The Witness (Badge of Honor 4)

Mickey knew the streets of the City of Philadelphia as well as any London taxi driver knows those of the city on the Thames. He turned left onto 26th Street and headed south toward the Art Museum and moved swiftly down the Benjamin Franklin Parkway toward City Hall. The pedestrian traffic around City Hall was frustrating, but his pace picked up as he headed south on Broad Street toward South Street. As he turned east on South Street, he could see flashing lights a few blocks ahead.

He drove expertly. That is to say, he was not reckless. But he paid absolutely no attention to the posted speed limits, and paused for red lights only long enough to make sure he could get across the intersection without getting hit.

He was not worried about being cited for violation of the Motor Vehicle Code. His chances of being charged with speeding or running a red light or reckless lane changing were about as great as those of Mayor Jerry Carlucci’s.

Mickey O’Hara was regarded by the Police Department as one of their own. To be sure, there was always some stiff-necked prick who would point out that all Mickey O’Hara was, was a goddamn civilian and entitled to no special privileges. But for every one of these, there were two or three cops, driving RPCs or walking beats, or captains and inspectors, who had known Mickey for twenty years and had come to believe that he was on the side of the cops, and told the prick where to head in.

When the Emerald Society had a function, and there was a head table, Mickey O’Hara was routinely seated at it. The Fraternal Order of Police club, downtown, off North Broad Street, had an ironclad rule that the only way a civilian could get past the door was in the company of a member. Except for Mickey O’Hara, who could be expected to drop in once a night for a beer, sitting at a stool near the cash register that might as well have had his name on it, because it was tacitly reserved for him.

The thing about Mickey, it was said, was that he never betrayed a confidence. If you told him something was out of school, you would never see it in the newspaper.

There was a white-capped (Traffic Division) cop diverting traffic away from South Street onto South 9th Street when Mickey O’Hara’s Buick appeared.

He waved Mickey through, winked at him as he passed, and then furiously blew his whistle at the car behind him, who thought he wanted to follow Mickey.

Mickey pulled up behind a car he recognized as belonging to Central Detectives. Some of the chrome letters that had once spelled out CHEVROLET had fallen off; now it read CHE RO T. He had seen it the night before downtown; a lawyer from Pittsburgh had been mugged and stabbed coming out of a bar. The detective had told Mickey what had happened, and when Mickey had asked him, “What do you think?” the detective had said, “It’s a start, but the bastards breed like rabbits.”

Mickey took a 35-mm camera from the passenger side floor and got out. He saw that South Street was jammed with police vehicles of all descriptions. There were three 6th District RPCs, cars assigned to one of the 6th District sergeants and the 6th District lieutenant captain, a Highway RPC, a 6th District van and two stakeout vans, the Mobile Crime Lab vehicle, and a number of unmarked cars. One of the unmarked cars was a brand-new Chevrolet Impala, telling Mickey that a captain (or better) with nothing more important to do had come to the crime scene, and was more than likely getting in the way. The other unmarked cars were battered; that meant they were from Central Detectives.

Obviously (people were standing around) whatever had happened here was over. The stakeout vans, which are manned by specially trained policemen who are equipped with special weapons (rifles, shotguns, machine guns, et cetera) and equipment, and called into use in situations where ordinary armament (handguns) is likely to be inadequate, were not going to be needed.

Then Mickey saw a familiar face, that of Homicide Detective Joe D’Amata, and knew that something serious had happened. The “hospital case” in the Police Radio call hadn’t needed a hospital.

Mickey stepped over the Crime Scene barrier and walked toward another familiar face. He now knew who was driving the new Impala.

“I didn’t know they let old men like you go in on real jobs,” Mickey said.

Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, a short, stocky man with large, dark eyes, who commanded the Detective Division, took a black, six-inch cigar from between his lips and looked coldly at Mickey.

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a laugh-a-minute Irishman,” he said. “I knew if I didn’t get out of here, something unpleasant, like you showing up, would happen.”

“Things a little slow at the Roundhouse, are they? Or are you trying to recapture your youth by patrolling the streets?”

“I was driving by, all right? Up yours, O’Hara.”

Despite the exchange, they were friends. Matt

Lowenstein met Mickey O’Hara’s criteria for a very good cop. Not all senior supervisors did. O’Hara admired Lowenstein for being an absolute straight arrow, who protected his men like a mother hen.

On Lowenstein’s part, he not only respected O’Hara professionally, but when his son had been bar mitzvahed, not only had Mickey shown up (his gift had been The Oxford Complete Dictionary of the English Language) but the event had been reported on the front page of the Sunday Social Section, complete with a three-column picture of Lowenstein and his son via Mickey’s influence at the Bulletin.

“So before you go back to the rocking chair, you going to tell me what happened? Why are you here?”

“I told you, I was nearby and heard the call,” Lowenstein said. “It’s a strange one, Mickey. Six, eight guys, A-rabs—”

“Real Arabs?” Mickey interrupted.

“They kept saying ‘motherfucker.’ That’s Arabian, isn’t it?”

Mickey chuckled. “I think so,” he said solemnly.

“They came in the place one at a time, spread out through the building, and then pulled guns. They shot up the place, God only knows why, and then tried to set some rugs on fire. The maintenance man walked in while it was going on, and they killed him.”

“He try to do something or what?”

Lowenstein shrugged.

“Don’t know yet. You want to have a look?”