The investigators boh-7 Read online

  The investigators

  ( Badge of Honor - 7 )

  W. E. B. Griffith

  W. E. B. Griffith

  The investigators

  ONE

  A nearly new, but quite dirty, antenna-festooned Buick pulled into the employee parking lot of the Philadelphia Bulletin and into a parking space bearing a sign reading RESERVED MR. O'HARA.

  Mr. Michael J. O'Hara, a wiry, curly haired man in his late thirties, wearing gray flannel trousers, loafers, a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the tie pulled down, and a plaid sports coat that only with great kindness could be called "a little loud," got quickly out of the car, slammed the door, and entered the building.

  He took the elevator to the third floor, where it deposited him in the city room. He walked quickly across the room crowded with desks holding computer terminals, filing cabinets, and the other impedimenta of the journalist's profession to a glass-walled office, the door of which also bore his name. He went inside, opened a small refrigerator, and took out a bottle of Coca-Cola.

  Then he sat down at his desk, punched the computer keys that would inform him of messages received in his absence, found nothing that could not wait, and took a swallow of his Coke.

  An assistant city editor-Seymour Schwartz, a skinny, bespectacled forty-year-old whom Mickey regarded as about second among equals of the assistant city editors-appeared at his door.

  "You got anything for me, Mickey?" Sy asked.

  "Genius cannot be rushed," Mickey said. "I thought I already told you that."

  "We go to bed in about fifteen minutes."

  "Hold me a large chunk of page one," Mickey said. "Journalistic history will be made in the next five minutes. Presuming, of course, that you leave me alone."

  Sy Schwartz threw up both hands in a gesture of surrender and walked away.

  He both liked and admired Mickey O'Hara, who had not only won the Pulitzer Prize for his crime reporting, but was regarded-by his peers, including Sy Schwartz, not only by the sometimes politically motivated Pulitzer Prize committee-as just about the best police reporter between Boston and Washington. But as long as he had known O'Hara and worked with him, as many elbows as they had rubbed together, he never knew when Mickey was being serious or pulling his chain.

  He did know him well enough, however, to know that when Mickey said he wanted to be left alone, the thing to do was leave him alone. He went back to his desk to wait for whatever Mickey was about to send him.

  O'Hara looked at the blank computer screen, wiggled his fingers, reached for the Coke bottle, and took another swallow. Then he locked his fingers together, wiggled them, and, without looking, reached into a desk drawer and came out with a long thin cigar. He bit the end off, spit the end out, and then very thoughtfully and carefully lit it.

  He put it in one corner of his mouth, flexed his fingers a final time, and began to tap the keys. Very rapidly. And once he had begun to write, he did not stop. The words appeared on the computer screen.

  Slug: (O'Hara) "Really Ugly" Woman Robs

  Bucks County Bank by Michael J. O'Hara

  Bulletin Staff Writer

  Riegelsville, Bucks County-A bandit described as "a really ugly white woman with hairy legs" robbed the Riegelsville branch of Philadelphia's Girard Savings Bank of more than $25,000 shortly after the bank opened this morning.

  FBI agents and State Police swarmed over this small village on the banks of the Delaware to assist Riegelsville's one-man police force-part-time Constable Karl Werner-in solving the crime.

  According to P. Stanley Dailey, 28, of Riegelsville, assistant manager of the bank and the only witness, the bandit, wielding a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, took him by surprise as he was entering the bank by the rear entrance shortly after 8 a.m.

  "She waited until I had unlocked the door, and had turned off the alarm, and then put her shotgun in my ear," Dailey, still visibly shaken hours after the robbery, told this reporter.

  The bandit then took him, Dailey said, into the rear of the bank, where she ordered him to lie on his stomach on the floor of the employees' rest room, and then bound and gagged him with air-conditioning duct tape.

  It was while he was being bound, Dailey reported, that he noticed that beneath her black patterned stockings, the robber's legs were unshaven. She was dressed, he said, in a blue and white polka-dot dress, over which she wore a tan raincoat. Her hair was covered with a scarf, and she was wearing heart-shaped glasses, decorated with sequins.

  The robber then proceeded to the public area of the small bank, Dailey believes, and waited for the automatic timing device of the bank's vault, set to open at 8:15, to function.

  She then helped herself to "the loose cash"-that is, currency involved in the previous day's business, which had been placed in the vault in cash drawers at the close of the previous day. She apparently made no attempt to force her way into any of the vault's locked interior compartments.

  The robber then left the bank building by the rear door, locking it after herself. Mr. Dailey's keys were later found by the FBI in the parking lot.

  At 8:25 a.m. the branch bank's manager, Mrs. Jean-Ellen Dowd, 42, of Upper Black Eddy, arrived at the bank.

  "I knew something was wrong the minute I found the door locked," Mrs. Dowd told authorities and this reporter, "because Stanley [Mr. Dailey] is as reliable as a Swiss watch. But I thought he had a flat tire or something. I never dreamed it was something like this."

  She entered the building and found Mr. Dailey in the rest room. Once she had taken the duct tape from his mouth, and he told her what had happened, she activated the alarm. The sound of the alarm was heard by Constable Werner at his full-time place of employment, the Riegelsville plant of the Corrugated Paper Corporation of Pennsylvania, where he is a pulper technician.

  He rushed from the plant in his personal vehicle, a pickup truck, which is equipped with a siren and a red flashing light. En route to the scene of the crime, he collided with a Ford sedan driven by Mr. James J. Penter, manager of the Corrugated Paper Corporation's Riegelsville facility, who was on his way to work.

  Neither Constable Werner nor Mr. Penter was injured in the collision, but Constable Werner's pickup truck was rendered hors de combat. Mr. Penter then drove Constable Werner to the scene of the crime, where, after questioning Mr. Dailey, he notified the State Police, who in turn notified the FBI.

  State Trooper Daniel M. Tobias of the Bethlehem Barracks was first to arrive at the scene. After obtaining from Mr. Dailey a more complete description of the robber as a female approximately five feet eight inches tall, approximately thirty years of age, with large, dangling earrings and an unusually thick application of lipstick and cheek rouge, Trooper Tobias put out a radio bulletin calling for the apprehension of anyone meeting that description and then secured the crime scene pending the arrival of other law enforcement officials.

  The Philadelphia office of the FBI dispatched a team of four special agents under the command of Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young.

  After questioning Mr. Dailey and Constable Werner, Mr. Young spoke with the press regarding the crime.

  "The FBI regards bank robberies as a very serious matter," Young said, "and can point with pride to its record of bringing the perpetrators to justice. I have no doubt that when the FBI has had time to fully apply its assets, this crime will be solved."

  Mr. Young, when asked by this reporter if a shotgun-wielding female with unshaven legs, dangling earrings, and an unusually thick application of lipstick and cheek rouge had been involved in other bank robberies, declined to answer.

  He also declined to offer an opinion about when an arrest could be expected, and when asked by a re
porter from the Easton Express to identify the FBI agents with him, stated that it was FBI policy not to do so.

  The FBI agents with Mr. Young were known to this reporter as John D. Matthews, Lamar F. Greene, and Paul C. Lomar.

  END

  He stopped typing, pushed the Page Up key, and read what he had written. He tapped his fingertips together for a moment, then pushed the Send key on his keyboard. This caused as much of the slug of the story as would fit-it came out as (O'Hara) "Really Ugly" Woman Robs B-to appear on the computer monitor on Mr. Schwartz's desk.

  Schwartz immediately called the whole story up on his monitor screen.

  He read it, chuckling several times, and then pushed a key that caused a printed version of the story to emerge from a printer on a credenza behind him. He snatched it from the printer and walked across the city room to O'Hara's office.

  "Very funny," he said. "A bank robber dressed up like a woman."

  "It was a Chinese fire drill, from start to finish," Mickey said. "I was going up Route 611 when the FBI, two cars, goes around me, lights flashing, sirens screaming, as if I was standing still. Then they got lost, I guess, because I got to the bank ten minutes before they did."

  Schwartz smiled.

  "The first thing Young did, when he finally showed up, was to order one of his underlings to throw me out of the bank," O'Hara went on.

  "I noticed you had your knife out for him," Schwartz said. "This is what is known as Time For Second Thoughts."

  "Fuck him," Mickey said. "Let it run."

  "Your call."

  "Sy, that constable was really something," O'Hara said, laughing at the memory. "He told me the reason he ran into his boss's car was because he had just remembered he had left his gun home, and was wondering if he should go get it before going to the bank."

  "You really want to say his truck was 'rendered hors de combat'?"

  "Why not? I love that phrase. It calls up pictures of horny naked women in foxholes."

  Schwartz laughed.

  "Who do you think did it?"

  "That state cop was pretty clever. I had a chance to talk to him before Young showed up and threw me out of the bank. The state cop thinks it was probably some guy from the coal regions, out of work for a long time, maybe in deep to some loan shark. You know, really desperate. If he is an amateur, and gets smart and quits now, he's probably home free. Despite what that pompous asshole from the FBI declared, they catch damned few bank robbers."

  "Maybe this one will be easy to find. Hairy legs. Too much lipstick."

  "I think that description-the 'really ugly' part, too-may not be all that reliable."

  "Tell me?" Schwartz asked, smiling.

  "I had the feeling after talking to Dailey that he was more than a little disappointed that once the broad had him all tied up she didn't do all sorts of wicked sexual things to him. Hell hath no fury, et cetera."

  "Jesus, Mickey!"

  "There's probably going to be surveillance-camera pictures of him-or, for all we really know, her-you can judge for yourself."

  "There's pictures? When do we get them?"

  "So far as Young is concerned, after I told him off, I'll get them the day after hell freezes over," O'Hara said. "But the state cop said he'd send me a copy when he gets his."

  "We can lean on the FBI, if you think we should."

  "I don't think it would be worth the effort. They're generally pretty lousy pictures, even if the camera was working, and I wouldn't bet on that. I asked the state cop for a copy just to satisfy my curiosity."

  "Okay, Mickey. Nice little yarn. Would you be heart-broken if I ran it on the first page of the second section?"

  "I'm surprised that you're going to run it at all," O'Hara said. "It's not much of a story."

  "I like it," Schwartz said, meaning it. "A little droll humor to brighten people's dull days."

  Without taking her eyes from the inch-thick, bound-together — with-metal-fastener sheaf of papers lying open on her cluttered desk, Susan Reynolds reached for the ringing telephone and put it to her ear.

  "Appeals, Reynolds," she announced.

  "Miss Susan Reynolds?" an operator's voice asked.

  "Right," Susan said.

  "Deposit fifty-five cents, please," the operator ordered.

  Susan could hear the melodic bonging of two quarters and a nickel.

  She felt sure she knew who was calling. She seldom got long-distance calls made from a pay phone in the office.

  Confirmation came immediately.

  "Susie?" Jennie asked.

  Jennie was Jennifer Ollwood.

  "Hi," Susan said.

  "Could you call me back?" Jennie asked. "I'm in a phone booth and I don't have any change."

  "Give me the number," Susan said, reaching for a pencil, then adding, "It'll be a minute or two. They don't let me make personal toll calls."

  Jennie gave her the number. Susan repeated it back to her.

  "I have to go down to the lobby," Susan said. "There's no pay phone on this floor."

  "Thank you," Jennie said in her soft voice.

  Susan hung up and then stood.

  Susan Reynolds was listed on the manning chart of the Department of Social Services of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as an "Appeals Officer, Grade III." She was single, twenty-six years old, naturally blond, blue-eyed, with a fair complexion, and, at five feet five and 130 pounds, was five pounds heavier than she wanted to be.

  She occupied a third-floor office in the Department of Social Services Building in Harrisburg. Through its one window, she had a view of the golden dome of the state-house. Her office was just barely large enough to hold her desk and chair, her bookcase, her three filing cabinets, and the three straight-backed chairs intended for use by visitors.

  On half of one shelf of her bookcase, Susan kept a small vase, sometimes holding a fresh flower; a photograph of her parents, and a photograph of herself standing in the snow with half a dozen other young women taken while they were all students at Bennington College in Vermont.

  The other five shelves of the ceiling-high bookcase were filled with books, notebooks, binders, and manila folders all containing laws, regulations, interpretations, and court decisions having to do with providing social services to those entitled to it.

  Just who was entitled to what social services under what conditions was frequently a subject of bitter disagreement between those who believed in their entitlement to one social service or another, and those employees of one governmental agency or another who didn't think so.

  It was often difficult, for example, for someone who had been a recipient of a monthly check from Harrisburg intended for the support of his or her minor children to understand why, simply because one of the children had turned nineteen, the amount of the check had been reduced.

  The laws-and there were several hundred of them-generally provided that support-and there were forty or fifty different types of support-for dependent children terminated when the child reached his or her nineteenth birthday. Or was no longer resident in the home. Or had been incarcerated or become resident in a mental institution. Or joined the Army.

  Ordinarily, the situation could be explained to the recipient at the local Social Services office. But not always. If he or she wanted to appeal, the initial appeal was handled locally. If the local social services functionary upheld the decision of the social worker, the recipient could appeal yet again.

  At that point, the case moved to Harrisburg, where it was adjudicated by one of twelve appeals officers, one of whom was Miss Susan Reynolds.

  When she had first come on the job three years before, Miss Reynolds had been deeply moved by the poverty and hopeless situations of those whose appeals reached her desk.

  Emotionally, she had wanted to grant every one of them, feeling that there was simply no justification in wealthy America to deny anyone whose needs were so evident. And, in fact, for the first three weeks on the job she had granted relief to ninety percent of the appe
llants.

  But her decisions were subject to review by her superiors, and more than ninety percent of her decisions granting relief had been overturned.

  She had then been called before a review board that had the authority to terminate her probationary appointment as an Appeals Officer, Grade I.

  It had been pointed out to her, politely but firmly, that she had been employed by the Department of Social Services to adjudicate appeals fairly, and not to effect a redistribution of the wealth of the Commonwealth without regard to the applicable laws and regulations.

  She had seriously considered resigning her appointment-an act she knew would please her parents, who were mystified by her choice of employment-but in the end had not, for several reasons.

  First, she knew that many, perhaps even most, of the decisions she had made had not been fair, but rather based on her emotional reaction to the pitiful lives of the people who had made the appeals. And second, she decided that she could make adjudications in the future that, while paying attention to the letter of the law, could be tempered with compassion.

  Most important in her decision not to resign was her belief that if she stayed on the job, she would be able to make some input into the system that would make it better. It was such a god-awful mess the way it was now, she had thought, that improvement had to be possible.

  She hadn't been able to make any improvements to the system in her three years on the job-she now realized that thinking she could have had been really naive-and she had been forced to accept that a substantial number of the appeals she was called upon to adjudicate had been made by people who believed there was nothing morally wrong in trying to swindle the state out of anything they could get away with.

  But on the other hand, she thought, she had been able to overturn the adverse decisions of a large number of social workers that would really have hurt people with a legitimate entitlement to the small amounts of money provided by the state.

  And she had been promoted twice, ultimately to "Appeals Officer, Grade III." And both times she had wondered if she had been promoted because she was doing a good job, or whether someone higher up had examined her record and found it satisfactory using the percentage of appeals rejected as the criterion.