"It's for official business only, sir."

Farnsworth Stillwell had a fresh, unpleasant thought. There was no one else here. Armando C. Giacomo was supposed to be here, and certainly there would be others besides Washington and the witness.

Had the whole damned thing been called off for some reason, and he had not been told?

"Are you sure Sergeant Washington isn't here? Could he be here and you not be aware of it?"

"Everybody has to come past me," she said. "If he were here, I'd know it."

"May I have the telephone, please?"

"It's for official business only, like I told you before."

"I'm Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. This is official business."

She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him, but gave in.

"I'll have the operator get the number for you, sir."

"I don't know the number. I want to talk to Inspector Wohl of Special Operations."

The corrections officer obligingly searched for the number on her list of official telephones. It was not listed, and she so informed Farnsworth Stillwell.

"Check with information."

Information had the number.

"Special Operations, may I help you?"

"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. Inspector Wohl, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. Inspector Wohl has gone for the day."

"Do you have a number where he can be reached?" -

"Just one moment, sir."

"This is Lieutenant Kelsey. May I help you, sir?"

"This is Assistant District Attorney Stillwell. It's important that I get in touch with Inspector Wohl."

"I'm sorry, the inspector's gone for the day. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stillwell?"

"Do you have a number where he can be reached?"

"No, sir."

"You mean you have no idea where he is?"

"The inspector is on his way to Frankford Hospital, sir. But until he calls in, I won't have a number there for him."

"What about Sergeant Washington?"

"Are you referring to Detective Washington, sir?"

"I understood he was promoted."

"Well, what do you know? I hadn't heard that."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He's at the Detention Center, sir. I can give you that number. "

"I'm at the Detention Center. He's not here. That's what I'm calling about."

"Hold one, sir," Lieutenant Kelsey said.

The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.

"They're at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now."

"Thank you."

"Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?"

"That won't be necessary, thank you very much," Farnsworth Stillwell said.

He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.

Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant's car. A second Highway Patrol RPC with two Highway cops followed him. The third car was Jason Washington's nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington's Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RPC.

The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington's car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington's car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the building and held it open.

Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.

"Good evening, Mr. Stillwell," he said.

"You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It's now"-He checked his watch-"four past seven."

"We were delayed," Washington said.

"Were you, indeed?"

"We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened," the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Stillwell," Washington said, "this is Mr. Albert J. Monahan."

Stillwell smiled at Monahan and offered his hand.

"I'm Farnsworth Stillwell, Mr. Monahan. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Can you believe that?" Monahan said. "A Molotov cocktail? Right on South Street? What the hell is the world coming to?"

What is this man babbling about? A Molotov cocktail is what the Russians used against German tanks, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming wick.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," Stillwell said.

"As we drove away from Goldblatt's," Washington explained, "party or parties unknown threw a bottle filled with gasoline down-more than likely from the roof-onto a Highway car that was escorting us here."

"I will bedamned!" Farnsworth Stillwell said.

My God, wait until the newspapers get hold of that!

"The bottle bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire," Washington went on.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"I understand a car parked on South Street caught fire," Washington said. "But no one was hurt. We went to the Roundhouse. I knew Central Detectives and the laboratory people would want a look at the Highway car."

"You could have called," Stillwell said, and immediately regretted it.

Washington looked at him coldly, but did not directly respond.

"I'm going to explain to Mr. Monahan how we run the lineup, lineups," Washington said. "And show him the layout. Perhaps you'd like to come along?"

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I'd appreciate that," Stillwell said. He smiled at Washington. Washington did not return it.

"The way this works, Mr. Monahan," he said, "is that the defense counsel will try to question your identification. One of the ways they'll try to do that is to attempt to prove that we rigged the lineup, set it up so that you would have an idea who we think the individual is. Lead you, so to speak. You follow me?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So we will lean over backward to make sure that the lineups are absolutely fair."

"Where do you get the other people?" Monahan said, "the innocent ones?"

"They're all volunteers."

"Off the street? People in jail?"

"Neither. People being held here. This is the Detention Center. Nobody being held here has been found guilty of anything. They're awaiting trial. The other people in the lineup will be chosen from them, from those that have volunteered."

"Why do they volunteer?"

"Well, I suppose I could stick my tongue in my cheek and say they're all public spirited citizens, anxious to make whatever small contribution they can to the criminal justice system, but the truth is I don't know. If they had me in here for something, I don't think I'd be running around looking for some way I could help, particularly if all I got out of it was an extra ice cream chit or movie pass. And, of course, most of the people being held here don't volunteer. As for the ones that do, I can only guess they do it because they're bored, or figure they can screw the system up."

"How do you mean?"

"Let's say there's a guy here who has a perfect alibi for the Goldblatt job; he was in here. So he figures if he can get in the lineup, and somehow look nervous or guilty and have you point him out, the guy who did the Goldblatt job walks away, and so does he; he has a perfect alibi."

"I'll be goddamned," Monahan said.

"So it's very important to the good guys, Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "that before you pick somebody out you be absolutely sure it's the guy. It would be much better for you not to be able to recognize somebody in the lineup than for you to make a mistake. If you did that, it would come out in court and put in serious question every other identification you made. You understand, of course."