Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [44]
One was in the special uniform of the Highway Patrol, and as Martin drew closer, he saw the insignia of a captain. That made him the Highway Patrol's commanding officer. That little fellow is the head of Highway Patrol? There was another captain, a large man with an imposing, even somewhat frightening, mien--Jesus, I'd hate to get on the wrong side of him!--in a standard police captain's blue tunic and white shirt uniform.
The other two men--young men, one in his twenties, the other maybe ten years older--in Coughlin's group didn't look like policemen. Both were wearing gray, single-button suits very much like the suit the mayor was himself wearing-- I'll give three to two that they get their clothes in the same place, and that place is Brooks Brothers. They look like lawyers. I'll give even money that's what they are.
Well, I would have lost that one, he thought, as the older of the lawyers turned toward Commissioner Coughlin--probably to tell him he spotted me--and in doing so, his previously concealed breast pocket came into view. There was a black-banded badge hanging from it.
Martin extended his hand and smiled just a little as he reached Coughlin.
"A sad occasion, Commissioner," he said.
"Indeed it is," Coughlin said. "Mr. Mayor, I don't believe you know any of these officers?"
"Aside from Captain Hollaran and Lieutenant Washington, I'm really sorry to say I don't," Martin said. "Good to see you, Jason, Captain."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor," they said, almost in unison.
"This is Inspector Peter Wohl, of Special Operations," Coughlin said, and the older lawyer put out his hand.
"How do you do, sir?"
"Captain Sabara, his deputy," Coughlin went on, "and Captain Pekach of Highway Patrol."
When the mayor had shaken their hands, Coughlin gestured toward the "other lawyer."
"And this is Detective Payne, Mr. Mayor."
"Is it indeed? Congratulations on the exam, Detective Payne."
"Thank you."
What I'm looking at here is the police establishment. A politically correct police establishment. Coughlin and Hollaran, the Irish cops of fame and legend; God only knows what the rough-looking one is, Eastern European, maybe; Wohl sounds German; Payne looks like a WASP. And Jason Washington representing the Afro-Americans--what did Washington say, "all cops are blue?" All we're missing is a Jew.
As if on cue, a large, stocky, ruddy faced, barrel-chested man with a full head of curly silver hair, a badge with a mourning strip on it hanging from his pocket, walked up to the group. He was Chief Inspector of Detectives M. L. Lowenstein.
"Afternoon," he said.
"Thank you for coming, Chief Lowenstein," the mayor said. "I really wanted you here when I make the announcement. "
Lowenstein nodded at him, then put out his hand to Detective Payne.
"I saw The List, Matt," he said. "Congratulations."
He knows Payne, too? That young man really gets around.
"Thank you."
"Have you seen Denise?" Coughlin asked Lowenstein.
"Sarah and I went to the house Monday evening," Lowenstein said, and looked at Commissioner Mariani. Neither the commissioner nor the mayor had trouble translating the look: I've already expressed my condolences, so there's no reason for me to be here again, except for this political bullshit about a task force.
"Anytime you're ready, Mr. Mayor," Coughlin said. "I'll take you in."
"Right," the mayor said, and nodded, and followed Coughlin into the viewing room.
It was a large room, with an aisle between rows of folding chairs. Up front, the first row of chairs on the right was upholstered. Mayor Martin saw the heads of two children on either side of a gray-haired woman--the widow and their kids--and of several other adults---family members, probably.
Officer Kenneth J. Charlton was laid out in a gray metal casket in the center of the room. As he walked down the aisle behind Charlton, the mayor could see his face, and then enough of the body to see that Charlton was to be buried in his uniform.