Dragnet

by Richard Deming

  “We’d like to talk to you,” I said.

  “What about?”

  “Could we come in?”

  She thought this over a moment before saying, “Let me see that badge again.”

  I took out my wallet a second time and opened it. She examined the badge carefully. “You really are policemen?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “You could be robbers using a badge to get into houses. Sometimes they use fake badges, you know.”

  I looked at Frank, and he said seriously, “No, ma’am. We’re Los Angeles police officers. And Sergeant Slade here is a local officer.”

  Sergeant Slade silently exhibited his badge, too.

  “I haven’t anything you could steal, anyway,” she decided. “I’m a schoolteacher, and you know how they pay teachers. I’ll tell you in advance that the only money in the house is a dollar seventy-eight cents in a cookie jar in the kitchen cabinet. So if you are robbers, you needn’t ransack the place and mess everything up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Frank said. “We have no intention of ransacking the place. We just want to talk to you.”

  She stepped back to let us into a small, square living room, neatly but inexpensively furnished with mid-Victorian furniture. Through a center hallway off the living room, we could see the open door to a kitchen and bedroom. Two other closed doors, I guessed, led to a bath and to basement stairs. Unless he was in the bathroom, it didn’t seem likely the suspect was hiding in the apartment.

  Minerva Warden asked us to have seats, and Frank and I sat side by side on a hard mohair sofa, facing the center hall. She seated herself in an easy chair across the room. Sergeant Slade took a chair that also faced the hall.

  “Were you in Los Angeles in 1944, ma’am?” I asked.

  Her eyes widened. “My goodness! Don’t tell me you came for me after all these years for a little thing like that?”

  “What?” I said.

  “That jay-walking ticket. I told the policeman I was catching a train home that night, and couldn’t possibly appear.”

  I smiled. “No, ma’am, it isn’t that. We didn’t even know about it. You were in Los Angeles during the summer of 1944, then?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Are you the Minerva Warden who purchased this watch?” Taking the watch from my pocket, I rose, crossed the room, and held it so that she could see the inscription.

  She let out a gasp. “Where in the world did you find that?” She reached for the watch, but I drew it back. “You recognize it, ma’am?”

  “That’s Gig’s watch,” she said in an indignant tone. “What are you doing with it?” Then understanding showed in her face. “That’s why you’re up here all the way from Los Angeles, isn’t it? Because of all this nonsense about Gig Whiteman.”

  “Ma’am?” I said.

  “It’s all in the evening’s Post-Dispatch. About Gig’s being wanted for murder in California, and killing a policeman when he escaped this morning. I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.”

  I glanced over at Sergeant Slade, and he raised his eyebrows. He said, “You don’t believe the man who escaped is the one you know?”

  “Of course he is,” Minerva Warden said. “His picture’s in the paper. But there’s been some awful mistake. Gig wouldn’t do any of the things the paper says he has. He’s the kindest, most gentle man I ever knew. Courteous Killer, indeed!”

  I said, “There isn’t much doubt he’s done everything he’s accused of, Miss Warden.”

  “I don’t believe it! I have it all figured out what must have happened.”

  “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  “In the first place, his arrest must have been a mistake in identity. According to tonight’s paper, you had another man in jail out in California whom you at first thought was the Courteous Killer. But you let him go when they arrested Gig. Obviously you released the wrong man.”

  “We don’t think so, ma’am.”

  “Well, I do!”

  Frank said, “Even if he weren’t the Courteous Killer, he killed a police officer when he escaped this morning.”

  “That’s absurd, too,” she said. “Gig wouldn’t harm a fly. You know what I think happened?”

  “No, ma’am,” Frank said.

  “I think the real Courteous Killer—that man you had hold of out in California and let go—came up to St. Louis to make sure Gig got the blame for his crimes. I think he got his gang together and staged that escape without poor Gig knowing what was going to happen. He couldn’t let Gig go to trial, you see, because they’d prove he wasn’t the real criminal. So he kidnapped Gig.”

  I looked at Frank and Slade, and they looked back at me. There wasn’t much point in arguing with her faith. I changed tack by asking, “How long have you known this man you call Gig, Miss Warden?”

  “For more than twenty-five years. He used to deliver laundry to the girls’ dormitory when I was in school at Missouri U. That’s how he got the nickname Gig.”

  “How was that?” I asked.

  “When he brought clean laundry, instead of saying, ‘the price is a dollar and a half,’ or whatever it was, he used to say, ‘the gig is a dollar and a half.’ All the girls got to calling him Gig.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I suppose I’m the only person in the world who still calls him that. Because I’m the only one of the girls who stayed in contact with him after graduation. We were almost engaged once.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “After knowing a man more than a quarter of a century and almost being engaged to him, I think I’m in a position to judge his character. That’s why I’m sure he’s innocent of these charges.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “You gave him this watch in 1944?”

  She nodded, then unaccountably blushed a flaming red. I said, “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s the year we were almost engaged,” she said, not looking at me. “I took my vacation in Los Angeles that summer at Gig’s suggestion. He was working in a defense plant out there, and we’d been corresponding. We hadn’t seen each other since the beginning of the war, but—well, we’d sort of started a romance by mail. Funny, in a way.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “The way it started. Here I’d known Gig off and on for a dozen years before he went to California. In all that time we never developed into more than casual friends. He had lots of opportunity to make a move, if he wanted to. But he never showed any interest in me. As a woman, I mean. Just as a friend.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then he moved a couple of thousand miles away and began to write. Seemed to get more and more interested with every letter. First thing you know, they were regular love letters. He’d say how terribly he missed me, and how empty his life was without me around.” She paused, and a faraway look appeared in her eyes. “Got so we almost had to see each other. He couldn’t come back to Missouri because of his job, so I went out there.” She sighed. “I guess I was foolish to think it’d amount to anything.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I thought we might get married. But it turned out he only knew how to make love at long-distance. Froze right up the minute I appeared in person. He was polite and friendly enough, but we were just like we’d been before the letters started. Just friends. He couldn’t seem to say the things in words that he wrote in his letters.”

  I said, “I see.”

  “Funny thing, how it worked out. You may not believe this, but it’s the Gospel truth. You know, after knowing Gig for twenty-five years and once being almost engaged to him—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “—he never once ever tried to kiss me.”

  We continued to talk to Minerva Warden. She said that after her unsuccessful trip to Los Angeles, their correspondence had cooled. During subsequent years she had heard from him only at long intervals, and had seen him only twice, briefly, when he passed through St. Louis. It had been more than two years since she
had last seen or heard from him. She had not known he was in town until she’d read the newspaper account of his spectacular escape.

  She gave us considerable background material on the suspect, including a list of relatives and past associates. But when we finally left, she was still convinced that he was the innocent victim of some terrible mistake in identity.

  After we left, I asked Sergeant Slade, “What do you think?”

  “Sounded on the up and up to me,” he said. “I don’t think she’s the type would harbor a criminal, even if she thought he was innocent.”

  “Guess not,” I said.

  “We won’t take any chances, though,” Slade said. “We’ll stake out the place on the chance that Whiteman tries to get in touch with her.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The next day, Wednesday, October 16th, Frank and I flew back to Los Angeles. We caught TWA Flight 19, which left Lambert Field at 1:05 p.m. St. Louis time and landed at International Airport at 6:12 p.m. Los Angeles time.

  As this was a tourist flight, we hadn’t eaten on the plane. We caught some dinner at a coffee shop and reported in to Homicide Division at 7:30 p.m.

  The news of the suspect’s escape had preceded us. Captain Hertel had left word that if we checked in that night, we should take the rest of the night off and report for a meeting in Chief Brown’s office in the morning. We left the two pairs of shoes, the slugs fired from the suspect’s .38, and the watch at the Crime Lab before going home.

  At 8:32 a.m. Thursday morning, Frank and I met with Captain Hertel and Chief Brown in the latter’s office. When we had given a complete report of what had happened in St. Louis, Chief Brown thoughtfully tapped the frame of his glasses against his desktop.

  “Looks as though we’ll never get this man to trial in California now unless he’s captured in this state,” the chief said. “Too many other people will be fighting for extradition, too. Even the FBI will be in on it now, since the suspect kidnapped those police officers and took them across a state line. They’ll want him on violation of the Lindbergh Law.”

  Hertel said, “Why should Missouri care where he’s tried, so long as somebody gets him? Missouri can’t try him, because the murder took place in Illinois. You’d think it would just as soon let us have him as Illinois.”

  Thad Brown has the rare capacity of being able to see others’ points of view. He said, “Suppose Whiteman’s shooting had been a little more accurate the night he winged Friday? Would you want to see him tried for some other murder in another state?”

  The captain glanced at me and smiled ruefully. “Guess not. Suppose you can’t blame Missouri for wanting him to take the count for that particular kill. This guy’s sure managed to get a lot of people mad at him.”

  Thad Brown said, “In any event, I want all the evidence in order in case he does turn up in California. Stick with it until you’ve got every loose end tied up. If we ever do get hold of this suspect, I don’t want there to be a chance of his beating the case.”

  Captain Hertel said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Hertel, you’ll continue to act as liaison between this department, the police of other cities, and the FBI. The latter will probably jump in with both feet, now that the suspect’s violated the Lindbergh Law. Give them every co-operation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Captain Hertel said again.

  “Above all, if he does return to this area, I want him nailed, and nailed fast. I want to be informed personally at the first whisper that he’s back. No matter what time of day or night you get it. That clear?”

  Hertel said, “Yes, sir,” for a third time, and Frank and I echoed him.

  When we left the meeting, Captain Hertel paused in the hallway just outside the chief’s door, mopped his brow, and said, “Whew!”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  The captain looked at me. “You’ve been in sessions with the corner pocket enough times, Friday. Ever notice how he normally uses terms such as ‘Let’s do it this way,’ or ‘Maybe so-and-so ought to handle such-and-such’?”

  “Yeah,” I said, after thinking this over. “Guess he doesn’t usually throw his weight around much.”

  “He can throw it around, though,” Hertel assured me. “Brother, he really can. And when the chief says, ‘I want,’ instead of making it sound like a friendly suggestion, he’s getting ready to lay a fire under somebody. It wouldn’t be healthy to be sitting on the pile when he strikes the match.”

  I said, “Not much we can do except follow up on the evidence we brought back from St. Louis.”

  “Then follow it up. Get every item all set, so if we ever get a chance to use it, we can’t miss getting a conviction.”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Hertel moved on toward his office. Frank looked at me with a resigned expression on his face.

  “What’s eating you?” I asked.

  “Just waiting for orders.”

  “Huh?”

  “The corner pocket told the captain what he wanted, didn’t he? The captain told you. You outrank me. Aren’t you going to pass along the buck?”

  I grinned at him. “Let’s see what the Crime Lab came up with.”

  We found Ray Pinker in the Crime Lab examining a pair of bullets under a comparison microscope. We waited until he finally raised his head.

  “’Morning, Joe,” he said. “How are you, Frank?”

  We told him we were fine, and I asked if the slug he was checking was one of those we had brought back from St. Louis.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The other’s one of those that killed Viola Carr. Take a look.”

  I leaned over the twin eyepieces and adjusted the field until the two images came together. The grooves and lands in the slugs matched perfectly. Raising my head again, I said, “Not much doubt, huh?”

  “Pay-dirt all along the line,” Pinker told us. “One pair of those shoes you brought back matched the footprints left at the scene of the Grotto killing, too. With the watch traced back to him, we’ve got more than enough for a conviction. All we lack is the suspect.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Only the most important item.”

  The scientific police work in the case was now completed. Irrefutable evidence placed the suspect at the scene of at least three crimes, two of them murders. A fingerprint linked him to the robbery and slugging of Harold Green, the first of the Courteous Killer’s victims. One of the pairs of shoes found in his St. Louis room matched the footprints at the scene of the killing of Marine Sergeant Nick Grotto and the wounding of Nancy Meere. Our ballistics expert was prepared to prove in court that the gun in the suspect’s possession at the time of his St. Louis arrest was the same one that had wounded the latter. To cinch matters, we could prove by Minerva Warden’s testimony that the watch clutched in Sergeant Grotto’s hand had belonged to the suspect.

  In case the district attorney for some reason might prefer to try the suspect for the murder of Viola Carr, we had equally concrete evidence in that case. The thumbprint on the seat-adjustment knob of the stolen car used in that robbery-murder established George Whiteman as the culprit. And again ballistic comparison proved that the murder weapon was his.

  If we ever got hold of the suspect, conviction for at least one capital crime was a certainty. In multiple-crime cases of this sort, the usual procedure is to try the accused for only one crime at a time. If, despite the evidence, Whiteman was acquitted of one murder, he could immediately be tried for the second. If by some remote chance he also beat that rap, he could be extradited to Illinois to face the charge of murdering the St. Louis police officer. If his luck held even then, he would still have to face the Federal charge of violating the Lindbergh Law. As it was hardly likely that he could squeeze by even his first trial, there wasn’t a chance in the world that he could beat the charges all along the line. The only problem remaining was his apprehension.

  Frank and I drew up a resume of all the circumstantial evidence against the suspect and submitted it to Captain Hertel
. After studying it, the captain relayed it on to Chief Brown. It came back with the terse annotation “Satisfactory.”

  A nation-wide manhunt for George Whiteman got underway. Police of every city, town, and village were alerted to be on the lookout for the suspect. He earned the distinction of making the FBI’s exclusive list of “ten-most-wanted men.” Starting with the information furnished by Minerva Warden, Whiteman’s past history was traced back clear to his birthplace in Columbia, Missouri. All close associates he had ever had were contacted and questioned in an effort to locate him. The homes of his only two living relatives—a married sister in Detroit and an aunt in Whittier, California—were placed on twenty-four-hour stakeout.

  The investigation of the suspect’s past life disclosed that he did have one previous conviction: for third-degree assault in Buffalo, New York, in 1947. In lieu of a jail sentence, he had been committed to Gowanda State Mental Hospital for a sixty-day observation period. Hospital records indicated he had schizophrenic tendencies, but no deep-seated psychosis at that time. His release had been probationary, its terms requiring him to stay within the state unless he obtained hospital permission to leave it, and to report for an annual psychiatric examination. He had never reported back, and was still on New York’s wanted list.

  Gowanda State Hospital authorities expressed the opinion that during the intervening years since his commitment, the suspect’s schizophrenic tendencies quite possibly could have developed into a full-blown psychosis, and that he might now be a dangerous maniac. His crime record indicated that this was probably an accurate diagnosis.

  With all the forces of law and order across the nation arrayed against this one man, it would seem that the odds were overpoweringly against him. Yet he continued to evade capture. The usual scores of tips flowed in from every section of the country. All were checked out.

  The middle of November arrived. The suspect was still at large.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Tuesday, November 19th, I arrived home from my tour of duty at 1:07 a.m. It was a cool, clear night with a bright moon. As I walked from the curb toward the apartment building, I glanced up at the sky and wondered if the nice weather would hold until Thanksgiving.