Catherine Wosniski also knew about Colosimo’s Gun Store. It was where three out of four cops in Philadelphia, maybe more, bought their guns. And she also knew that many of them stopped by Colosimo’s to shop on a personal basis when they had been officially sent to the Roundhouse; that they shopped there, so to speak, on company time, almost invariably “forgetting” to call Police Radio to report themselves out of service.
So what she had here was a car that was not required to report itself out of service doing just that, and at a location where cars rarely reported themselves out of service, because supervisors, who also had radios, frowned on officers shopping on company time.
Although Mrs. Catherine Wosniski was a devout and lifelong member of the Roman Catholic Church, she was also conversant with certain phrases used by those of the Hebraic persuasion: What she thought was, there’s something not kosher here.
“W-William Two Oh Nine,” she radioed back. “Do you want numbers on this assignment?”
What she was asking was whether the officer calling wanted the District Control Number for whatever incident was occurring at Colosimo’s Gun Store that he had elected to handle. A District Control Number is required for every incident of police involvement.
Officer Matthew Payne had no idea at all what she was talking about.
“W-William Two Oh Nine. No, thank you, ma’am, I don’t need any numbers.”
It had been at least two years since anyone had said thank you to Catherine Wosniski over the Police Radio; she could never remember anyone who had ever called her ‘ma’am’ over the air.
“W-William Two Oh Nine,” she radioed, a touch of concern in her voice, “is everything all right at that location?”
“W-William Two Oh Nine,” Officer Payne replied, “everything’s fine here. I’m just going inside to buy a gun.”
There was a pause before Mrs. Wosniski replied. Then, very slowly, she radioed, “Ooooooo-kaaaaaay, W-Two Oh Nine.”
Everyone on this band thus knew that Mrs. Wosniski knew that she was dealing with an incredible dummy who hadn’t the foggiest idea how to cover his tracks when he
was taking care of personal business.
Blissfully unaware of the meaning of his exchange with Police Radio, and actually complimenting himself on the professional way he had handled the situation, Matt Payne got out of the car and went into Colosimo’s Gun Store.
Thirty minutes after that, after equipping himself with a Smith & Wesson Model 37 Chief’s Special Airweight J-Frame .38 Special caliber revolver and an ankle holster for it, he had called Radio again and reported W-William Two Oh Nine back in service.
Getting the pistol had been far more complicated than he had imagined. He had—naively, he now understood—assumed that since he was now a sworn Police Officer, and equipped with a badge and a photo identification card to prove it, buying a revolver would be no more difficult than buying a pair of shoes.
But that hadn’t been the case. First there had been a long federal government form to fill out, on which he had to swear on penalty of perjury, the punishments for which were spelled out to be a $10,000 fine and ten years imprisonment, that he was not a felon, a drunk, or a drug addict; and that neither was he under psychiatric care or under any kind of an indictment. And when that was complete, the salesman took his photo identification to a telephone and called the Police Department to verify that there was indeed a Police Officer named Matthew Payne on their rolls.
But finally the pistol was his. He carried it out to the car and, with more trouble than he thought it would be, managed to fasten the ankle holster to his right ankle. Then, sitting in the car, he had gone through some actually painful contortions to take off his jacket and his shoulder holster.
He took the revolver from the holster, opened the cylinder, and dumped the six shiny, somehow menacing, cartridges into his hand. He loaded five of them, all it held, into the Undercover revolver’s cylinder and put it back into the ankle holster. He slipped the leftover cartridge into his trousers pocket.
When he tried to put the service revolver and the shoulder holster in the glove compartment, it was full of shortwave radio chassis. He finally managed to shove it all under the passenger-side seat.
The ankle holster, as he drove to the Roundhouse, had felt both strange and precariously mounted, raising the very real possibility that he didn’t have it on right.
As he looked for a parking place, other doubts rose in his mind. He had never been inside the Roundhouse; the closest he’d come was waiting outside while Inspector Wohl had gone inside to get Detectives Washington and Harris.
He had no idea where to go inside to gain access to a Xerox machine. And there was, he thought, a very good possibility that as he walked down a corridor somewhere, the ankle holster would come loose and his new pistol would go sliding down the corridor before the eyes of fifty Police Officers, most of them Sergeants or better.
He found a parking place, pulled the Fury into it, and almost immediately backed out and left the Roundhouse parking lot. He knew where there was a Xerox machine, and where to park the car to get to it. He picked up the microphone.
“W-William Two Oh Nine,” he reported, “out of service at Twelfth and Market.”
“Why hello, Matt,” Mrs. Irene Craig, executive secretary to the senior partners of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, said. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Craig,” Matt said. “And yourself?”
His confidence in the ankle holster had been restored. He had walked, at first very carefully, and then with growing confidence through the parking building to the elevator, and it had not fallen off.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to use the Xerox machine,” he said.