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O’Hara ignored her.

“I can find out,” O’Hara said.

“Right now, Mickey,” Wohl said, “we’re friends. We have been friends for a long time. Don’t do anything to change that.”

“That sounds like a threat,” O’Hara said.

“Not a threat, a statement of fact,” Wohl said.

“From me, Mickey,” Coughlin said “you can consider it a threat.”

“I ally myself with Chief Coughlin,” Washington announced. “We are not talking of soiling the girl’s reputation, we are dealing, according to Dr. Payne, with shoving the girl over the precipice into schizophrenia. Your readers do not need to know the girl’s name, if schizophrenia is to be the price.”

“I’m missing something here,” O’Hara said. “When they try this slimeball—you are going to prosecute the bastard, I presume?—her name will be a matter of public record.”

“My God, I didn’t think of that!” Amy said in almost a wail. “If that girl is subjected to the kind of humiliation she would get in a trial, the damage would be devastating. And irreparable.”

“They will, of course, correct me if I err,” Washington said “but what I think Chief Coughlin and Inspector Wohl have in mind is seeing that society is protected from this individual for a very long time by seeing that he is prosecuted—and incarcerated—for all of his criminal activity except the rape.”

“Do you think a jury is going to get all worked up because a poor, underpaid cop has ripped off a drug dealer?” Mickey said. “A good lawyer—even one six months out of law school—would have the jury voting him cop of the year.”

“What I have been thinking, Dr. Payne, listening to all of this . . .” Walter Davis of the FBI began. It was the first time he had opened his mouth since Chief Coughlin had ordered Washington to proceed, over Davis’s objections, with his interrogation of Ketcham. “. . . is that if we can bring to the U.S. Attorney appropriate evidence, Officer Prasko—and the others—can be prosecuted under civil rights statutes.”

“Run that by me again, Walter?” Coughlin asked.

“Maybe I’m wrong, Denny,” Davis said, “but it seems to me that you and Peter are thinking that what Officer Prasko—and the others—have done is—and it certainly is—a number of things: simple theft, theft of evidence, dereliction of duty, perhaps extortion, et cetera, et cetera.”

“And?” Coughlin asked.

“I’m suggesting that perhaps you haven’t considered that it is a violation of an individual’s civil rights—a federal felony—to extort money—or anything of value—from him, or her, under color of office.”

“I don’t under—” Coughlin began.

“You’re saying the U.S. Attorney would prosecute these clowns for violating the civil rights of drug dealers?” Wohl interrupted.

“Yes, I think that’s entirely likely.”

“The ‘color of office’ meaning that police officers are officials of the City of Philadelphia?” Wohl pursued.

Davis nodded.

“Wouldn’t that then permit the drug dealers to sue the City of Philadelphia for damages, since their civil rights had been violated by officials of the city?”

Coughlin thought: Peter’s already starting to think like a police commissioner.

“Possibly,” Davis said.

“And in a civil suit,” Coughlin interjected, “presuming that these dirty cops were found guilty of violating the civil rights of drug dealers, wouldn’t that be all the proof needed to find the city liable for the actions of its officers?”

“I think it would,” Davis said. “But it would also have put Officer Pra

sko and the others into a federal prison.”

“May I suggest, gentlemen,” Washington said, “that while I find these arguments fascinating, none of us—with all due respect—know what we are talking about. I think Mr. Davis is right. The U.S. Attorney should be brought into this as soon as possible, and so should our beloved District Attorney Tony Callis.”

There were nods of agreement, and then Washington looked at Coughlin and went on: “If I may be permitted to make a further suggestion, Chief . . .”

“Sure.”