We got off a teletype to George Brereton at C.I.I. up in Sacramento, giving all the information we had on the suspect. When this was off, Frank said, “What now?”
“Let’s get over to the hospital and talk to Nancy Meere,” I said. “Then we’ve got a little chore to do.”
“Yeah?”
I showed him the card bearing the jeweler’s symbol and told him what Ray Pinker had said.
“Legwork,” Frank groaned.
“What’s your beef?” I asked. “You could be worse off.”
“Huh?”
“You could have been a postman.”
* * * *
3:11 p.m. We drove over to County Hospital and talked to Nancy Meere. The girl’s wound was not serious, and the hospital authorities said she would be able to go home in a few days. She was unable to tell us any more about the suspect than she had at the scene of the crime.
By then it was nearly check-in time for the night watch. We stopped for a cup of coffee and then checked into Homicide at 4:30 p.m. I logged in while Frank read the message book. There was a note for us to meet Captain Hertel in Chief Brown’s office.
We left the squad room and went down the hall to Room 311. Chief of Detectives Thad Brown had Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher in his office, as well as Captain Hertel. The chief was seated behind his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair. He was talking to Hertel, who was seated at the end of the desk next to him. Wynn and Brasher were on our left, seated in chairs.
Thaddeus Franklin Brown has been a policeman for over thirty years. For nine of them he was head of Homicide. Now he’s Deputy Chief of Police, in charge of the 653 officers and 39 civilian personnel of the Detective Bureau. He’s solidly built, with a straight gaze, a broad forehead, and a strong jaw.
When we came in, he looked at us through dark-rimmed glasses and said, “Friday, Smith.” He nodded toward chairs. “Sit down.”
We sat, and Chief Brown said, “You at all close to this lovers’ lane bandit, Friday?”
“Not within a country mile,” I told him. “We’ve run everything we know about him through Stat’s Office and R & I, but they haven’t been able to make him. We’re waiting for a kickback from George Brereton at C.I.I. now. If that washes out, we’ve got one lead.” I told him about the watch.
“Not much to go on,” the chief said, with a shake of his head. “It may have been a stolen watch.”
“Not likely,” Marty Wynn said. “He’s been careful so far to take nothing but money.”
“Well, get on it, anyway,” Chief Brown said. “And continue with your rolling stakeout. Afraid if you don’t get him tonight, your stakeout’s not going to net anything, though.”
I said, “What do you mean, sir?”
“Garcia up in S.I.D. has been working with some of the robbery victims all day, drawing a composite. We’re giving it to the papers in the morning.”
“Oh?” I said.
‘That’s why I’ve called you all together. To let you know what you’re in for. We’re asking the papers to make the story page-one. Full description of the suspect, composite picture, MO—the works. Along with a warning to the public not to park in isolated spots.”
“That’ll tear it,” I said ruefully. “He’ll crawl in a hole and pull it in after him.”
“Yeah,” Chief Brown said. “But we can’t fool with the lives of innocent people. This man’s dangerous. Now that he’s killed once, he won’t hesitate to kill again.”
What he said was true. This was a type of problem that frequently confronts the police: the choice between effective strategy and the safety of the public. Wide publicity about the lovers’ lane bandit would make the task of catching him immeasurably harder. But since it might also save some lives, there was really no choice. Policemen are expected to risk their lives, if necessary, in the apprehension of criminals. They accept this as part of their duty. But they can’t risk the lives of private citizens, no matter how much it disturbs their plans to net a criminal.
It’s better to risk letting a criminal get away with the crimes he’s already committed than to catch him at the expense of more innocent lives.
CHAPTER V
5:02 p.m. We left Chief Brown’s office and began our tour of local jewelry stores. At each store we visited, we showed the inscription on the watch and also the jeweler’s symbol written on the card. The proprietor of the eleventh place we visited said he believed the symbol was one used by a jeweler named Maurice Gavin, who had a store in North Hollywood.
At 7:10 p.m. we arrived at Gavin’s Jewelry Store. Maurice Gavin turned out to be a thin, round-shouldered man in his late sixties. When we showed him the watch, he recognized the engraving as his work at once, but could not recall whom he had done it for.
“Nineteen forty-four’s a long time back,” he said dubiously. “Be a record of it in my books, of course. But if it was a cash sale, I wouldn’t have anything but the date and amount. Don’t ask my customers’ names unless they buy on time.”
“Would you check, please?” I asked.
“Take a while,” he said. “This’d be in the dead-storage file. Only keep stuff in the active file for seven years. Might take an hour to find it.”
I said, “How late are you open?”
“Nine p.m.”
“Then my partner and I will grab something to eat and be back about eight.”
“Fine,” Maurice Gavin said. “Ought to have the dope for you by then.”
We went back to the car, called in a Code 7, and found a nearby coffee shop. We sat at the counter to order.
As we waited for our food, Frank said, “Pretty lucky, huh?”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Only about two hours since we left the office. My feet were just beginning to hurt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“About eighty,” Frank said.
“Huh?”
“The temperature. About eighty.”
“Oh?” I said, glancing around. “I didn’t notice any thermometer.”
“Neither did I,” Frank told me. “My feet are my thermometer. Begin to hurt after two hours, it’s about eighty. Start hurting fifteen minutes earlier, it’s five degrees higher. Fifteen minutes later, it’s five degrees cooler.”
“Yeah?”
“Never fails,” he said. “Prove it to you.”
When the waitress brought our orders, Frank asked, “Know what the temperature is, miss? Outside, I mean.”
The girl walked down the counter to where a double thermometer hung on the wall over the cash register in a spot beyond our range of vision. Apparently it was one of those gadgets that show interior temperature on one side and exterior temperature on the other. “Eighty and a half,” she called back to Frank.
* * * *
8:03 p.m. We returned to Gavin’s Jewelry Store. Maurice Gavin had managed to locate his record on the watch.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “Happened to be a time-payment deal. Woman over on Burbank Boulevard bought it. A Miss Minerva Warden.”
Frank wrote the name and address in his notebook; we thanked the jeweler and left. As the address on Burbank was only a few blocks from the jewelry store, we drove over there. The place was an old home that had been converted into a rooming house for women. A plump, matronly looking woman of about sixty came to the door.
“Police officers, ma’am,” I said, showing her my ID. “This is my partner, Frank Smith. My name’s Friday.”
“Oh, goodness!” she said. “What’s he done now?”
“Ma’am?” I asked.
“Freddie. Is it something about my son Freddie?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “We’re looking for a Miss Minerva Warden. We were given this address.”
“Oh,” she said in a relieved tone. “I was afraid it was that hot rod again. If that boy doesn’t kill himself in that thing, he’ll drive me to my grave with worry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Are you the landlady here?”
She nodded. “Mrs. Lefferts is my name. Minerva Warden, did you say?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked thoughtful, casting her memory backward in time. “Warden. Min Warden. I remember her. But, good lands, she hasn’t lived here in years.”
“Remember how many years?” Frank asked.
Mrs. Lefferts thought some more. “Somewhere in the mid-forties. She was only here one summer. She was on vacation from back East.”
I said, “Remember from where back East?”
The landlady shook her head. “I suppose I knew at the time, but I can’t recall after all these years. What is it you want with her?”
“Just like to talk to her,” I said. “Would you have a forwarding address somewhere?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t keep records like a hotel, young man. Just a ledger showing rent payments.”
Frank said, “Would you still have the one from 1944?”
“I still got them from 1920.”
“Could we see the 1944 one?”
“Sure,” Mrs. Lefferts said. “Come on in.”
She led us into an old-fashioned sitting room and left us there while she went off to another portion of the house. A few minutes later she returned with a small ledger.
The book covered a ten-year period, from 1940 to 1950. Each tenant had a separate page, on which was listed rent payments. Unfortunately nothing but the tenant’s name appeared at the top of the page. The entries on the page devoted to Minerva Warden indicated that she had paid ten dollars per week for a room during the months of July and August, 1944.
“Don’t you keep any other records at all?” I asked. “A sign-in book, for instance, showing roomers’ former addresses?”
“No. I told you this wasn’t a hotel, young man.”
“Do you remember anything about her?” Frank asked. “What she did for a living, for example?”
Mrs. Lefferts frowned in an effort to recall. “Think she was a schoolteacher,” she said finally. “Though I’m not sure. Been dozens of other women have come and gone since then, and I may be thinking of someone else.”
I said, “Recall what she looked like?”
“Vaguely. Around thirty, as I remember. Make her in her forties now. Short and kind of mousy-looking. Light-brown hair, I think.”
“She have any boyfriends?”
She shook her head decisively. “Never that came here. Don’t recall her ever having a visitor of any sort, male or female.”
I said, “The name Gig mean anything to you?”
Mrs. Lefferts corrugated her brow, then shook her head again. “Don’t recall ever hearing it.”
We left a card with the landlady and requested her to phone the office if she remembered anything further about her former tenant. By then it was past eight thirty, and time for us to return to headquarters and get the rolling stakeout underway for the night.
The rest of the evening, until 1 a.m., we cruised the suspect’s area of operations in an undercover car. He didn’t strike that night.
* * * *
Wednesday morning, July 3rd, the newspapers gave full play to the story of the lovers’ lane bandit. A composite drawing of the suspect appeared on the front pages of all papers, and the public was warned that he was dangerous. Couples were advised not to park in secluded spots, and particularly to avoid the canyon roads in the Santa Monica Mountain district.
The result was as we had predicted. The bandit’s operations stopped completely. We continued the rolling stakeout for the rest of that week and all of the next without result. The newspaper publicity had the effect of making most couples stay away from the roads commonly used as lovers’ lanes. Even the few couples who had either missed the news announcements or decided to ignore the warnings, did not park long. We investigated every parked car we saw and advised the occupants to move on.
In response to our teletype to Sacramento, George Brereton at C.I.I. sent us a couple of dozen mug shots. We checked all of them out without result.
In the middle of July we abandoned the rolling stakeout.
Meantime Frank and I had exhausted every effort to locate Minerva Warden. Her former landlady could not remember what town, or even what state she had-been from. We managed to trace three other tenants who had been at the rooming house during the summer of 1944, but none could give us any information.
The case remained open.
CHAPTER VI
Wife-beating is another of the twenty-two things aside from murder that it is the responsibility of Homicide Division to investigate. Monday night, July 22nd, Frank and I were called out on a wife-beating case. The wife, who had phoned the police, had changed her mind by the time we arrived, and was belligerently on the side of her husband. When we started to question the husband, she attempted to hit Frank with a frying pan.
We finally got the couple settled down, and when it seemed evident that the woman didn’t want to press charges, no arrest was made. We got back to the office at 11:23 p.m.
As I logged us in, Frank said, “Seems Metro could handle wife-beating cases, doesn’t it? I get the shivers every time we start out on one.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“You know something?” he asked. “Over the years more wives have tried mayhem on me than suspects have. Get sore at their husbands and call in a complaint, then get sore at us when we answer it. Hard to figure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come they never swing at you, Joe? Always at me.”
I grinned at him. “You never noticed, huh?”
“What?”
“When we go out on a homicide, I usually do most of the questioning. When we get a wife-beating, I let you do it.”
The hot-shot speaker suddenly blared, “Attention all units. All units in the vicinity of Parkview and Seventh Street. Two-eleven and a shooting. Female victim believed dead. Units One-A-Fifty-one and One-A-Eighty-one handle the call. No description of suspect as yet. Attention all units—”
“Let’s roll,” I said to Frank.
It was approximately two miles from the Police Building to the edge of Douglas MacArthur Park, where the shooting had taken place. As we roared out of the parking-lot exit onto First Street, I pulled the transmission microphone from its bracket and called in, “Unit Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Seven-K-One-Oh to Control One.”
“Go ahead, Seven-K-One-Oh,” the reply came.
“We are answering call at Parkview and Seventh Street. Please advise additional information.”
The voice from the speaker said, “Now have description of suspect. Described as WMA, forty to fifty years, one hundred sixty to one eighty pounds, medium height, wearing a brown sport jacket, also wears glasses. Last seen driving blue 1955 Ford sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine on Seventh from Seventh Street and Parkview. Rolling want already broadcast to available units in area. Witness being held at scene of crime. No further information at this time. KMA-Three-Six-Seven.”
I said, “Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Roger.”
“Something familiar about that description,” Frank said.
I glanced at him. “Yeah. Fits half the male population of Los Angeles.”
Two black-and-white radio cars and an ambulance were already at the scene when we arrived. They were parked on the west side of Parkview, a short distance from Seventh. Three of the uniformed policemen from the radio cars were holding back the small crowd that had gathered. The fourth was talking to a bald-headed man of about fifty, who was in shirt sleeves, slacks, and bedroom slippers. An Oldsmobile convertible was parked in a driveway between two houses, and a blanket-covered figure lay next to it on the lawn.
I showed my ID to the officer talking to the bald-headed man and said, “Friday, Homicide.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “Want to look at the victim first?”
He led us over to the blanket-covered figure and pulled back the blanket. The victim was a thin blonde somewhere in her forties, a prematurely dried-up, spinsterish-loo
king woman. A small spot of blood showed on her right breast, and a similar one on her left, indicating that she had been shot twice. Apparently she had died instantly, for she had hardly bled at all.
“Name’s Viola Carr,” the policeman said. “She lived there. Alone.” He nodded toward the house to the left of the driveway, then turned toward the bald-headed man. “This gentleman here identified her.”
“Oh?” I said. I looked the man over. “Want to tell us your name, sir?”
“Gerald Wesson,” he said. “That’s my house there.” He pointed to the building to the right of the driveway. “I saw the whole thing, Officer. Terrible thing, murderers coming right up on your lawn and killing your neighbors. Ought to be stopped.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “You actually saw the shooting?”
“Well, not that part of it,” he amended. “Heard the shots and got to my front door just in time to see the killer grab poor Viola’s purse and run. I was sitting in the front room watching television when it happened, so it was just a step to the door. Just luck, really.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Usually go to bed at eleven. Wife’s out playing bridge tonight, so I was waiting up.” He frowned. “Woman ought to be home by now. Silly bunch of hens, playing cards till this hour.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You say the suspect ran? Our information was that he escaped by car.”
“Oh, sure. That came from me. I told the man on the phone at Police Headquarters. Even gave him the license number. I mean he ran to his car, which was parked at the curb. He jumped in and took off around the corner, up Seventh.”
The uniformed officer said, “A description of the car and of the suspect were broadcast, Sergeant. There’s wants on both.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “You get a good look at the suspect, Mr. Wesson?”
“Sure. Not while he was running, because his back was to me and it was dark. But when he pulled open his car door, the dome light automatically went on. Got a perfect side view of him. Middle-aged man with a smooth, round face and rimless glasses. Funny thing, too.”
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