# 26 - Chapter Twenty Six. "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Twenty-Six 

“Being a cop is all I know, all I have,” Lieutenant Doug Boswell said. His voice was strident and forceful, yet respectful.

In his Spartan office on the fourth floor of The Roundhouse, Police Captain Louis Schaeffer watched Boswell from behind his desk. 

Perspiration was seeping over Boswell’s forehead and down spine. He continued: “I always been a cop, and I’d like to stay one, always. But I know I screwed it up. It’s my fault.” 

“Let’s not be totally negative,” Schaeffer’s voice was calm and – with his close-clipped beard and horn-rimmed glasses – his appearance was professorial. “It’s true, you made some serious mistakes, we gotta admit it, really serious mistakes, and you waited years to come to terms with it. But let’s see how things work out.” 

“You think . . . ?” Boswell leaned forward over his superior’s desk and looked desperately hopeful.

“I’m just trying to consider the evidence,” Schaeffer said, “My team went over everything we got in the raid, the forensic Crime Lab people went over everything, you can’t imagine how much there was. And there was no evidence, no evidence against you.”

Boswell tried to be realistic. “But I know . . . ”

“No, you don’t know the whole story,” Schaeffer broke in. “Seems you weren’t important enough. For these guys, for this cartel, you weren’t even important enough for a note, not even for a ledger entry.”

“But . . . ”

“Look, for this crew, Orlov and McAllister, you were just about a non-entity,” Schaeffer said with authority. “Look at ‘em! They were dealing in millions. You probably meant, . . not even pocket change to them. Sure, they wanted you to frame El Siegel. That we know. But my guess: They were holding you in reserve, saving you for something else. I sure can’t know what. But the party ended, their party ended.” 

Boswell was confused. “Sir, where does that leave me? What about my case?”

“Doug, I’m sorry,” Schaeffer said. “I just don’t know. That’s not my department. That depends on the DA’s office, and how they view your case. And then there’s the interrogation your partner carried out, the interrogation of that suspect, Leland Stanhope. I watched it, and I gotta tell you, it was really something.” 

“Sir, I’m happy for Eddie. I know he’s been working really hard, really throwing himself into this case.” 

Schaeffer gave a confident smile and waited a respectful few seconds. “But one more thing. I wanna mention one more thing that could be important. You remember, because of your case, you couldn’t be involved with any interrogation, you remember that?”

“Yes, sir. I remember.” Boswell remembered only too well, and now he had good reason to worry.

A stern look on his face, Schaeffer continued: “Despite my instructions, my order really, you went ahead and contacted Sergeant Buckley. Is that true?”

Boswell could feel himself slipping down in his chair just a bit. “Yes, sir, it is. I had this idea; it just came to me. Yes, I mentioned it to Buckles, . . . Sergeant Buckley. Yes, I did.” 

Schaeffer didn’t say anything for a few long seconds. Then, the corners of his mouth almost unperceptively turned up. “Well, it looks like your little idea locked up a conviction, no, a confession from that Stanhope suspect. The people . . . No one expected the way it turned out.” 

“Thank you for telling me, sir.” 

“Well, I’m gonna approve your action, that’s what I’m telling you,” Schaeffer said. “I’m gonna approve your action retroactively. Remembering the security footage from Fairmount, and using it that way, and getting confirmation on the car rental, you did good, you did good police work.” 

Boswell was confused. When the significance of the captain’s wording dawned on him, he couldn’t stop himself. He broke out in a wide smile. 

“And, I got more to say. I mentioned this to the DA’s office. And I don’t know how these elements will affect your case, but now they know. And I know, I know you’re a good cop that can think on his own.” He waited a few seconds. “And thanks, thanks for helping the case.”

Boswell didn’t know what to answer. 

Schaeffer said. “You remember something else? You said you’d be willing to testify in Captain McAllister’s trial. Well, his trial is coming up, and I just wanted to confirm that.”

With their talk shifting to McAllister, Boswell felt a bit relieved. “That’s no problem, sir. Like they say, ‘The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth.’”

“Thanks. I’ll leave it to the DA’s office, but I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say. Right now, I’m just confirming a few things, making sure we’re all set for the trial.” 

-0-

Two uniformed Philadelphia police officers pulled up in front of the large stone house on Caversham Road. 

The residence was in the city Bryn Mawr, on the Main Line west of Philadelphia, and their police cruiser bore the insignia of the Philadelphia Police Department, meaning the two officers were from Philadelphia. However, their commander – Captain Louis Schaeffer – had coordinated with the Bryn Mawr police for the Philly cops to carry out a simple confirmation visit in advance of McAllister’s trial. 

The officers exited their cruiser and made their way up the stone path that twisted over the tailored lawn and between the trees and other foliage. Once on the stone porch, the officers noticed something strange. 

The heavy wooden front door was ajar.

The officers drew their side arms and pushed the door fully open. Once inside in the entrance hallway, their jaws dropped and they stood aghast. Then, holding their weapons at the ready, they swiveled and surveyed the nearby rooms. 

With sunlight streaming into the large living room, they could see that furniture was tossed around, several bronze sculptures lay on the polished wooden floor, and books and magazines lay in disarray left and right on the floor. 

In what appeared to be an office or library with red walls, precious oil paintings lay pell-mell on the carpeted floor, books from wall cases were pushed into corners, and a steel wall safe’s door was ajar. Drawers from a large wooden desk lay next to it, amid piles of jumbled papers. 

Rapidly yet carefully, they surveyed the rest of the house, through the ultra-modern kitchen and the laundry room, in and out of the bedrooms and other spaces on the upper floors, and below in the basement with its workshop and wine cellar. 

Only one conclusion was possible: The inhabitants had exited the property in a hurry. 

One of the officers extracted his smartphone from its cradle and dialed a number at Philadelphia Police Headquarters. 

“Captain Schaeffer? Yeah, it’s me here, sir. We got a problem.”       

-0-

The confidential location in South Philly was a non-descript building that had the appearance of warehouse, one like many storage and delivery facilities in the area. The concrete exterior walls were blank, except for their share of graffiti. The four roll-up heavy metal doors were the same used by companies that needed to enter and exit for rapid deliveries. 

Only one doorway was used for personnel access, and it had no markings on it, not even a street address.

It was the interior of the large structure that was different. Inside there was a cyber operations lab with rows of tables sporting the latest in computer technology. Two conference rooms were set aside for crisis management. Large open areas were used to store and service several rows of unmarked police cruisers and military style vehicles. And another area was reserved for advanced weapons and robotics technology. 

This was the headquarters of the Philadelphia Police Department’s Special Operations Unit. 

In one of the conference rooms, a Special Ops team of about a dozen officers and detectives working on their urgent task. 

When Sergeant Buckley entered the conference rooms, he could see the Special Ops team members thumbing through thick volumes of bus and train schedules, others noting information from computer screens onto pages on clipboards. All the while, team members entered and exited the space, while others shouted orders or noted info on notepads. 

Buckley listened to one officer discussing airline passengers’ rights to privacy on the phone. He heard another talking to an Amtrak ticket agent at the city’s 30th Street Station about receiving lists of train passengers without a court order.

Buckley stood and watched the activity for a few minutes. Then, he caught the eye of one officer pushing past him. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” Buckley said. “I’m Buckley, Sergeant Buckley. I been working on this case, well, from almost the beginning. I don’t know if I’d be useful or a pain in the ass. But our bosses at The Roundhouse are thinkin’ I should get down here and see if I can help.”

The officer studied Buckley for a few seconds. “I’ll deny I ever said it, but our bosses handed us kinda a challenge. Somebody fucked up. Maybe it’s one of those ‘I thought you did it’ situations. But here we got a suspect, I’m talking about McAllister, maybe he’s worth millions. And what happens? They don’t keep him in the slammer, and let him go on a measly two-million dollar bond.”

“So, how you guys doin’?” Buckley asked. 

“Not good,” the officer said. He looked at the floor for second, and then shook his head. “But it’s not up to me. We’re all trying like crazy. I’ll see if we can find the boss. Anyone here seen Gonzalez?”

Shouts rang out in the crowded space and down the adjacent hallway: “Where’s Gonzalez? He was just here. Get ‘im here, pronto!”

Suddenly, a small, business-like officer wearing captain’s bars, a tactical fatigue uniform and a black goatee seemed to appear out of nowhere. “So, you’re the Buckley I been hearing about? I’m Brent Gonzalez. I’m in charge of this crazy crew. What can I do for you?”

 “Someone upstairs thinks I can help you guys out,” Buckley said. “I don’t know, really. Looks like you got a lotta manpower. But I been on this case for a while. Maybe I got an idea or two.”

“We’ll see,” Gonzalez said. “We’re kinda fighting the odds. We got maybe one chance outta a hundred to get our hands on the good Captain McAllister.”

“Well, I got a little idea,” Buckley said. “I don’t know how much help it’ll be, at this point. But here goes.” 

For a few seconds, Buckley watched Captain Gonzalez, his dark eyes staring at him and waiting.

“Okay, first of all, we know that flying outta Philly, if I’m the suspect, it’s certain to be the best way to put miles between me and the cops,” Buckley began. “So, first, we assume that McAllister wants to fly. And then we assume he’ll want to go someplace where we can’t touch him. That means a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. So, maybe we could cross-reference the flights leaving today for countries with no extradition treaty with us. I’m no computer expert, but  . . . ”

“Don’t need to be, sergeant, I’m thinking that maybe your idea has a chance,” Gonzalez said. “We’ll do it, but first, we’re gonna get a Special Ops team on its way to the airport, and contact security there and get ‘em photos, etcetera. That way, if we ID the airline, we’ll be in place. What else can you think of?”

Buckley closed his eyes for a second. “Well, maybe we can expand our field just a little,” he said. “If you think we can, maybe we could expand our digital search to Newark and Baltimore/Washington International, just in case. We never know. And maybe contact the sheriff’s office, since they handle bail issues.”

“Good, Eddie, I think you’re right,” Gonzalez said. “We gotta increase our odds any way we can. Thanks.”

“Just tryin’ to help.” 

“One more thing,” said Gonzalez. “If you can, can you stick around a bit? If you can. I’m bettin’ you’re gonna increase our odds. Anyway, I sure hope so.”

“No problem, I’m happy to,” Buckley said. “I’m glad to be here and play this game out until the fat lady sings.”

“Thanks, really!” Gonzalez said.

“Oh, one more thing,” Buckley said. Suddenly, Buckley realized that Gonzalez was pulling him from the conference room and down one of the hallways.

“Sorry to do this, Eddie, but keep talking,” Gonzalez said, “I wanna get to the Cyber Operations Lab and brief them on your idea. Just keep talkin’. We both know every second counts.’’

“No problem,” Buckley said. “Just wanted to say, my old partner, Lieutenant Boswell, might show up. Our bosses think he might be able to help. He spent a lot of time with McAllister, and he might be good to ID McAllister or give some insight about him. And don’t worry, Doug has all the approvals up and down the chain.”

“No problem,” Gonzalez said. “If you’re telling me he can help, he’s good.” 

The two officers arrived at a non-descript door that Gonzalez pulled open.

Inside, Buckley watched Gonzalez sprint over to a bank of computers and start barking orders to three Special Ops officers for several minutes. Then he moved to another group and go through the same exercise, this time moving his hands even more as he spoke. And he went through the same exercise a third time to give another group instructions.

Then Gonzalez walked back to Buckley. 

“Let’s get back to the conference room,” Gonzalez said. 

When they entered the room, Buckley found Boswell leaning against the wall near the entrance, looking lost. 

The two men greeted each other, and Buckley introduced Boswell to Gonzalez. 

Without hesitation, Gonzalez reached out and shook Boswell’s hand. “Welcome to the real nerve center of the department. Thanks for coming. Lemme just say, if you have any useful ideas or info, don’t hesitate. We need all the help we can get.”

Gonzalez ran off to talk to a member of his team, and Buckley turned to Boswell. “Good to see ya. How ya doin’?” 

Boswell waited a few seconds, and he looked around the room. “I don’t know, really. I get all these signals, and I don’t know how to read ‘em. Like I’m here to help, and I’m glad about that, really. And I tell myself I’m kinda trusted, I say kinda. And then Captain Schaeffer keeps telling me, any decisions are up to the DA’s office. So, I really don’t know.”

“Well let’s keep hoping. That’s all we can do.”

“And Eddie,” Boswell said. “Thanks for telling our bosses about the security tapes from Fairmount and the confirmation from Enterprise, telling ‘em it was my idea.”

“Look’it, it’s your ideas, and it’s the truth.” 

Boswell looked straight at his old partner. “Anyway, thanks. Really.”      

-0-

About one hour passed. 

Gonzalez broke into the conference room. “Hey, guys, some news. Don’t get excited, not yet. But I been talking the officers that stopped in at McAllister’s place in Bryn Mawr. There’s a Crime Scene team there. And they’re finding stuff, like the security system was disabled, the swimming pool flooded a big part of their back yard, and the place has a humidity factor of 85.”

“So, what we got is maybe some trouble,” Gonzalez continued. “We gotta be realistic. It’s possible, I’m just saying possible, McAllister and his wife could’ve left earlier. So, We’re reprogramming our locator program. We’re gonna expand our field to include three more days on the front end to see if they took an earlier flight. And, let’s hope. Hear that, we’re tough cops, and we say let’s hope?” 

-0-

More time passed. 

After about two hours, the shout went up, “We got a hit! The digital match.” 

A boisterous cheer echoed in the large space. 

Then one of the officers shouted, “Com’on, baby, come and give me a digital match!” 

The high-performance locator program pointed to Qatar Airways’ flight 673, which was scheduled to depart three times a week from Philadelphia for Doha, Qatar, a tiny peninsula off the east coast of Saudi Arabia, with a continuation on to Malé, the major city of the island nation of Maldives. The Maldives Islands had never signed an extradition treaty with the U.S. 

Now, the time was clicking by. It was 18:23 hours, and flight 673 was scheduled to take off either today at 20:05 hours, or it had already departed at that time on Monday, two days ago.

One of the officers, Sergeant Butch Tomkins, an expert in hostage negotiations, was on the phone with a reservation clerk from Qatar Airways. A big burly guy with short crew-cut, he put his hand over the telephone’s mouth piece and explained: “There’s a couple fits the McAllisters’ profile, older, rich-looking, suburban address. I been talking with this clerk, a stickler on confidentiality rules.  When I gave him the name, I could almost hear the guy jump, says he can’t tell me which flight, today’s or the old one.” 

“Got an idea!” Gonzalez shouted. “Take the flights one at a time, and give him the name, McAllister. Then ask the guy if he can officially deny that McAllister is not on that flight. Tell him it’s a law-enforcement matter, and you’re not asking him to confirm they’re on the flight, you’re asking him if they are not on the flight. That way, he’s cool with his regs.”

A crowd gathered around Tomkins, and every eye in the conference room was glued to his bobbing head, as he kept talking with the reservation clerk.

Gonzalez suddenly started waving to the officer on the phone, and the officer put his hand on the mouthpiece and turned toward his boss. 

Gonzalez said, “Get his supervisor! Tell him you gotta talk to his supervisor! This is a law-enforcement issue, and it’s urgent!”

Tomkins, still holding his hand over the mouthpiece, said, “Whoa, no good boss. Turns out this guy is the supervisor.” Then he removed his hand and resumed negotiating with the supervisor. 

Then, after a few more minutes, Tomkins could be heard saying, “Your secret is safe with me. If this wasn’t a secret, I’d put you in for a service metal or something. But can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help. Really, thanks, buddy!”

Then, he cradled the receiver and slowly turned toward Gonzalez. For long seconds, the breathing of a dozen Special Ops officers could be heard in the silence. 

Finally, he spoke. “Sorry to tell you guys, McAllister and his wife got away.”

Softly, the sounds of moans were heard in the conference room, and then a few scattered words were heard. “Aw shit,” “Fuck!,” and “After all this!”

Then Tomkins resumed, “The Qatar Airways supervisor confirmed it. What we did worked. Trouble is, it was the flight two days ago. McAllister and his wife were on the flight left Monday. They’re probably on the beach right now. The airline guy, the supervisor, he’s being honest. I explained all the law-enforcement issues; he wouldn’t dare lie. I’m sure it’s true. I explained what I was trying to do. He’s not a bad guy, and he was trying to help us. And he finally came clean.”

“Well, that does it,” Gonzalez said. “Everyone, thanks for trying. We knew the odds were against us. Someone, please, tell the unit in situ, they can come back to the mother base. And someone inform the Sheriff’s Department.”

Gonzalez waited a few seconds and spoke again, “And I’ll call Schaeffer, and he can tell the commish.”

Gonzalez looked at the floor for a few seconds, and then began talking again. “I can tell how you guys feel by looking at every face in this room. We’re pissed off. We did everything we could, we did everything right. But the odds were against us. And that’s from the very beginning. We know mistakes were made, but that’s not a can of worms I’m gonna open right now. We did our job, and we did it right. I can’t just pass this all off as a good exercise. No, this is too important. But I can say to you guys, thanks! We’ll get the next one.” 

Gonzalez stopped for a second, and then started speaking again. “I just wanna say one more thing. I seen it before, and I can tell you: The life of a fugitive, it isn’t pretty. A man on the run can’t just go anywhere. He’s always thinkin’, who’s out to get me? Always looking at a stranger and wondering if he’s the one with the contract. Why’s that guy got a bulge in his coat, a sidearm? Always wondering when he’s gonna get it. Not a pleasure.”

Gonzalez stopped for another second, then looked at his team. “All I can say is that, sometime in the future, maybe we’ll get McAllister, or someone else will.”