Three days later, the mayor chose William Wobber, president of the Planning Commission. Though Wobber claimed no allegiance to either Mailliard or McGovern, rumor was he would team up with McGovern to oust the chief. Publicly, Quinn hailed Wobber’s appointment, claiming a friendship dating back to when they were schoolboys at Lincoln Grammar School. Privately, he decided to go out hard. He entrusted his ally, Mailliard, to carry a threat to the mayor. “If I am ousted,” Quinn warned, “the move will bring forth revelations of political maneuverings behind the scenes that might seriously embarrass City Hall.”
The mayor ignored the threat.
On Wednesday, February 14, Quinn ordered Mailliard to meet with Wobber and McGovern that night and wage a bitter last-ditch fight on his behalf.
“It’s up to you to settle the points in dispute,” Mailliard told Wobber. “You’re in the driver’s seat. But I’m disappointed that a man not formally in office more than a few days should presume to become so familiar with the problems of the department and work out a program to solve them. Under your program, I can no longer serve. If a matter of this kind can be cooked up and wrapped in such a neat package my usefulness as a police commissioner is at an end because I have but one vote.”
Mailliard battled far into the night. By 1:00 A.M., it was obvious the chief could not be saved. Then for another hour, he battled for the career of Deputy Chief Skelly. Wobber was definite that Quinn and Skelly must go and equally firm that Dullea must go in as chief and Captain Mike Riordan as deputy chief. “My position has always been clear concerning Quinn,” McGovern told Mailliard. “Police morale is low. I believe that San Francisco needs a new Chief of Police and I also believe that Captain Dullea is the greatest peace officer in America.”
“When I broke the news to Quinn,” Mailliard said, “he took it like a soldier, although it was a great shock to him.”
He left the chief that night, unsure if he was even going to attend the next day’s Police Commission meeting. At 11:00 A.M. the following day, Quinn secluded himself in his office and refused all visitors except a few strangers stopping by City Hall. The only familiar faces were those in photos of the civilian appointees on his wall gazing sternly down upon him. Quinn couldn’t decide whether to fight on or quit. He picked up the Chronicle, reread the headlines (“WOBBER-McGOVERN COMBINE WILL OUST CHIEF QUINN TODAY!”), and threw the paper down. What was he going to do?
By 1:00 P.M. he had made up his mind. There was really no choice. Staying on at his civil service rank of sergeant was a humiliating option. Quinn would return to private life rather than face demotion. He had been with the SFPD since 1906 and served as chief since 1929. Quinn leafed through his desk calendar. Technically, he was not eligible for retirement until May, more than three months away when he could retire on a pension. Then he realized that using his accrued vacation time and accumulated overtime he could quit immediately on a leave of absence. Afterward, he could petition the retirement board for retirement on a chief’s salary—$216.66 a month for life, $7,200 a year. He smiled. That was $2,200 more than Dullea was making. Calling in his secretary, he dictated a one-page statement that slammed the door on a thirty-four-year police career.
Quinn dressed fastidiously in his full dress uniform, had his shoes shined to a high gloss, then snatched the page out of his secretary’s typewriter. He signed it with a flourish, and strode down the marble corridor to the commissioners’ chamber. It was now 2:30 P.M. The room was too small to accommodate the hundred interested spectators and a milling throng of officials gathered behind the rail. Filling the front row were the department captains in full dress. Dullea sat to one side against a window with his arms folded and feet crossed. Behind the commission table sat the three men who in a few minutes would take the star off Quinn’s breast—Chairman Mailliard, McGovern, and Wobber, the newly appointed commissioner. Quinn took a seat near the commission table about three feet from Dullea. “Has any commissioner any new business to bring up?” Mailliard asked.
“I propose that the Commission remove Quinn as chief and appoint Captain Dullea to the chief’s post,” McGovern said. “The Commission is prepared to give Dullea a free hand in selecting his subordinate aids.”
Wobber seconded McGovern’s motion. McGovern and Wobber backed the motion, and the long deadlock was finally broken. Mailliard did not vote, but resigned in protest. “I can not stomach the program of McGovern and Wobber,” he grumbled, “and I consider the ouster of Quinn a prearranged railroading.”
As he passed the window seats, he reached out to shake Dullea’s hand. Dullea unfolded his arms, beamed, and gripped Mailliard’s hand. Then Quinn swung about in his chair, reached over and shook Dullea’s hand, too. “I wish you success,” he told him. Their eyes met. Quinn’s face was gray and his tie was loose. “I wish to be given two weeks vacation and permission to take advantage of my accumulated overtime,” he told the board, then left the room. Outside, Quinn read his short statement to the press.
“It is not easy to sever my connections with the San Francisco Police Department and its members, who association I have so much enjoyed,” he said. “For 34 years I have been privileged to serve the City and County of San Francisco the last eleven years as Chief of Police.” The paper shook in his hand. His voice quavered. “I have endeavored at all times to administer the department affairs honestly and faithfully and leave with pride in my accomplishments and with the firm conviction that the San Francisco Police Department is not and will never be second to any other department in the United States. First of all I want to take a rest.” His eyes filled with tears.
Quinn disappeared into the office he had occupied for so many years and left the HOJ minutes later. He would be remembered for motorizing the SFPD, installing a Teletype system for interdepartmental communications, and replacing the motorcycles with radio-equipped autos that patrolled all districts all day every day. And he would be remembered for running a police department that countenanced some of the deepest graft and murderous extortion of any American city.
“The police department needs harmony and cooperation,” Mayor Rossi said, “and I’m sure Dullea’s selection will bring it about. I am sure the new chief will make good. We have no intention of humiliating the chief.”
“I will not take the job unless I am given a free hand in the selection of any subordinates,” Dullea reminded them as he took Quinn’s seat. “While the chief may appoint a deputy chief from any rank, he usually is not really free to make this appointment without political pressures from the mayor or Police Commission. A new chief saddled with inherited subordinates cannot run the department as he thinks it should be run.”
In the presence of the commission, all the department commanders, officers, and spectators, County Clerk Herman van der Zee swore Dullea in as chief.
Dullea returned to his tiny office. “I guess I’ll have to get myself measured for a new uniform,” he said, then looked into the mirror and laughed. “Maybe not.” Though Dullea had been on special plainclothes duty for fifteen years, his old uniform still fit. He seemed taller, more athletic than ever, just the man for the job. He already knew the changes he would make.
Under Quinn, supervision had been poor and there was no communication between units and bureaus, which resulted in duplication of effort. Dullea detested the officer who solicited bribes and the beat patrolman who caged free meals, then vanished for the rest of his shift. Some officers slept in the station or in their cars and dressed in shabby uniforms. Their district stations were just as slovenly—squad rooms scattered with files, orders, and citation books. In basements, old records books were floating in water from leaky boilers. Hundreds of incident and accident reports filed daily were being approved automatically by unit lieutenants and rarely returned for clarification. Sick lists were not sent to unit commanders, and inquiries were not routinely made as to the justification for absences. Chief Dullea had a big job ahead.
He rolled up his shirtsleeves and began to clean out his two
desks. A simple, unostentatious man, as secretary-treasurer of the Bay Peace Officers’ Association he kept all their money—dollars and half dollars, bills to be paid—in a cardboard collar box. Baskets of flowers arrived as he lingered over old photos—Officer Malcolm, Frank Egan, Sergeant Oliver Hassing—all his heartbreaking cases, all solved but Bette Coffin’s homicide. He took out a picture of Josie Hughes, held it at arm’s length, and thought of an opportunity lost through indecision. “I can’t look at it. Here, Jack, put this over in the bookcase,” Dullea told his ten-year-old son. He took one last look around and, books and records under his arms, marched to the big front room. He shut the door behind, swept the ornate desk clean, and laid out his plans for the new, clean SFPD. It was just 3:00 P.M.
Fifteen minutes later, Dullea launched the SFPD’s biggest upheaval in thirty years, one of the biggest police shakeups in any city’s history. “The new shifts will affect the various districts,” he said. They would extend from commissioned and noncommissioned personnel to the lowest beat cop on the thirteen-hundred-man force. Some officers would be assigned to captains in other districts. “These changes will be made for the purpose of achieving 100 percent efficiency, and increasing morale.” Selection of inspectors had always been based on “political contacts” rather than prior record. Dullea would remedy that. “Merit and capacity to perform will be the yardsticks used to carry out these changes. Assignments to important posts beats and details should be based solely upon merit and fitness and where weaknesses are discovered because of lack of necessary qualifications to perform police duty or the negligence of a particular member, that condition must be remedied immediately.”
All day heads continued to roll. Dullea demoted Deputy Chief Charles Skelly, moved Captain Michael Riordan up the corridor from the department secretary’s office to the deputy chief’s office; he ousted Lieutenant John Casey of the Traffic Bureau because “new blood” was needed. Casey had been the active head of the squad since the death of Captain Charles Goff. Captain Bernard McDonald of Harbor Station (formally of the Richmond Station, head of the Auto Detail and the man who brought in the Phantom) replaced Dullea as Captain of Inspectors. “Captain Dullea has built up a splendid investigating unit and I have no intention of disrupting it,” McDonald said.
Dullea also had technological changes in mind. Within a year, new police cars, Ford V-8s, would replace the old Buick touring cars. He scheduled thirty-six two-man radio patrol cars to run in three shifts, 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. (daytime), 4:00 P.M. to midnight (swing shift), and from midnight to 8:00 A.M. (midnight shift). He reduced the number of gold stars and calculated the benefits, costs, and disadvantages of eliminating or consolidating precincts. The amount of district stations, vastly greater than actually needed for adequate patrol coverage, was a drain on city finances and police resources. With fewer districts and fewer captains in control, the entire department could function as a more centralized unit at less cost to the taxpayers and with less chance for graft. The actual land area of San Francisco is 41.8 square miles. How many men would he need per square mile? A leading authority on police administration, Bruce Smith, recommended in his 1937 report that the fourteen districts be cut in half. Dullea decided that nine districts: Potrero, Southern, Park, Central, Mission, Northern, Richmond, Ingleside, and Taraval, would serve the city better.
The next day, February 16, he read that his old nemesis, Dr. Nathan S. Housman, the man Egan had told of his plot to murder Josie Hughes, was at the end of his six-week trial in Judge J. E. White’s court. The doctor was facing thirty counts of violations of the State Narcotics Act. Mrs. Alma E. Black, an elderly widow under his care for some time, had died of a drug overdose, yet his records showed no entry of any narcotic prescriptions for her. Dullea found it telling that Mrs. Black had left her $200,000 estate to Housman. Nate Coughlan represented the balding doctor. At one point, he lunged at prosecutor John McMahon shouting—“You’re a liar—a liar!” As they rolled along the counsel table trailing punches, Bailiff Frank Burns and Narcotics Inspector Walter Creighton separated them. Two days later, the nine-woman, three-man jury found Housman guilty of three dope counts. The verdict brought a wry smile to Dr. Housman’s lips that was so similar to Chief Quinn’s tight little smile, that it was impossible to tell them apart. As for Chief Quinn, he went in to radio.
FORTY-EIGHT
The throat was chafed. Together with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression of fingers [from huge hands]—throttled to death—whole body dreadfully bruised and discolored—cut with some sharp instrument—probably with a razor.
—SFPD FORENSICS REPORT
ON Tuesday, June 25, 1940, a northeast wind was sweeping the docks, shaking the Ferry Building and rocking the boats on the water. The huge clock tower above the Bay Hotel was just striking 9:00 A.M. as Chief Dullea leaned back in his chair at the HOJ and took a sip of coffee. He was grim, living as he was in the age of the human monster. Where there had been none before, sequential murderers were becoming a twentieth-century phenomenon. Dullea still did not understand them and wasn’t sure he wanted to.
All the red and blue flags were cracking in that wind the day Dullea finally got his big break in the Gorilla Man case. Later he would remember every moment—how the panes had rattled and the streets had been blown clean of papers and rubbish. The odd weather pattern had not gone unnoticed. Around that time, experts had observed that a sudden northeast wind after a prevailing period of hot, mild, or not too cold weather, frequently coincided with outbursts of sexual crime. Just as Mrs. Andrassy had felt a confluence all about her before a laughing apelike visitor had appeared at her door asking for her son, Dullea felt a storm building.
His mouth was dry as cotton. He licked his lips and took another sip. So many years. “Where had his quarry been all these years?” If it hadn’t been for a similar series of Gorilla Man dissections in Cleveland and LaTulipe’s obsession with the case, he would have forgotten the maniac by now. Had it really been five years since Anna Lemon left the ferry on such a blustery day, reached the darkened Bay Hotel and several hours later run back down three flights of stairs screaming? In spite of a decade of wind and rain, the stain left by Officer John Malcolm’s blood on Pier 26 had still not completely washed away. So many years of waiting. So much frustration. The dread that somewhere the worst was happening and he could not stop it haunted him. The new chief went about his morning’s work. His trusted aides, McGinn and Tatham, came and went, good friends, dogged hunters who never gave up. The clock tower struck noon, then one o’clock. The long-anticipated break in the New York and Bay Hotel murders came a half hour later.
A sharp rap and a patrolman burst in. “Chief, a hotel maid, Margaret Rice, found a woman jammed between the bed and wall,” he said, “nude . . . unspeakably mutilated with a razor.” Just like Bette Coffin. For a second Dullea couldn’t move. His eyes held that sleepy, contemplative look they always did before decisive moments when he roused himself into action. Instinctively, Dullea knew the progeny of Earle Nelson had returned. This time, they would not blame the wrong man as they had with Slipton Fell. This time, there would be no tragedy like Ramon Hughes dangling from a noose in his cell. Dullea, LaTulipe at his heels, ran down the front steps and into a cruiser idling at the curb. They swung wide at the intersection, the wire radio aerial whipping like a lash, headed for 108 Fourth Street at Mission—the Hotel Irwin.
The two detectives, hearts pounding, ascended to the seventh floor and down a dimly lit hall into a double room overlooking the street. The curtains were drawn. Dullea smelled the fragrance of gardenias in the room. A fresh corsage had been trampled underfoot. Two white, waxy petals, doubled like a little sailing ship, were floating in a thin, red lake. Longtime partners George Engler and Al Corrasa (who had arrested Albert Walter) had just cracked the murder of Hewlett Tarr, a cashier at the Curren Theatre. They tracked the shooter in a stolen Yellow Cab to the Koffee Kup Restaurant three miles outside town. Now they were gathered ar
ound an overturned mattress. The killer had hidden his victim as if ashamed of what he had done. Inspector Frank Ahern and Lieutenant Michael Mitchell (head of the Homicide Squad and one of the toughest cops in the city) heaved the mattress off. Mitchell’s eyes widened. He didn’t feel so tough now.
Between the bed and the wall was the strangled body of a young woman clad only in black stockings, her legs sprawled in a vee. An autopsy had been conducted on her with a razor-sharp knife. The strangler had cut away a portion of her torso, flung it beside her body, then burned it with cigarettes and matches. This time the Gorilla Man had taken his time in order to enjoy himself. “One look at the victim and we saw the remarkable similarities to the Bay Hotel murder,” Corrasa said. “We knew the Gorilla Man was back.”
Her face was entirely covered by a girdle pulled tightly across her mouth, nose, and neck. Dullea carefully peeled it back to reveal black and blue marks around her eyes and deep claw marks on her cheeks exactly like Bette Coffin’s. In life she had been a pretty girl. The cloth belt knotted around her throat had puckered her flesh as the killer slowly tightened it. Her dress, with a few of the belt loops torn away, hung over the back of a chair. Beneath the ligature were the outlines of a huge pair of hands. Like Clara Newman, the attractive young woman had been strangled twice.
Above her black stockings, on the woman’s right thigh, was a blue eagle.
“What do you think of that?” asked Dullea. “Isn’t that a U.S. Ensign?”
“Wait a minute,” Ahern said. “I think I know her. I’ve often seen her with sailors near the Ferry Building. But I don’t know her name.” He saw her cheap purse on the dresser, but when he opened it found no identification, only a key to another hotel room.
The Laughing Gorilla: A True Story of Police Corruption and Murder Page 34