The Witness (Badge of Honor 4)

The coffee was served in cups and saucers, with a cream pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the side, which was certainly more elegant, Matt thought, than the collection of chipped china mugs, can of condensed milk, and coffee can full of little sugar packets reading McDonald’s and Roy Rogers and Peking Palace in Peter Wohl’s office coffee service.

There were more surprises. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Young was more than complimentary about the completeness of the Nelson files Matt had brought him. They would be very helpful, he said, and the FBI was grateful.

Then, with great tact, he asked Matt all sorts of questions about himself, why he had joined the cops, how he liked it, whether he liked law enforcement in general—“I don’t really know why I asked that. You seem to have proven that you take to law enforcement like a duck to water. I think everybody with a badge in Philadelphia was delighted when you terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher’s criminal career.”—and what his long-term career plans were.

“I intend to work myself up through the ranks,” Matt said solemnly, “to police commissioner. And then I will seek an appropriate political office.”

Young laughed heartily. “Jerry Carlucci’s going to be a tough act to follow. But why not? You’ve got the potential.”

If I didn’t know better, Matt thought, I’d think he was about to offer me a job.

Then came the question: I am being charmed. Why should they bother to charm me? All I am is an errand-boy-by-another-name to Wohl.

Young then offered to give him a tour of the office, which Matt, after a moment’s indecision, accepted. For one thing, he was curious to see what the inside of an FBI office looked like. And maybe they would actually ask him for something. In any event, the school building could wait.

He was introduced to another A-SAC, whose name he promptly forgot, and to a dozen FBI agents, some singly and some in groups. Every time, A-SAC Young used the same words, “This is the Philadelphia plainclothesman who terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher’s criminal career.”

And everyone seemed pleased to have the opportunity to shake the hand that held the gun that terminated the criminal career of Mr. Warren K. Fletcher.

I really don’t know what the hell is going on here, but there is some reason I’m being given the grand tour. It may be that Young is being nice to Wohl through his errand boy; or that he is genuinely impressed with the guy who shot Fletcher—if he knew the circumstances, of course, he would be far less impressed—or, really, that they are going to offer me a job. But it’s damned sure they don’t give the grand tour to every cop from the Department who shows up here with a pile of records.

The subject of employment with the FBI did not come up. A-SAC Young walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, and said that he was sure he would see Matt again and looked forward to it.

When he was on the street again, Matt saw that the skies were dark. It was probably going to snow.

Not only is it going to be bitter cold in that goddamn building, it’s going to be dark.

Shit!

He drove back to Bustleton and Bowler, and turned in the Department car. He couldn’t keep it overnight without permission, and he didn’t want to ask Wohl for permission, so it was either turn it in now or when he was finished with the measuring job, and now seemed to be better than later.

On the way to the Frankford and Castor building, he remembered thinking that it was going to be dark, as well as cold, inside the building. He would need more than a flashlight. He could go back and draw a battery-powered floodlight from supply, but he didn’t want to go back.

He drove down Frankford Avenue until he found a hardware store, and went in and bought the largest battery-powered floodlight they had, plus a spare battery. Then he bought a fifty-foot tape measure.

It then occurred to him that he would need something that provided more space than his pocket notebook. He found a stationery store and bought a clipboard, two mechanical pencils, and a pad of graph paper.

He was carrying all this back to his car when a Highway car suddenly pulled to the curb, in the process spraying his trousers and overcoat with a mixture of snow, soot, grime, and slush.

The driver’s door opened and the head and shoulders of Officer Charles McFadden appeared.

“I thought those were your wheels,” McFadden said, nodding up the street toward where Matt had parked his Porsche. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m on a scavenger hunt. The next thing on my list is the severed head of an Irishman.”

McFadden laughed.

“No shit, Matt, what are you doing?”

“Would you believe I am going to measure the school building at Frankford and Castor?”

“I heard we were getting that,” McFadden said. “And Inspector Wohl’s making you measure it?”

“Right.”

“All by yourself?”

“Right.”