W. Griffin - Special Operations

"That's the detective's name," Wohl said.

"Oh." She chuckled.

"There's a flock of nice restaurants up there," he said. "We can have dinner in the country, if you'd like."

"Are they run by gangster men of honor, or would you actually have to pay for it?"

"Jesus, you're something," he said. "There goes my other phone. I'll call you."

His caller was an indignant Inspector from the Traffic Division who had wrecked his car, sent someone to get him another from the motor pool, and been informed that Peter Wohl's Special Operations Division had, in the last three days, taken all the available new cars. Peter's explanation that they had drawn what cars the motor pool had elected to give them did not mollify the Inspector from Traffic.

The next call, which came in while the Traffic Inspector was still complaining, was from Mickey O'Hara.

"I understand that you're looking for me," Mickey said. "What's up, Peter?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit, I heard the call."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Wohl said. "I thought you had called to demand to know what, if anything, has developed in the Woodham kidnapping."

There was a pause.

"Okay," Mickey said. "What if anything has developed in the Woodham case?"

"Well, since you put that to me as a specific question, which is not the same thing as me volunteering information to one favored representative of the press, I suppose I am obliged to answer it. The State Police have found a body near Durham, Bucks County, 4.4 miles west of US 611 on US 212, which they feel may be that of Miss Woodham."

"When?"

"They reported the incident to the Philadelphia Police less than an hour ago," Wohl said.

"Anybody else have this?"

"Since no one has come to me, as you did, Mr. O'Hara, with a specific question that I am obliged to answer, I have not mentioned this to anyone outside the Police Department."

"Thanks, Peter," Mickey O'Hara said, "I owe you one."

The line went dead.

Wohl broke the connection with his finger and dialed first Chief Coughlin's number and told him what had happened and what (minus Mickey O'Hara) he had done about it. And then he called Commissioner Czernick and told him the same thing.

Then he called Sergeant Frizell in and told him to have a Highway Patrolman take one of the new cars over to Inspector Paul McGhee in Traffic with the message that he could have the use of it until a car was available to him from the motor pool.

Then he settled down to deal with the mountain of paperwork on his desk until such time as Washington checked in.

A mile the far side of Willow Grove, Jason Washington switched off the siren.

"If this is Miss Woodham," he said. "And we won't know until we get a look at the body-maybe not even then, maybe not until we get her dental records, they didn't say how badly she was mutilated, only that she had been-this may be the first break we've had in this job."

"I don't understand," Matt said. He had been thinking that it was suddenly very quiet in the car, even though the speedometer was nudging eighty.

"Well, maybe somebody saw a van drive in. The site is supposed to be a summer cottage on a dirt road; in other words, not a busy street. People might have noticed. Maybe we can get an identification on the van, at least the color and make. If it's a dirt road, or there's a lawn, or some soft dirt, near the cottage, maybe we can get a cast and match it against the casts on Forbidden Drive-do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "When I Xeroxed the reports, I read them."

"If we get a match on tire casts, that would mean the same vehicle. If we can get a description of the van, that would help.If he brought her out here in a van, andif the body they have is Miss Woodham. And obviously, he has some connection with the summer cottage. I mean, I don't think he just drove around looking for someplace to take her; he knew where he was taking her. So we start there. Who's the owner? Our guy? If not, who did he rent it to? Does he know a large, hairy, wellspoken white male? Do the neighbors remember seeing anybody, or anything? Hell, we may even get lucky and come up with a name."

Matt wondered if Washington was merely thinking out loud, or whether he was graciously showing him how things were done. The former was more likely; the latter quite flattering.

"I see you got rid of the horse pistol in the shoulder holster," Washington said.

"Yes, sir," Matt said. "I bought aChief's Special."

"After I told you that, I had some second thoughts," Washington said.

"Sir?"

"What kind of a shot are you?" Washington said.

"Actually, I'm not bad."

"I was afraid of that, too," Washington said. "Listen, I may be just making noise, because the chances that you would have to take that pistol out of its holster-ankle holster?"

"Yes, sir," Matt replied.

"The chances that you will have to take that snub-nose out of its holster range from slim indeed to nonexistent, but there's always an exception, so I want to get this across to you. The effective range, if you're lucky, of that pistol is about as long as this car. If you, excited as you would be if you had to draw it, managed to hit a mansized target any farther away than seven yards, it would be a miracle."

"Yes, sir," Matt said.

"I don't expect you to believe that," Washington said.

"I believe you," Matt said.

"You believe that 'what ol' Washington says is probably true for other people, but doesn't apply to me. I'm a real pistolero. I shot Expert in the service with a.45.' "

"Well, I didn't make it into the Marines," Matt said. "But I did shoot Expert with a.45 when I was in the training program."

"Do me a favor, kid?"

"Sure."

"The next time you've got a couple of hours free, go to a pistol range. Not the Academy Range, one of the civilian ones. Colosimo's got a good one. Take thatChief's Special with you and buy a couple of boxes of shells for it. And then shoot at a silhouette with it. Rapid fire. Aim it, if you want to, or just point it-you know what I'm talking about, you know the difference?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then count the holes in the target. If you hit it- anywhere, not just in the head or in the chest-half the time, I would be very surprised."

"You mean I should practice until I'm competent with it?" Matt asked.

"No. That'snot what I mean. The point I'm trying to make is that Wyatt Earp and John Wayne couldn't shoot a snub-nose more than seven yards, nobody can, and expect to hit what they're shooting at. I want you to convince yourself of that, and remember it, if-and I reiteratein the very unlikely chance you ever have to use that gun."

"Oh, I think I see what you mean," Matt said.

"I hope so," Washington said. "My own rule of thumb is that if he's too far away to belt in the head with a snub-nose, he's too far away to shoot."

Matt chuckled.

"Where the hell are we?" Washington said. "We should be in Canada by now. Pull in the next gas station and ask for directions."

Route 212, a two-lane, winding road, was fifteen miles from the gas station. They had no trouble finding the dirt road 4.4 miles from the intersection of 611 and 212. There were a dozen cars and vans parked on the shoulder of the road by it, some wearing State Trooper and Bucks County Sheriff's Department regalia, and others the logotypes of radio and television stations.

A sheriff's deputy waved them through on 212, and advanced angrily on the car when Matt turned on the left-turn signal.

"Crime scene," the deputy called when Matt rolled the window down.

"Philadelphia Police," Washington said, showing his badge. "We're expected."

"Wait a minute," the deputy said and walked to a State Trooper car. A very large Corporal in a straw Smokey the Bear hat swaggered over.