“Though there is no bone in the tongue, it has often broken a person’s head.”
Irish Proverb
Halfway up Kelly Drive, Mickey decides to call his good friend at the ME’s Office, Doctor David Steinberg. He and Mickey have worked together on countless high-profile jobs over the years. In 1993, they united to investigate the murder of a veteran narcotics detective and the senseless homicide of a senior citizen beloved by the residents of her west Kensington neighborhood. When the case made it to court, it was tagged by the national media as “The Bog Murders.”
Mickey turns down the volume on his radio and punches in the doctor’s office number. “The Doc” dodges most calls to his office number. But with any luck Mickey will catch Doc at a weak moment and he’ll pick up.
Sitting at his desk Doctor Steinberg lets the phone ring twice waiting for caller ID to kick in. But then decides to answer.
“Steinberg.”
“Devlin.”
“Oh, no! I cannot believe I’m getting a call from the famous PD Commander, Captain Mickey Devlin. How the hell ya doing, my old Irish friend? The bride and I were just talking about you at dinner last night.”
“Hey, Doc. Doing fine. Still on the PC’s bad boy list though. But all things considered, I’ll survive. And it’s always good to get back to the street. It recharges the soul. I’m doing my best to keep our city safe after the sun goes down.”
“Still in CIB?”
“Yep! But nothing is forever.”
“You’ll get discovered again. You always do. But I feel a lot better now that I know you’re out there patrolling the mean streets while I’m sleeping.”
“Yeah, right. Glad I could make your day, Doc.”
“So tell me, lad. Why the call? You should be in bed yourself.”
“You’re right. I should be in bed. But I got in the middle of a situation this morning. What I thought was gonna be a nice friendly discussion with a retired PD tow-truck driver turned into shots fired and the guy getting half his head blown off.”
“A head shot doesn’t sound like you. You’re more of a two quick shots to center mass kind of shooter. So I’m pretty certain you weren’t the triggerman on this one, Mick.” Doc can visualize Mickey holding the phone to his ear with a big smile on his ruddy complexioned face. “Am I right, Mister Night Commander and PD shooting team member?”
“You know me too well, Doc.”
“I should. I’ve handle enough of your jobs over the years. All righteous I would add. So I can easily recognize your preferred method for incapacitating an adversary.”
“Hard to break old habits, Doc. Besides, my preferred method as you call it, keeps me going home at the end of the tour. Why change now, right?”
“Absolutely! If it ain’t broke, right? Now tell me all about your ‘situation,’ Mick. Can’t wait to hear all the down and dirty details.”
Mickey fills the doctor in on how he came to know the recently departed Jerry Drum from the “old neighborhood.” Mickey begins with his early morning “talk” with Jerry at Central Detectives, Big Jack’s perusal of Jerry’s work history, and ends by summarizing the job on 2505 Olive Street. He also tells Doc that Drum had a 9 mil and a shotgun registered to him. For the moment, Mickey omits the discussion he had with the Dublin superintendent about Jerry and his brother Patrick and any link to the infamous Chief Odysseus. He also leaves out any mention of the photos he was faxed by Michael O’Leary of the two American “persons of interest” in Dublin.
“So how does the Medical Examiner’s office fit into all this? And I know you’re not telling me everything, Mick. I’m sure you have your reasons.”
Mickey doesn’t respond to the doctor’s supposition. Doc never thought he would. It’s just the way these two longtime friends and crime solvers let each other know, “they know.”
“Don’t want to prejudice your autopsy of Jerry Drum, Doc. You know what you always say, ‘An autopsy is only as good as the background information that accompanies it.’”
“You did read my book. Didn’t you, Mick?”
“Of course I did, Doc. I especially enjoyed all those gory, color, crime-scene photos you took of jobs I worked on while in Homicide.”
“I thought you’d like those, Mick. And I did give you honorable mention.”
“Indeed you did, Doc. Who knows, maybe we can get together on a second edition—if I ever, as you put it, get discovered again and find my way back to Homicide.”
“The PD would be wise to make that happen, Mick. But I have the feeling that regardless of where you end up there’ll be drama. It just seems to find you.”
“Seems that way, Doc.”
“So anyway I’m guessing you want a yell when I finish with your Jerry Drum. Am I right?”
“Yes. But let’s keep it on the down low for now, okay? This is a Homicide job all the way, for now anyway. Here’s my new cell number.”
“What? Mickey ‘those things give you brain cancer’ Devlin has a cell phone? What the hell happened to you, Mick?”
“I made captain. So via Commissioner’s Memo, yadda, yadda, yadda, all captains and above have to carry a cell phone on duty. In fact, the PC issued them to us. I try to keep the darn thing turned off. But it’s been getting harder and harder to do it.”
Doctor Steinberg writes down Mickey’s number in his pocket black-leather limited-entry book. “Okay, Mick. I got it. And I’ll call you, ‘on the down low,’ when the Drum prelims are done. And as a previous PD guy, I’ll push Jerry to the head of the line.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“You gonna go home and try and get some shut-eye now, Mick?”
“Can’t, Doc. I need to get myself together and make an appearance at the PC’s. Gotta make a case for why I should be allowed to fly to Ireland on his dime.”
“Good luck with that. Whenever I talk to that guy, it’s like speaking to an empty shell inhabited by something pretending to be human.”
“That’s a classic, Doc.”
“Can’t take credit for that one, Mick. Heard it at a ME’s convention in New York.”
“I’m definitely gonna use that one. Gotta be just the right moment though.”
“Be my guest. And I knew you were looking for more than just autopsy results, Mick.”
“Also from your bestselling book, The Language of Bones, ‘What’s not looked for will not be found.’”
“Okay, Mick. You’re killing me with admiration. Please, no more quotes.”
“If you say so, Doc. I got a hundred of them.”
Doc laughs. “I’ll call ya, Mick. Good luck with that whole Ireland thing.”
“Thanks, Doc. I’ll need it.”
Mickey hits the end-call key on his cell. He looks at his watch. I may never get any sleep. By now Mickey’s off the drive and passing under the Cottman Street overpass on the Roosevelt Boulevard. After stopping at the WAWA on Grant Avenue for a low-fat French-vanilla cappuccino, he drives the mile to his single home just off Welsh and Pine roads.
After a quick shower, Mickey is still a bit hyper over the Kuhn DUI arrest and the Drum Homicide. He glances at his watch again. No way I’m gettin’ any shut-eye yet. Might as well pay an unannounced visit to the PC’s office. I-95 should be good by now.
So it’s back out the door and onto I-95 south. He finds his favorite oldies station again. Coincidently, his friend of forty years, Bernie Rabbit, is on the air and playing “Expressway to Your Heart,” the ‘67 hit by the Soul Survivors, a Philly R and B group. One of Mickey’s favorites. It reminds him of his teenage years and dancing with his future wife, on the Rabbit TV show. In fact in 1968, it was Bernie Rabbit who got the band for Mickey’s wedding. A band formed by the lead guitarist of The Maze, when the Survivors broke up. Mickey in his best second tenor voice sings along to the parts he can remember.
On the expressway to your hummm.
Hummm too crowded.
Won’t look in my direction.
Expressway to hummm heart.
Bernie Rabbit breaks in, “That goes out to the brave men and women of the Highway Patrol. Get down with your bad self.”
“Go ahead, Bernie. You’re the man.”
Mickey gets off south I-95 at Callowhill Street, drives to 8th Street, then to the Roundhouse on Vine.