TWENTY-SIX

The commissioner's conference room in the Police Administration Building was jammed with people. Every seat at the long table was filled, chairs had been dragged in from other offices, and people were standing up and leaning against the wall. There were far too many people to fit in Lowenstein's office, which was why they were in the commissioner's conference room.

"You run this, Peter," Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein declared from his chair at the head of the commissioner's conference table. " Denny Coughlin and I are here only to see how we can help you, Charley, and Frank."

Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin of the Secret Service, and Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young of the FBI were seated around him.

And if I fuck up, right, you're off the hook? "Wohl was running the show."

Peter Wohl immediately regretted the thought: While that might apply to some, most, maybe, of the other chief inspectors, it was not fair to apply it to either Lowenstein or Coughlin.

Worse, almost certainly Lowenstein had taken the seat at the head of the table to establish his own authority, and then delegating it to me. Lowenstein is one of the good guys. And I know that.

"Yes, sir. Thank you," Wohl said. He looked around the table. With the exception of Captain Jack Duffy, the special assistant to the commissioner for inter-agency liaison, only Captain Dave Pekach and Lieutenant Harry Wisser of Highway Patrol were in uniform.

"Indulge me for a minute, please," Wohl began. "I really don't know who knows what, so let me recap it. An ATF agent from Atlantic City, in response to a 'furnish any information' teletype from the Secret Service, came up with evidence of high-explosive destruction of a bunch of rental lockers. We're still waiting for the lab report, but the ATF explosives expert says he's pretty sure the explosive used was Composition C-4, and the detonators were also military. He also said that whoever rigged the charges knows what he's doing.

"Mr. Larkin went down there. There is a house, a cabin, on the property. Mr. Larkin feels that the unusual neatness, cleanliness, of the cabin fits in with the psychological profile the psychiatrists have given us of this guy.

"The FBI has come up with the names of the people who own the property. Richard W. and Marianne Wheatley. No address. I don't know how many Wheatleys there are in Philadelphia…"

"Ninety-six, Inspector," Detective Payne interrupted. Wohl looked at him coldly. He saw that he had a telephone book open on the table before him.

"None of them," Matt went on, "either Richard W. or Marianne. Not even an R. W."

"I was about to say a hell of a lot of them," Wohl said, adding with not quite gentle sarcasm, "Thank you, Payne. If I may continue?"

"Sorry," Matt said.

"And of course we don't know if these people live in Philadelphia, or Camden, or Atlantic City."

"Peter," Frank Young said. "Our office in Atlantic City has already asked the local authorities for their help."

"I'll handle Camden," Denny Coughlin announced. "I'm owed a couple of favors over there."

"What about Wilmington, Chester, the suburbs?" Wohl asked him.

"I'll handle that," Coughlin said.

"Then that leaves us, if we are to believe Detective Payne, ninety-six people to check out in Philadelphia. It may be a wild goose chase, but we can't take the chance that it's not."

"How do you want to handle it, Peter?"

"Ring doorbells," Wohl said. "I'd rather have detectives ringing them."

"Done," Lowenstein said.

"What I think they should do, Chief," Wohl said, "is ring the doorbell, ask whoever answers it if their name is Wheatley, and then ask if they own property in the Pine Barrens. If they say they do, they'll either ask why the cops want to know, and the detective will reply-or volunteer, if they don't ask-that the Jersey cops, better yet, the sheriff has called. There has been a fire in the house. The people have to be notified, and since Richard W. and Marianne Wheatley are not in the book, they are checking out all Wheatleys."

"What if it's the guy?" Captain Duffy asked.

"I don't really think," Wohl said, aware that he was furious at the stupidity of the question, and trying to restrain his temper, " that the guy is going to say, 'Right, I'm Wheatley, I own the garbage dump, and I've been using it to practice blowing up the Vice President' do you, Jack?"

"If I may, Peter?" Larkin asked.

"Certainly."

"We have to presume this fellow is mentally unstable. And we know he's at least competent, and possibly expert, around explosives, If we find him, we have to be very careful how we take him."

"Yes, sir," Captain Duffy said. "I can see that."

"Let me lay this out as I see it," Wohl said. "The reason I want detectives to ring the bell, Chief Lowenstein, is that most people who answer the doorbell are going to say 'No, I don't own a farm in Jersey' and any detective should be able to detect any hesitation. For the sake of argument, they find this guy. There will have to be a reaction to a detective showing up at his door. The detective does his best to calm him down. There was a fire, he's simply delivering a message. The detective goes away. Then we figure how to take him."

"We'd like to be in on that, Peter," Frank F. Young of the FBI said.

"How do you want to handle it, Peter?" Chief Lowenstein said.

"Depends on where and what the detective who's suspicious has to say, of course," Wohl replied. "But I think Stakeout, backed up by Highway."

"We've got warrants," Chief Coughlin said. "We just take the door, is that what you're saying?"

"It'd take us up to an hour to set it up," Wohl said. "Ordnance Disposal would be involved. And the district, of course another field Detective Division. By then, I hope, he would relax. And taking the doors would be, I think, the way to do it."

Coughlin grunted his agreement.

"And in the meantime, sit on him?" Lowenstein said.

"Different detectives," Wohl said, "in case he leaves."

"And what if nobody's home?" Mike Sabara asked.

"Then we sit on that address," Wohl said. "An unmarked Special Operations car, until we run out of them, and then, if nothing else, a district RPC." He looked at Lowenstein and Coughlin, and then around the table. "I'm open to suggestion."

"I suggest," Lowenstein said, breaking the silence, "that Detective Payne slide that phone book down the table to me, and somebody get me a pen, and we'll find out where these ninety-six Wheatleys all live."

The telephone book, still open, was passed down the table to Chief Lowenstein. Sergeant Tom Mahon, Chief Coughlin's driver, leaned over him and handed Chief Lowenstein two ballpoint pens.

As if they had rehearsed what they were doing, Chief Lowenstein read aloud a listing from the telephone directory, the whole thing, name, address, and telephone number, then said, "North Central" or " West" or another name of one of the seven Detective Divisions.

Most of the time, Coughlin would either grunt his acceptance of the location, or repeat it in agreement, but every once in a while they would have a short discussion as to the precise district boundaries. Finally, they would be in agreement, and Lowenstein would very carefully print the name of the Detective Division having jurisdiction over that address in the margin.

Everyone in the room watched in silence as they went through the ninety-six names.

They could have taken that to Radio, Peter Wohl thought. Any radio dispatcher could have done the same thing.

But then he changed his mind. These two old cops know every street and alley in Philadelphia better than any radio dispatcher. They're doing this because it's the quickest way to get it done, and done correctly. But I don't really think they are unaware that everybody at this table has been impressed with their encyclopedic knowledge.