Wolfman - Art Bourgeau Read Online Free PDF

even a trip to the dentist bearable by
sharpening and refocusing the practitioner's mental focus away from
the unpleasantness at hand. In the quietness of the third shift they
were the only way he could keep his mind off Rudy Gunther's death.
    He pulled into the parking lot near the entrance to
Forbidden Drive. The white limestone gravel of the lot reflected his
headlights upward, making the rain shimmer like a curtain of
Christmas tree icicles. Beyond that all was dark. For a moment he
relaxed his concentration, and that night came back to him, as
always. It had happened near South Street while he was working
undercover and had discovered Gunther breaking into a parked car.
When he identified himself as a police officer Gunther attacked him,
and during the fight Mercanto shot him. It sounded simple but it
wasn’t.
    The officer who headed the investigation for Internal
Affairs had recommended suspension. "A hothead," was what
he had called Mercanto. The suspension was granted, and it was months
until the FOP lawyers could plead his case before the American
Arbitration Association. He was found blameless and restored to duty,
but those intervening months had changed him. As the suspension time
dragged by he had been forced to admit there was some truth in the
allegations against him. He had not contained the situation, not
called for backup.
    He had violated
procedures, let his ego rule his head. A man was dead, and he was at
least in some measure to blame.
    * * *
    He drove slowly, peering through the rain. There was
no need to hurry. It was not until he was about halfway down the
parking lot and beginning to make his turn that he saw the car — a
black BMW. It was parked in the lower corner of the lot and was
facing the Wissahickon Creek.
    "Probably just some folks making out," he
muttered to himself. He drove closer, stopping the blue-and-white a
discreet distance away to give whomever was in the car a chance to
rearrange any clothing, and get themselves together.
    He got out, shoving his nightstick into the ring on
his belt, and picked up the five-cell flashlight from the front seat.
He looked back at the walkie-talkie lying on the seat. Should he
bring it? No, he could handle it. If there was trouble, this time he
would back away . . .
    The chill of the rain felt good. Bracing. He pulled
his cap lower on his face and switched on the flashlight. As he
started toward the car he turned up the collar of his leather coat to
keep the water from running down his neck.
    The heavy double-breasted coat with its two rows of
silver buttons always made him feel a little like a movie version of
a Nazi U-boat commander. In fact, with his dark looks and perpetual
five o’clock shadow, at thirty-three he looked more like the
swarthy captain of a Greek freighter.
    Under his feet he heard the crunch of the gravel as
he closed the distance to the BMW. To his left he heard the sound of
Wissahickon Creek bubbling over the rocks. He could not see it. It
was about fifty yards lower than the parking lot and in darkness. Up
ahead he sensed rather than saw the entrance to Forbidden Drive, a
dirt lane cut through the forest that  paralleled the creek and
was closed to cars. The Park Squad patrolled its length on horseback
from here in the Valley Green section all the way to Lincoln Drive.
To his right, about halfway up a steep and wooded hillside, he could
make out the bare outlines of a white farmhouse that was a French
restaurant called Maison Catherine. There was no light inside, it had
long since closed for the night.
    When he made the same rounds on the other two shifts
Catherine Poydras, the owner, would often bring down coffee for him
and they would chat for a few minutes. She had owned the restaurant
for over twenty years and knew everything that went on in the
Wissahickon section of Fairmount Park.
    A noise to his left startled him. He turned and
flashed his light, holding it well away from his body. The light
showed a garbage can. It was