Pipe Dream Read online

  She always tried to think of that when she was stuck there, working overtime. Especially when somebody called with some crazy story just to get the police to come faster.

  As the call popped on her screen, she looked at the time that was displayed in the corner of her monitor and saw that it was 2:10 A.M. Then she looked skyward and thanked God that she only had two hours to go.

  “Police, dispatcher seven,” she said.

  “Miss,” the elderly man on the other end of the line said. “The men they lookin’ for from that shootin’ over there on Park Avenue is in a house on Dell Street.”

  “What men, sir?” she asked, knowing full well what the man was talking about.

  “Leroy Johnson and the other one. Whatever his name is—Samuel, Simon, somethin’ or other.”

  “What’s the address, sir?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her skepticism.

  “3934 Dell Street.”

  “Didn’t you just call a few minutes ago, sir?” she asked, looking on her monitor and recognizing the address.

  “Yes, but I just saw the boy’s picture on television, and he’s in that house. Now, please send somebody out here before he—”

  “Did you see the man go into the house?” she asked, determined to give him a hard time for hanging up earlier.

  “No, I—”

  “We’ll send someone out, sir,” she said, and entered the call as a disturbance, transmitting it back to the dispatchers without any indication that there were murder suspects in the house.

  After she’d disconnected the call, cutting off Eldridge, another call immediately popped onto her monitor. It was the same address, but this time it was an old woman’s voice.

  “I’d like to speak to a supervisor, please,” Mildred Scott said in her best business voice.

  “Ma’am, if this is in reference to—”

  “Miss, put your supervisor on the phone.”

  The call taker connected the call to her sergeant, who sat at the supervisor’s desk in the call taker’s room. Then she pushed her “unavailable” button so that she wouldn’t have to answer any calls for the next few minutes.

  The sergeant, after listening to the woman’s complaint, looked over at the call taker angrily. Then he walked back to the dispatcher’s console for East Division and told them to give the Dell Street job priority.

  “We don’t have anyone available to send there,” the dispatcher on East told the sergeant, the exasperation evident in his voice. “One wagon’s out on a prisoner run, the other’s out transporting a 5292. Two supervisors, a wagon, a Tom unit, and a car are on the Park Avenue detail and—”

  “I get the point,” the sergeant said, and walked over to J band.

  The dispatcher on the main radio band looked up expectantly and told the cars to stand by.

  “See if you can get a detective to check this out,” the sergeant said as he handed her a piece of paper with the job number.

  “Okay,” she said, then flipped back the switch to transmit to one of the Homicide units patrolling the 25th. “Dan 26, take 3934 Dell Street. A caller said your suspects are inside that location. Use caution, Dan 26. This is the fifth call from that location, but the first one saying the males are inside.”

  “Dan 26, okay,” the detective answered, shrugging at his partner as he made a U-turn and started toward what they thought was the first of many prank calls they would get when people found out that a couple of pipers were giving Philadelphia’s finest a run for their money.

  Chapter 8

  Reds Hillman headed straight to Northwest Detectives after he dropped Ramirez back at the crime scene. He was surprised when Ramirez sent him there to talk to the complainants who had run into Leroy. Usually, the young ones wanted him to stay out of the way. With his history, and with just over six months left before his retirement, some people in Homicide considered Hillman a liability. And he didn’t blame them for seeing him that way.

  The nights filled with sloe gin and dark memories had smeared his senses and left him as bitter as the tonic he sprayed into his poisonous elixir. In the eyes of his peers, he was someone to be pitied: a man whose yesterdays refused to stay in the past where they belonged.

  Hillman had come up in North Philadelphia, in an era when the streets were clean and the people were white. He had pitched for a neighborhood baseball team, swum and played basketball at the Athletic Recreation Center, and studied at Thomas Edison High School. After he graduated, he was drafted to fight in the Korean War.

  It was there that Hillman came to know manhood. A Jewish boy from North Philly armed with a heavy rifle and too little training, he never let fear show through his actions. He always fought hard, even in the 1951 “meatgrinder” offensive, when outnumbered U.N. forces took heavy casualties at the hands of the Chinese.

  On the first night of that battle, Hillman and a soldier named Smitty—the only man in his squad who had been willing to befriend a Jew—were separated from their unit during a firefight. The Chinese had them pinned down, and they both knew that they would never live through the night if they didn’t make a break for it.

  Hillman went first, running low and firing his rifle with abandon, dropping and rolling every ten feet in the face of enemy fire, then getting up and running again toward the security of friendly forces. They were about thirty feet from safety when Hillman dropped and rolled for the third time. Smitty ran in front of him. Hillman got up, fired his weapon, and wished as soon as he felt the rifle recoil against his shoulder that he could reach out and snatch the errant bullet from the air.

  Hillman watched in horror as his friend’s helmet shattered amidst a red and white star burst of flesh and bone, his arms spread wide as he dropped to the ground, motionless.

  Hillman ran to him and picked him up, draping him over his shoulder and carrying him the remaining thirty feet, risking his own life as the Chinese let go a heavy volley of small-arms fire. But Hillman knew, even as he raced through the bullet-filled air, that Smitty was already dead.

  They awarded Hillman the Silver Star for heroism in combat. But no one ever knew that it was Hillman’s bullet that had killed his best friend. And Hillman never said anything.

  After the war, Hillman came home to Philadelphia and joined the police department. He was assigned to the 23rd District, and he watched as North Philadelphia changed complexions. Taking advantage of the G.I. Bill, Hillman got married, bought a house in Northeast Philadelphia, and settled into his career.

  That’s when the nightmares began. At first, it was just the image of Smitty, his arms spread wide as he fell backward in the killing field. Then there was a recurring dream of Smitty’s mangled face, the gaping exit wound opening and closing like a mouth trying to consume Hillman. But the one that broke him was a dream in which Smitty would stand before him, his face a bloody mass of destruction.

  “Why did you kill me?” Smitty would ask.

  Then Hillman would wake up in a panic.

  By 1960, the dreams had caused Hillman to close himself off from everyone and everything that was important to him. He was afraid that if he allowed himself to care for anyone, he would destroy them. His wife took their two small children and left him. His friends drifted away from him. His commanders repeatedly tried to break through his shell. But it didn’t matter what they did. No one could reach Hillman.

  In 1962, Hillman made detective in North Central Division because, strange behavior notwithstanding, he was the best interrogator on the force. When Civil Service was instituted, he never took a test to try to attain higher rank. The only thing he wanted was to work Homicide, and in 1975, he was transferred there from North Central Detectives.

  The nightmares continued. But they weren’t as frightening after he began his nightly ritual of sad songs, dim lights, and sloe gin. He almost looked forward to the dreams. They allowed him to visit Smitty, the young soldier whose friendship Hillman had won and lost on the faraway battlefields of Korea.

  But dreams could not com
pare to his mistress. She comforted him with burlap truths dressed up as silky lies, and seduced him time and again with the magic of her touch. She had never questioned him, had never doubted him, had never abandoned him.

  She was his career. And in six months, he would have to leave her. But before he turned his back on her forever, he would present her with one final gift.

  Hillman was going to help find out what really happened to Johnny Podres. Because he owed it to the one thing in the world that he truly loved—his badge.

  When Hillman walked in, a detective from Northwest pulled him aside and told him that the elderly couple had indeed been carjacked by Leroy and a woman. But the detective hadn’t been able to get an accurate description of Leroy’s accomplice.

  “The man’s name is Reverend Christopher Jones, and he’s got a big church over in West Philly somewhere,” the detective told Hillman, handing him a file and a borrowed book filled with mug shots from East Detectives. “These are all the girls we know to frequent the area where the shooting took place. The woman Leroy was with must have come from around there.”

  Hillman peeked through the window of the interrogation room and immediately recognized the man. He’d seen him around Erie Avenue and Old York Road about a dozen times in the past year.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Hillman said, walking into the room. “You’re welcome to sit in.”

  The detective walked in behind Hillman as he extended his hand to Reverend Jones and introduced himself. “I’m Detective Hillman, Homicide. If you could just go through this photograph book, I’m sure we can have you out of here in no more than a half hour.”

  Reverend Jones had already been through a lot that night, having been carjacked, then held at the station for more than an hour. He was in no mood to talk.

  “Look, Detective,” the frustrated old man said. “I already told this gentleman that we didn’t get a good look at the girl who was with that man Leroy. Now, unless you plan to arrest me and my wife, I suggest you call me in the morning.”

  The preacher reached for his coat and hat, which sat on a nearby chair. But Hillman wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I know you’re probably very tired, sir. And I apologize for the inconvenience. But this isn’t the same book you looked through the last time. This book shows all the young women we know who frequent that area. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Reverend Jones sighed and looked at his watch. “Look, I’d really like to help. But all those girls really do look the same to me. And I’ve already pressed charges against the man, so why don’t you just find him?”

  Reverend Jones picked up his coat and hat and extended a hand to his wife as he got up to leave. “Come on, Mother Jones.”

  “Mrs. Jones,” Hillman said, positioning himself between them and the door, “can you wait outside for a minute?”

  “I’ll wait right here, thank you,” she said in a tone that bordered on haughty.

  “Please, Mrs. Jones,” Hillman said, smiling. “Your husband will be right with you.”

  She looked at him, then at her husband.

  “Go ahead, honey,” Reverend Jones said. “I’ll be right out.”

  When Mrs. Jones closed the door behind her, Hillman walked over and locked it. Then he sat on the chair in front of the Reverend.

  “I wanted us to have a little man-to-man talk,” Hillman said, still smiling. “Seems like men don’t do enough of that these days. Know what I mean, Detective?”

  The detective who sat in the corner nodded his head in agreement, a sly grin playing on his lips.

  “You know, Reverend,” Hillman said, moving from the chair and sitting on the table in front of the preacher. “It sure strikes me as odd that a man of your stature would generalize that way about those women.”

  “Generalize how?”

  “I mean, it’s a shame that you would say they all look alike,” he said, thumbing through the file and stopping at the description of Reverend Jones’s vehicle. “Now, if I, as a white cop, was to say something like that about black people, whether they were pipers or not, you’d probably get up in the pulpit on Sunday and call it racism. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Especially if you knew that I knew those girls don’t all look alike. Now, isn’t that right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think you’ve wasted enough of my time,” the preacher said, rising from his chair.

  Hillman placed a hand on his shoulder, gently forcing him back into his seat.

  “Get your hands off me!” the preacher said indignantly.

  Hillman ignored him.

  “You have a gray ’92 Cadillac Fleetwood, don’t you, Rev?” Hillman asked without waiting for an answer. “You don’t mind if I call you Rev, do you? Reverend’s so cumbersome. Sort of ties up the tongue.”

  The preacher tried to say something, but Hillman cut him off.

  “Anyway, Rev, I’m not really supposed to say anything to anyone outside the department about an ongoing investigation. But since you’re a man of the cloth and everything, I guess I can trust you. You see, when I stopped over at East Detectives to pick up that picture book I’ve been asking you to look at, they gave me another book to go with it.”

  “Detective, I really don’t have time—”

  “Shut up, Rev,” Hillman said calmly.

  “I beg your pardon!” Reverend Jones said, attempting to stand.

  The other detective walked over and again forced the preacher back into his seat.

  “Where was I?” Hillman said, pausing. “Oh yeah, the picture book. You see, Rev, the guys over at East Detectives have been doing surveillance on the whores down on Old York Road, trying to figure out what kind of clientele they’ve been serving down there. Figured maybe it’d give us a leg up in the drug war. Cut off the demand by drying up the whores’ cash flow. Know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, let me put it to you this way,” Hillman said, speaking slowly and deliberately, like a teacher. “The girls buy most of the dope, because the guys can’t afford it on what they make washing windows and stealing copper pipes. That stuff doesn’t pay real well, you know what I mean?”

  Reverend Jones glared at him, then turned his head.

  “Anyway,” Hillman said, “the girls make the most money, and they get it from turning tricks. So as long as they can turn tricks, the demand for the dope stays sky-high. You following me?”

  The preacher nodded slowly.

  “A couple of months ago, some creative detectives over at East started taking pictures of the cars that came down there to trick. Figured they’d find out who the cars were registered to and feed the names to the Daily News. Let ’em run ’em on the front page. Of course the public would never know the police had given that information to the press, and . . .”

  Reverend Jones began to look physically ill.

  “You okay, Rev?” Hillman said.

  The preacher nodded.

  “You sure? ’Cause you don’t look so good.”

  Jones nodded again and adjusted himself in his seat.

  “Anyway, when this guy got killed over on Park Avenue tonight, one of the first things we did was round up the girls on Old York Road, because if anybody knows what happened over there in that house, they do. Know what I mean, Rev?”

  Jones stared into space.

  “It’s not like I really care about what goes on over on Old York Road, because I work Homicide. And it turns out that those girls didn’t know much anyway. But getting back to the picture-book thing. The funniest thing happened when I was looking at the surveillance photos on the way over here. It was like something straight out of Unsolved Mysteries, you know what I mean, Rev? I mean, there was this one car that kept turning up over and over again, in at least ten or twelve of the photos. I’m looking at this car in picture after picture and I’m thinking, this is really strange. Like, Twilight Zone strange. You ever watc
h The Twilight Zone, Rev?”

  The preacher shook his head slowly, the color draining slowly from his face.

  “You’ll never guess what kind of car it was, Rev.”

  “What kind?” Jones said, his voice nearly inaudible.

  “You’re gonna love it, Rev,” Hillman said, holding in a laugh as if he were delivering a punch line. “It was a gray Cadillac with—get this—a license plate of AVC-2392. Isn’t that a scream?”

  The preacher seemed to shrink measurably as he hung his head and placed his hands over his eyes. Still, Hillman pressed on.

  “Do you know who that car’s registered to, Rev?” he asked, the smile fading from his lips.

  Jones sat absolutely still and said nothing.

  “It’s registered to Jones Memorial Apostolic Ministries.”

  The preacher drew back as if he’d been slapped.

  “What do you do, Rev, lease it in the church’s name and write off the expense at the end of the year? That’s pretty shrewd. Now, if you wanna go down to Old York Road and get three-dollar blow jobs, that’s your business. I just hope your congregation—and especially Mother Jones—doesn’t find out. That’d be a shame.”

  Hillman paused, allowing the prospect of being found out to sink in.

  “All I’m asking for is a little cooperation,” the detective said, smiling again. “Look through the book, point out the girl, and press charges against her. Then you can go home and rest easy, because then we won’t have to run your name in the Daily News along with the rest of the perverts who turn tricks on Old York Road. Okay?”

  A defeated Reverend Jones looked up at Hillman. Then he looked at the detective who sat silently in the corner. And then, without another word, he picked up the book, thumbed carefully through it, and identified Pookie as the woman he’d seen with Leroy.

  Hillman let the preacher go home after he’d pressed charges against Pookie. Then he called Ramirez and gave him Pookie’s description, including her name—Patricia Oaks—and her nickname, which Reverend Jones had heard Leroy use while they were in the car.