# 20 - Chapter Twenty "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye

Chapter Twenty 

At first, there was only a small group gathered on Arch Street between 2nd and 3rd Streets. 

The Old City neighborhood used to be the center for Philadelphia’s art world, mainly art galleries exhibiting paintings, installations and photography. Over the last few years, the number of galleries has dropped off gradually, but now the neighborhood was still able to attract good numbers of art lovers, mainly on weekends and during spring and summer evenings. 

It was around eleven in the morning, and the group was increasing in size; now certainly passing fifty people – young people, a good number of seniors and some clearly identifiable as painters because their attire exhibited splotches of paint. 

At this point, the crowd was milling around, and a few people carried signs with words like “Protect the Arts,” “Poets’ Lives Matter,” and “Stop Gun Violence.” And some of the older members of the crowd were carrying copies of today’s issue of The Philadelphia Inquirer. 

Toward noon, when the crowd had grown to more than one hundred, a middle-aged man mounted the steps of a classy furniture store next to an art gallery. He was tall, and had a full heard of brown hair and a commanding presence. He wore torn trousers spotted with paint, and he carried an electric Uzi bullhorn. 

He raised one arm and shouted into the bullhorn: “I say artists and the arts are important!”

Members of the crowd turned around and searched through the growing mass of bodies, seeking the source of the confident voice. 

When the man waved his free hand and shouted into the bull horn “I’m here! I’m here,” he had the attention of most of those present. Then he repeated, “I say artists and the arts are important! My name’s Archie Evans, and I’m a painter. We’re all artists! All of us! So, who’s with me?”

In fact, Archie Evans was an oil painter of some renown, both in Philadelphia and New York City. Among his favorite subjects were lushly painted landscapes showing the calm beauty of forest scenes and the brightly colored farmlands of Pennsylvania. 

His works sold well because of his talent and his use of the web; he had a list of several hundred customers, fans and contacts. And today, immediately after reading the story in The Inquirer, it was to this entire list that he sent a message asking every recipient to join the demonstration beginning in Old City that same day in support of all artists, and to forward his message to more contacts. 

Now, cheers rose from the growing crowd. By that time, it was blocking off Arch Street. There was no police presence, but sirens could be heard in the distance.

Evans raised his voice again. “I say, and I repeat, artists and the arts are important, and the police aren’t doing their job. They’re not protecting us. One poet was murdered. I say protect the artists! Protect the artists!”

Many in the crowd, which now grew past two hundred, repeated, “Protect the Artists! Protect the Artists!”

In the center of the crowd, one voice could be heard, “Stop gun violence! Stop gun violence!” The single voice was weak, but the cry gained adherents, and more and more people took up the chant: “Stop gun violence! Stop gun violence!” 

Evans started threading his way through the crowd toward the west. When he reached the edge of the crowd, he found Arch Street blocked by three police cruisers and a half-dozen officers.

He rushed forward and could be seen talking to one of the officers. Other demonstrators, mainly young men and women, started chatting the other officers. The crowd appeared stalled, but after a short pause just a few of the demonstrators started pushing past the police cars.

“All’s okay! All’s okay.” Evans’ loud, confident voice rose above the murmurs and shouts. “All’s okay! Everyone’s cool! On to Police headquarters! It’s okay, Arch to Seventh, right on Seventh.” Then, after a pause, the voice continued, “Protect the Artists! Protect the Artists!”

Louder than any one before it, the cheer echoed in the street. And the cheer grew in volume.

Then Evans thundered above the cheers, “Give ‘em room! Give ‘em room!” And the demonstrators opened passages for the police to maneuver their cruisers and then proceed slowly in the opposite direction, west along Arch.

Emboldened by their victory, the marchers proceeded forward past Third Street, which in the meantime had been blocked to allow the procession to advance peacefully. Now, it was evident that the demonstrators exceeded five hundred. More and more signs – “Protect the Artists,” “Stop Gun Violence,” “Police: Do Your Job” and now “Faith, We Mourn You” – swayed back and forth high in the air, as the protesters marched with confidence.

Somehow, three television trucks from Philly stations had been inserted between the head of the demonstrators’ column and the police cars. Now, the images of the column’s progress were showing up on the local stations as Breaking News.

At 7th Street, Evans raised one hand and boomed, “On to Police headquarters!” and police officers directed the demonstrators to make their right turn. Other officers were holding back traffic at Cherry Street to allow the march to continue unhindered, and peacefully. 

Still at the head of the procession moving north on 7th Street, Evans held his big body straight like a proud Marine, and he appeared happy with his new authority as he pumped with his free hand and chanted into his electric bullhorn “Protect the Artists, Protect the Artists!” and now “Faith, We Mourn You.” 

In between his chants, he smiled broadly while chatting with the police officer walking beside him. 

Finally, the protesters assembled on Race Street in front of The Roundhouse, the powerful structure housing the police headquarters. A wave of surprise swept through the crowd, as the protesters turned and surveyed their gathered numbers. It was clear the demonstration had picked up supporters during the march, and they now numbered more than several thousand. 

While the chant “Protect the Artists, Protect the Artists” echoed in the open courtyard in front of The Roundhouse, Evans climbed on top of a concrete security barrier and addressed the crowd. 

“We know why we’re here. The cops aren’t doing their job,” he shouted into his bullhorn. “Artists aren’t being protected. We all saw it in the paper.” He stopped, and grabbed a copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer someone shoved in his free hand.

Somehow, the three television trucks were able to push their way through the crowd, mount onto the sidewalk and park in the courtyard in front of The Roundhouse. Now, they were able to stream signals to their stations and then onto the screens of Philadelphia TV watchers and to their networks for national coverage. 

As Evans waved the newspaper in the air, he raised his voice, “They don’t do their job; they don’t do their job, and then they hide their failure. No one knew Faith Gruen was murdered.”

Evans jumped from the concrete barrier, and he started talking to a tall, middle-aged man who was standing nearby. Somehow, the man appeared out of place; like a good number of the demonstrators, he was bald, and he had a round, friendly face, but he wearing a tweed jacket and a tie, and he could be seen shaking his head. Finally he nodded. 

A crew from one of the TV stations dragged a wooden platform into the courtyard, posed a lectern on it, and then wired microphones into the lectern. Evans jumped onto the platform, but he appeared to have lost his energetic bounce; obviously, the march and his constant encouragement taxed his energy more than he wanted to show. He raised his free hand, and the crowd hushed.

Speaking in a lowered voice, Evans announced: “Listen everyone! This is Bruce Moore. He’s the big boss of ‘Wonder Words,’ the poetry club we all know and love, and a good friend of Faith Gruen. He’s gonna say a few . . .  ” Evans’ voice was drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. 

Then, Moore stepped onto the platform and moved over to the lectern. Evans ceded his place, and Moore gripped the lectern with both hands. He stood tall and confident, but even from a distance his emotion could be seen in his face. 

To test the microphones, Moore tapped one of them. Just the fleeting hint of a smile could be seen on his boyish face when he could hear “pop, pop, pop” resonate through the sound system strong enough to reach the crowd.

He waited for the more than the several thousand protestors to quiet down and then spoke with a firm voice: “Faith Gruen was one of the most wonderful human beings on this earth.”

His voice rose in strength, as he continued. “She should not have been taken from us. I want to say a few words, but it’s not easy for me. So, please bear with me.”

Moore waited just a few seconds. “All forms of art are important. They all bring us ideas, and they can touch our emotions. As artists, we are all united, and we have to support each other. I’m honored to be here with you, as a fellow artist. ”

His voice stronger and still louder, Moore continued. “Faith was a brilliant poet, and she understood the importance of poetry. When someone asked her for help, she was always right there, to help other poets, with enthusiasm and her own special, sweet nature. We are honored to have known her. I will miss her so very much.”

Now he spoke in a lower tone, almost a whisper: “And, this is hard to say, but I want to tell you that my mind and emotions, I’m struggling when I think of her being murdered, how she died. How could this happen? How could this happen to Faith? Violence is the worst side of human nature, and our police force, they have to do their job, do more to prevent violence against all human beings. 

“Now, I’d like to ask you for one minute of silence, that’s in Faith’s honor.” And then lowering his voice still more, “Let’s think, let’s be creative. How can we use our art to bring people together, and to reduce the violence around us. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, thank you to all of you.” 

Abruptly, almost clumsily, Moore joined his hands in front of himself and looked down at his feet. Not a sound was heard from the thousands of demonstrators. 

Until raised his head and stepped off the platform. The crowd gave him a polite applause, and a few people cheered.

Archie Evans climbed back up on the platform. “Are there any other artists or supporters of the arts who’d like to make brief statements?”

One demonstrator near the front of the crowd raised his hand and stepped forward. He made a brief statement, and then a series of demonstrators spoke one after another. 

-0-

From his office on the fourth floor of The Roundhouse, Police Commissioner Ralph DiNardo had been watching the demonstrators since their arrival below his window. When he saw the television trucks arrive, he flipped on the office television and pushed the buttons on his remote. 

As he watched the protesters’ numbers increase, little by little, from the first arrivals to the massive crowd now listening to one statement after another, and then cheering louder and louder, with no indication they would disperse any time soon, his annoyance, then his agitation, and then his anger rose.

Two days ago, when his press aides asked him to approve the statement they’d written for him, he knew a story would appear in The Inquirer. But he didn’t anticipate the importance of the story nor its power to create such a massive expression of public concern.

Now, as he sat at his wide desk in his large but Spartan office, exhibiting only the accessories, comforts and electronics he felt he truly required, he watched the parade of speakers on the big screen of his office TV and outside below him.

Oh, just wonderful, he said to himself. Philly’s getting famous today. Too bad it’s all for the wrong reasons.

His anger rising even further, the commissioner looked at the telephones in front of him, and he wondered which one would ring momentarily with the mayor’s voice on the line.

Suddenly, DiNardo heard one of his phones ring, and he saw the red light on one of them blink, and he froze. Strangely, he blamed himself. Was it his thinking of the mayor that somehow made the mayor telephone him?  

The commissioner let it ring – waiting for his secretary, Beth Quinn, to answer it. Within seconds, there was a knock on his door, and immediately the door opened. Beth popped her head into the office, and said, “Sir, it’s Roshaun. He’s on the line. He wants to know what you want him to do. Can you take it?”

A rush of relief gave the commissioner just a moment of peace. Thank God it wasn’t the mayor. DiNardo smiled at Beth, nodded and picked up the receiver. 

“What you got for me?” DiNardo shot at his press rep. “I been watching the crowd. Whadda you gonna do?”

“That’s what I wanna talk to you about,” said Roshaun Johnson. “Think I should go out there and ask ‘em if you can address all those folks. Ya know, I’m gonna surprise you. Sure, I’m hearing about your orders. It was cops down here told me. No rough stuff, you’re taking tear gas and every kind of force off the table. But it’s up to you, sir. You wanna talk to ‘em?”

“Yeah, sure, you go out and talk to that big guy hogging the mic,” DiNardo said. “But feel ‘em out first, and don’t make any promises, none at all. I’ll only talk to ‘em if I have to.”

The commissioner slammed the receiver down. Then he rose abruptly, exited his office, and – in a sharp voice – directed Beth Quinn, “I want that Captain McAllister in my office, standing in front of me, within five minutes.”

He returned to his office and dropped onto his chair. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. It’s happening. I shouldda seen it all coming. It’s your job, fella. Commissioner, that’s you. Is it worth it or not? You wanted the honor? You got it!

A knock on the door roused him. Then the door opened just a crack, and Beth Quinn leaned into his office. Her short red hair, the freckles across her nose, her red lips parted in a smile, she said, “Captain McAllister’s here. Send him . . . ” 

The commissioner couldn’t refrain his smirk. “Tell him I’m mad as hell, and he’s entering at his own risk.” 

Quinn’s blue eyes lit up. “You serious, sir?” 

“You know I don’t have much a sense of humor.”

“Yes, sir, I’m not going to argue. But I know you like to get Captain McAllister’s goat. I’ll do it.” 

Seconds later, McAllister entered the commissioner’s office and stood in front of his desk. 

“Just a second, Bill,” DiNardo said, not raising his eyes to recognize McAllister’s presence. I’ll be right with you.”

The commissioner searched through a pile of documents, rustling the pages for effect. He left McAllister standing. 

Finally, DiNardo looked up. “Hey, Bill, I’m sorry. Good to see you in uniform. Go ahead. Take the weight off your feet. You been following the festivities outside?”

McAllister sat in the middle chair facing the desk. “Not much, really.”

“Well, you know you should. I wanna congratulate you, Bill. You succeeded in bringing several thousand demonstrators to lay siege to our offices and tying up traffic for a good part of North Philly. Nice going. That takes superior planning and implementation. 

“Ya know? This is your responsibility. The investigation into that girl’s murder, you were handling it. You grabbed it, and you headed it, and you hid it.” 

McAllister began, unsteady, “Yes, sir, but there were circumstances. We have one suspect but . . . .” 

DiNardo cut his subordinate off, “I don’t wanna hear any bull-shit excuses. I gotta know, concretely, what you been doing. How’d we get here? What’ve you been doing? And whatta you gonna do to fix this?  This better be good, ‘cause I got some other ideas for fixing your career.”

“Sir, we got an implementation strategy. We used our sources and other intelligence. We know where the major groups, and even the cartels are. We’re gonna implement our plan sector by sector.” 

The commissioner’s face showed just a hint of a smile. “If it’s based on solid intelligence, doesn’t sound bad. In fact, it sounds logical. You know, I want to see success. We got enough problems in our dear, old Philly. Any problems in our city shouldn’t be of our own making.” 

“I agree completely, sir.” 

DiNardo stood up behind his desk. “Good, you implement your plan. And, like I said, it better succeed.” 

“Thank you, sir. If that’s all . . . ” 

“No, not quite, Bill. Now, you’re gonna help this department show how we should do things, how we keep the peace. You know, or you should, I gave orders that our department wouldn’t interfere with citizens expressing themselves peacefully. We want this demonstration to remain peaceful.” 

McAllister also rose. “Always been my belief. Of course, I agree.” 

“Good, you’re gonna help me meet this crowd. We’re gonna talk to them. Right now, that’s what we’re gonna do. And you, and some other officers, you’re gonna be there right with me.” 

DiNardo hit the intercom. “Beth, is everyone there? The officers, and the security squad?”

Beth Quinn’s sweet voice came over the intercom, “Yes, sir.” 

“Okay, Bill. Let’s hope for a little luck. Let’s go!”

Waiting with Roshaun Johnson were four police division heads, all captains in formal uniforms. To one side were three security officers.

DiNardo led the procession to the elevator and then on to the ground floor. The security officers used the freight elevator. Then the entire delegation proceeded out the front door of The Roundhouse. The commissioner mounted the platform with alacrity, advanced to the row of microphones and proffered his right hand to Archie Evans. 

The balance of the police delegation lined up behind their boss. 

Surprised, Evans halted his comments mid-sentence and shook the commissioner’s hand. After a short whispered conference between the two men, Evans announced, “Folks, we got a surprise important guest. Let’s welcome him, Police Commissioner Ralph DiNardo. Let’s hear it, let’s welcome the commissioner.” Evans started to applaud but then stopped himself. 

Stunning silence! The crowd made not one sound. 

The commissioner showed off a broad smile and held his hands in the air. “Please, folks. If I can, I’d like to say just a few words.”

The crowd moved around in place and shuffled, but remained silent. 

  “Thank you. Thank you for letting me speak with you,” the commissioner began. “Ya know, I was born and raised in our dear Philly, in West Oak Lane. And I spent my whole life here. I guess you could call me a real Philly kid. Except, I went away to college, not too far, Penn State.

“Ya know, being a cop my whole career, I never had much time to take advantage of everything our city has to offer. But I know the arts in our city are important. They enrich our lives, and visitors come to our city to enjoy our arts, and then enrich our city financially. 

“Now, to go back to police work: It’s my job, and the job of the entire police force, to make sure all our citizens and all our visitors are protected from violence. We’re using all our resources, all our hearts and minds, and we’re developing smarter ways to improve the safety and security in our city. 

“You have all of my sympathy and understanding. Of course, Faith Gruen, this wonderful young poet, should not have been murdered, and should not have been murdered in such a violent way. 

“We are using everything we have to find her killer. We’re making progress, but I’m sorry to say, the progress is slower than we want. I pledge to you, we’ll be dedicating more resources to our efforts, and we’ll keep you informed as much as we can.  

“We have a number of problems here, in our dear city Philly. We’re working with the mayor and with the city council, and we’re working with other government entities, all to find solutions to make our city safer and more secure. Here in Philly, we will continue doing our best. I pledge this. 

“Now, I’d like to ask for your help. If any of you have any information, information that concerns the horrible murder of Faith Gruen, or information about any criminal activity, please report that to us, on a confidential basis. We have a police tip line. The phone number is 215-686-TIPS or 215-686-8477. And the email is tips@phillypolice.com. If you know something, give us as much info as you can. Your identity remains unknown, anonymous and confidential. In other words, it’s safe for you. 

“These officers here, they’re working as hard as they can to solve our problems. Next to me is Captain William McAllister. Yes, this gentleman here, he’s the officer in charge of the investigation into Faith Gruen’s murder. He pledges the same fervent oath that we will find her murderer and make sure the lowlife that took her life faces justice. 

“Thank you for listening to me.” 

The crowd was silent. But then a few brave hearts applauded, in a restrained and polite way. And then more of the demonstrators applauded. 

But it stopped there.  

DiNardo turned toward McAllister. Stepping away form the microphones, he said in a low voice: “Okay, Bill, the world knows it’s your job. Good luck.”