Final Justice Part 56

And he had a police frequency scanner both on his desk in the city room of the Register Register and in his Cherokee. He had been in the city room-the and in his Cherokee. He had been in the city room-the Register Register had just gone to bed- when he heard the call announcing that shots had been fired at the Lake Forest Yacht Club. had just gone to bed- when he heard the call announcing that shots had been fired at the Lake Forest Yacht Club.

He almost didn't go to the scene. No matter what he found at the Yacht Club, it was too late to get it in the morning's paper. But on the other hand, it might be an interesting story. Shots were rarely fired on the eastern sh.o.r.e of Mobile Bay, which was not true of other areas in Mobile.

So he got in the Cherokee and raced across the I-10 bridge, which connects Mobile with the eastern sh.o.r.e.

And when he saw what was happening, he was glad he'd come.

This was hilarious. Half the cops on the eastern sh.o.r.e had gathered at the scene of a captured Peeping Tom. And the actual capture of this dangerous lunatic had been made by an old fart with a shotgun, who looked as if he was about to bag a couple of quail.

Charley Whelan got off the roof of his Cherokee, tried and failed to get the Peeping Tom's name from the chief, got the old fart's name and another picture of him, and then drove back to Mobile, this time exceeding the speed limit by only fifteen miles per hour.

The city editor was still there, and Charley made quick prints of the images in his digital camera and showed them to him.

"Well, it's too late for today's rag," the city editor said. "Put it on the Atlanta wire; those big papers close later than we do. We'll run it tomorrow."

Charley sat down at his computer terminal and quickly typed,

Daphne, AL Possible Peeping Tom Bagged By Community Watcher, 72Shown here with his shotgun and his as yet unidentified quarry handcuffed on the ground is retired business executive Chambers D. Galloway, 72, a member of Daphne's Jackson Oak Citizens' Community Watch, Inc., who made a middle-of-the-night citizen's arrest of the man after he was seen peeping into the windows of a resident of the Lake Forest Yacht Club Condominiums, whom police declined to identify.Four Daphne police cars, two Fairhope police cars, a Baldwin County deputy sheriff, and an Alabama state trooper converged on the scene to take the suspect off Mr. Galloway's hands. The accused peeper will be held in the Daphne police jail while the investigation continues.Mobile Register Photos By Charles E. Whelan When the pictures and the story reached the a.s.sociated Press in Atlanta, the night man there also thought the yarn-and especially the pictures of the old guy with the shotgun-was funny, good human interest, and pushed the National b.u.t.ton. This caused the photos and story to be instantly sent to newspapers all over the United States, which of course included those in Philadelphia.

[FOUR].

The device that electronically chimed "Be It Ever So Humble" when the doorbell of the residence of Sergeant Matthew Payne was pushed had two controls. One provided a selection of the numbers of bars of music to be played, from Six to All, and the other was a volume control.

Detective Payne, who had few visitors to his home, and used the device primarily as a backup alarm clock, had set both controls to the maximum choices offered.

A full rendition of "Be It Ever So Humble" played at maximum volume in the small confines of the apartment had so far never failed to wake Sergeant Payne from the deepest sleep.

And so it did the following morning at 6:05 A.M. when the Wachenhut security guard, a retired police officer who both liked the young cop in the attic and was grateful for the bottle of Wild Turkey he'd been given for Christmas, rode the elevator up, laid a copy of the just delivered Bulletin Bulletin on the floor outside the door to the attic, and pushed the doorbell. on the floor outside the door to the attic, and pushed the doorbell.

Half awake, Sergeant Payne had just identified the sound, glanced through half-opened eyes at the time displayed on the ceiling, and decided he had a good half hour to get leisurely out of bed, when a female voice quite close to him brought him suddenly to full wakefulness.

"What the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l is that?" Detective Olivia La.s.siter had asked, as much in alarm as curiosity. is that?" Detective Olivia La.s.siter had asked, as much in alarm as curiosity.

Matt opened his eyes fully.

Olivia had been so startled by the music that she had suddenly sat up on the bed and not thought about pulling the sheet up to modestly cover her exposed bosom.

Jesus, she has beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s!

"That's the newspaper," he said.

"The newspaper? newspaper?"

"The security guy rings the doorbell when he brings the paper up," Matt explained.

Olivia saw where his eyes were directed and pulled the sheet up over her chest.

"The cow, so to speak, is already out of the barn," Matt said.

"What time is it?" Olivia asked, ignoring him.

Matt pointed at the ceiling. After a moment's confusion, Olivia looked at the ceiling.

"My G.o.d, I've got to get out of here!" she said.

"Why?"

"Because I have to go home and change my clothes," she said. "Something I didn't think about last night."

"Okay. I'll take you, and we can get some breakfast someplace. "

"I'm going to take a cab," she said. "I should have taken one last night and gone home."

"So we won't be seen together, and someone will suspect what's going on?"

"Exactly."

"That cow, I have to tell you, is really out of the barn."

"What does that mean?"

"Mr. Colt somehow got the idea-you saw that-that you and I have become something more than professional a.s.sociates . . ."

"And?"

". . . and decided to share this perception with Mickey O'Hara, Peter Wohl, and Jason Was.h.i.+ngton."

"My G.o.d, I hope you denied it!"

"Of course," Matt said, "whereupon Stan showed his acceptance of my denial in the following manner."

He winked broadly, mimicking Colt, and demonstrated the balled-fist, thumb-up gesture Colt had used.

"That sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

"Honey, he thought he was being funny."

"His being funny blew my chances of getting in Homicide, " she said, bitterly.

"Realistically, honey, there doesn't seem to be much chance of that," Matt said.

"Thanks a lot!"

"Well, there doesn't," he insisted. "At least right now."

"I'm going to take a shower," she snapped. "And then a cab."

He watched her enter the bathroom.

After a moment, he reluctantly concluded that-however delightful an idea it was on the surface-there was not room in the shower for the both of them.

And besides, she's already p.i.s.sed that our shameful secret has become public knowledge.

He swung his legs out of bed, got fresh underwear, and went down the stairs to get the newspaper.

He started to read it as he climbed the stairs back to his apartment, and just as he reached the top, he saw that the picture that Eddie the photographer had taken of him and Stan Colt outside the Bellvue-Stratford was on page one of the Bulletin. Bulletin.

There was a rather lengthy caption: Stan Colt, movie detective, in Philadelphia to raise money for West Catholic High, found time in his busy schedule to meet with the real thing. He is shown here arriving at the Mayor's Reception at the Bellvue-Stratford with Sergeant M. M. Payne of the Phila. PD Homicide Unit. Payne will be showing Colt what police work is really like whenever Colt has a spare minute. (The full schedule of the Colt Fund-raising Visit can be found on page 2 of Section Four of today's Bulletin. Bulletin.) Matt remembered that Colt had said that the picture was the only one that would get printed.

Olivia was toweling herself by the side of the bed, which he found to be an interesting sight.

"I'm famous," he said, showing her the newspaper.

Olivia glanced at it very quickly.

"Put your clothes on. You can drive me home," she said.

"Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"I have three choices: putting on wet underwear, getting in a cab without my underwear, or you."

"With or without underwear?"

"My G.o.d! Get dressed."

[FIVE].

The Swedish philosopher/theologian Emmanuel Swedenborg believed that there is sometimes an unspoken communication between loved ones. That one loved person knows what the other loved one is thinking.

This may or may not have had anything to do with what Detective Olivia La.s.siter said to Sergeant Matthew Payne when he pulled to the curb in front of her apartment.

"You wait in the car. I know what you're thinking."

Sergeant Payne had in fact been thinking, all the way from Rittenhouse Square, that there was something wonderfully erotic having Olivia sitting beside him, with nothing beneath her dress but Olivia, and that with just a little bit of luck he might get lucky when they got to her apartment and they went inside while she changed clothing.

"What am I going to do out here?" he asked.

"That's up to you. You're not coming in," Detective La.s.siter said, and got out of the car.

He watched her enter the apartment, shrugged, and then reached for the Philadelphia Bulletin, Philadelphia Bulletin, which had his picture on the front page, and which he had dropped onto the floor. which had his picture on the front page, and which he had dropped onto the floor.

When he saw the picture, he smiled, remembering what Stan Colt had said when he got out of the car to pose for Eddie the photographer: "Look serious, but think of p.u.s.s.y!"

Then he started looking through the rest of the Bulletin. Bulletin. Ten minutes later, on page 4 of Section Three, "Living Today," he saw a picture of an old geezer with an over-and-under crooked over his arm standing with a bunch of cops and with half a dozen patrol cars of various law enforcement agencies in the background. Ten minutes later, on page 4 of Section Three, "Living Today," he saw a picture of an old geezer with an over-and-under crooked over his arm standing with a bunch of cops and with half a dozen patrol cars of various law enforcement agencies in the background.

Then he read the caption, and then looked very carefully at the picture again, at the handcuffed man in black coveralls on the ground.

"Jesus Christ!" he said aloud, and reached for his cellular.

"Police department," a female voice with a thick southern accent announced.

"I'd like to speak to whoever's handling the case of that Peeping Tom you bagged last night."

"So would everybody else from New Orleans to Destin," the woman replied.

"My name is Matthew Payne. I'm a sergeant in Homicide in Philadelphia. . . ."

"Yeah, I bet you are."

"Excuse me?"

"How do I know that?"

"Because I just told you. Now get me some supervisor on the phone, and right now."

"You don't have to bite my head off!"

A male voice with an equally heavy accent next came on the line.

"Can I help you?"

"With whom am I speaking. Please?"

"I'm Sergeant Kenny."

"Sergeant, I'm Sergeant Payne. Philadelphia Homicide."

"So Barbara-Anne said. How can I help you?"

"That Peeping Tom you bagged last night? Was there a knife involved? A great big knife?"

There was no response.

"h.e.l.lo?" Matt asked after what seemed like a long time.

"What can I do for you?" a new southern-accented male voice inquired.

"Was I just talking to you?"

"No. You were talking to Sergeant Kenny. I'm the chief. How can I help you?"

"Chief, my name is Payne. I'm a Philadelphia Homicide sergeant."

"So Sergeant Kenny said. What can we do for you, Sergeant?"

"This a long shot, Chief, but that Peeping Tom you bagged last night may be a man we're looking for in connection with a homicide here."