Special Operations (Badge of Honor 2)

“Overalls,” she said. “Coveralls. You know?”

“Do you remember what color they were?”

“Black,” she said. “They were black. I saw him put them on….”

“And what color was the van?”

“I didn’t see. Maybe gray.”

“And when he left you here, which way did he go? Did he go back out to Bell’s Mill Road, or the other way?”

“Bell’s Mill Road.”

“And which way did he turn when he got there?”

“Right,” she said, with certainty.

Dohner reached for the microphone.

“Fourteen Twenty-Three,” he said.

“Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Police Radio replied.

“Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Dohner said. “Resume the Assist.”

“Resume the Assist” was pure police cant, verbal shorthand for “Those police officers who are rushing to this location with their sirens screaming and their warning lights flashing to assist me in dealing with the naked lady may now resume their normal duties. I have things in hand here, am in no danger, and expect my supervisor, a wagon, and probably a District detective to appear here momentarily.”

As police cars slowed, and sirens and flashing lights died all over the Northwest, Dohner went on: “We have a sexual assault, kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon. Be on the lookout for a white male in a gray van, make unknown. He’s wearing black coveralls and may be in possession of a black mask and a butcher knife. Last seen heading east on Bell’s Mill Road toward Germantown.”

As he put the microphone down, a police car turned onto Forbidden Drive, lights flashing, siren screaming. It skidded to a stop beside Bill Dohner’s car, and two Highway Patrolmen jumped out of it.

Joe Bullock’s voice came over the radio: “Flash information on a kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon and rape on Forbidden Drive. Be on the lookout for a white male in black coveralls driving a gray van. Suspect fled east on Bell’s Mill Road toward Germantown. May be in possession of a large knife. May have a black mask.”

“Mary,” Bill Dohner said, kindly. “I’m going to speak to these officers for a moment and tell them what’s happened, and then I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

As Dohner opened the door, two more police cars, one of them another Fourteenth District RPC and the other an unmarked Northwest Detectives car, came onto Forbidden Drive, one from Bell’s Mill Road, and the other from Northwestern Avenue, which is the boundary between Philadelphia and Montgomery counties.

When Bill Dohner got back into the car beside Mary Elizabeth Flannery, she was shaking under the blanket, despite the heat.

He picked up the microphone: “Fourteen Twenty-Three, I’m en route with the victim to Chestnut Hill Hospital.”

As he started to drive off, Bill Dohner looked at Mary Elizabeth Flannery again and said, “Shit,” under his breath. She was probably going into shock. Shock can be fatal.

“You all right, Mary?”

“Why did he do that to me?” Mary Elizabeth Flannery asked, wonderingly, plaintively.

TWO

Mickey O’Hara drove the battered Chevrolet around City Hall, then down South Broad Street, past the dignified Union League Club. When he came to the equally dignified Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, Mickey pulled to the curb at the corner, directly beside a sign reading NO PARKING AT ANY TIME TOW AWAY ZONE.

He slid across the seat and got out the passenger side door. Then he walked the fifty feet or so to the revolving door of the Bellevue-Stratford and went inside.

He walked across the lobby to the marble reception desk. There was a line, two very well dressed middle-aged men Mickey pegged to be salesmen, and a middle-aged, white-haired couple Mickey decided were a wife and a husband who, if he had had a choice, would have left her home.

All the salesmen did was ask the clerk for their messages. The wife had apparently badgered her husband into complaining about their room, which didn’t offer what she considered a satisfactory view, and then when he started complaining, took over from him. She obviously, and correctly, considered herself to be a first-class bitcher.

The desk clerk apparently had the patience of a saint, Mickey thought; and then—by now having gotten a good look at her—he decided she looked like one, too. An angel, if not a saint. Tall, nicely constructed, with rich brown hair, a healthy complexion, and very nice eyes. And she was wearing, Mickey noticed, no rings, either engagement or wedding, on the third finger on her left hand.