the employees.”

“The camera zeroed in on the light in the doorway,” Washington said. “Pity.”

“Its twelve hundred dots to the inch. Maybe the lab’ll be able to salvage more than I could,” Mickey said.

“Detective Fenson,” Washington said. “Didn’t you think, considering Mr. O’Hara’s reputation as one of the more skilled photographers of the dark side of our fair city, that it behooved you to get this photograph to the lab as quickly as possible?”

“That’s a pretty bad picture, Lieutenant.”

“But a picture nevertheless, Detective Fenson,” the Black Buddha said softly. “I constantly try to make the point that no stone should ever be left unturned.”

Fenson picked up the picture and walked out of the room.

“I am grateful for the photograph, Mickey,” Washington said. “Even if others may not be. I have a feeling that this case isn’t going to be as easy to close as everyone else seems to feel it will be.”