I told him I was Czernichs bookie.
Jesus Christ, Mickey! Matdorf laughed, patting him on the back as he did so.
As the young police officer had begun to suspect, the driver of the Buick was not a bookmaker. Mr. Michael J. Mickey OHara was in fact a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter employed by the Philadelphia Bulletin. There was little question in the minds of his peers-and absolutely none in his own mind-that he was the best police reporter between Boston and Washington, and possibly in an even larger geographical area.
Mickey OHara extended his hand to Matdorfs driver, a sergeant.
How are you, Mr. OHara? the Sergeant asked, a respectful tone in his voice.
Heine, OHara asked, have you got enough pull around here to tell this fine young officer I can park here?
The minute he goes inside, Chief Matdorf instructed the young officer, let the air out of his tires.
Thanks a lot, Heine.
Whats going on, Mickey?
I hoped maybe you could tell me, OHara said.
So far as I know, not much. There was nothing on the radio.
I know, OHara said.
Going in, Mickey? Matdorf asked.
I got to pay off the Commissioner, OHara said. And I thought I might take a look at the Overnights.
The Overnights were reports from the various districts and other bureaucratic divisions of the Philadelphia Police Department of out-of-the-ordinary police activity overnight furnished to senior police officials for their general information.
They were internal Police Department correspondence not made available to the public or the press. Mr. Michael J. OHara, as a civilian, and especially as a journalist, was not entitled to be privy to them.
But Mickey OHara enjoyed a special relationship with the Police Department. He was not in their pocket, devoting his journalistic skills to puff pieces, but on the other hand, neither did he spend all of his time looking for stories that made the Department or its officers look bad. Most important, he could be trusted. If he was told something off the record, it stayed off the record.
Come on in, then, Chief Matdorf said. Ill even buy you a cup of coffee.
He touched OHaras arm and they started toward the rear door of the building. There is a front entrance, overlooking Metropolitan Hospital, but it is normally locked. The rear door opens onto a small foyer. Just inside is a uniformed police officer sitting behind a heavy plate-glass window controlling access to the buildings lobby with a solenoid switch.
To the right is a corridor leading past the Bail Clerks Office and the Arraignment Room to the Holding Room. The Municipal Judges Court is a small, somewhat narrow room separated from the corridor by heavy glass. There are seats for spectators in the corridor. Farther to the right is the entrance to the Holding Room, in
effect a holding prison, to which prisoners brought from the various police districts and initially locked up in cells in the basement are brought to be booked and to face a Municipal Court Judge, who sets bail. Those prisoners for whom bail is denied, or who cant make it, are moved, males to the Detention Center, females to the House of Correction.
When the corporal on duty behind the plate-glass window saw Chief Matdorf, he activated the solenoid, the lock buzzed, and Matdorf pushed the door open and waved OHara through it ahead of him into the lobby of the PAB, where the general civilian populace is not allowed.
They walked toward the elevators, past the wall display of photographs of police officers who have been killed in the line of duty. As they approached the elevator, the door opened and discharged a half-dozen people, among them Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin and Inspector Peter Wohl.
Hey, whaddaya say, Mickey? Chief Coughlin greeted him with a smile, and offered his hand.
Hello, Mick, Wohl said, as he offered his hand first to OHara and then to Chief Matdorf.
Mickey OHara had not earned the admiration of his peers, or the Pulitzer Prize, by being wholly immune to the significance of body language.
Despite that warm greeting, neither of these two is at all happy to see me. That means that something is going on that they would rather not tell me about just now. And what are the two of them doing together this early in the morning?
Whats up, Mickey? Chief Coughlin asked.
I hoped maybe you would tell me.
Chief Coughlin shrugged, indicating nothing.
Bullshit, Denny.
I thought Id take a look at the Overnights, OHara said.
Theyre on my desk, Mick. Tell Veronica I said you could have a look, Coughlin said.
Veronica Casey was Coughlins secretary.
Thanks, Denny, OHara said. Good to see you. And you too, Peter.
They shook hands again. Chief Coughlin and Inspector Wohl walked out the rear entrance. Mickey got on the elevator with Chief Matdorf and his driver.
Jesus, I forgot something in the car, OHara said, and got off the elevator.
He went through the rear door in time to see Coughlin and Wohl walking with what he judged to be unusual speed toward their cars. He stayed just inside the door until they were both in their cars and moving, then went out and quickly got behind the wheel of his Buick and followed them out of the parking lot.