Pierce Brooks, anticipating the defense at the trial, the only defense other than insanity, said, "Greg, do you think by any chance, for any reason, that you fired the gun accidentally at the officer when you came around the back of the car?"
And Greg looked at the patient paternal tired eyes of the detective and said, "I've handled the gun enough that I'm competent with it, and the chances of it going off accidentally are nonexistent."
Also anticipating the defense that Greg's Colt had a "hair trigger," Brooks tested the gun and found that, cocked, it had a trigger pull of more than five pounds. A police revolver's authorized trigger pull was only between two and a half and three and a half pounds, making a hair trigger defense impossible.
"You've told me you're pretty good with a gun and a good shot. Now I know where the officer was hit. Just for kicks, you tell me where you were aiming when you squeezed off that shot."
"I aimed for his heart."
"Okay, the heart."
"You can end it this way," said Greg. "The only other alternative was to give myself up or kill him. I think I thought of this previously and thought I would rather be dead myself than give up."
"Greg, you told us a story and Jimmy also told us an identical story of somewhere in the desert you stopped to fire off a few rounds."
"That's when we bought the gun. It was outside of Henderson, Nevada, about three miles, and it was about a mile on this side of a railroad pass, and we pulled off to the right of the highway, and we drove down to this sort of junkyard there out in the desert. We fired at an old car."
After Greg related the story of his string of robberies to a robbery detective, exaggerating his daring only when his ego demanded, often glancing toward Pierce Brooks for approval, Brooks had him relate in detail how he and Jimmy practiced shooting in the desert.
Though Greg could not imagine why the detective was interested in their target practice, he was proud of his memory and happy to draw Brooks a detailed map and diagram of the Henderson, Nevada, trash dump where he and Jimmy had practiced firing. At the trial, four months later, it would be used to destroy defense contentions that the shooting of Campbell was a spontaneous gesture by men who had never intended, nor were they prepared, to hurt another human being in any of their holdups.
Greg demonstrated for Brooks his understanding of the police combat stance which he had learned in the prison yard and which he tried to teach Jimmy Smith. Afterward, Pierce Brooks drove to Henderson, Nevada, and returned, more than satisfied, to write the following:
As a matter of interest, and to demonstrate Powell's memory, the following comparison is listed, indicating actual measured miles, etc., versus information related by Powell during the interview.
.
Powell
Actual
Dump location
3 miles
3.4 miles
from Henderson
Markers, in order
Speed sign
Speed sign
from Henderson
Rest Area
Quarry road
Quarry Road
Rest Area
Road to dump
Road to dump
Railroad pass
Railroad pass
Dump distance
1 mile
1.4 miles
from RR pass
Name of quarry
White Rock
White Rock
Distance, highway
400-500 yards
330 yards
back to dump
Fired .38 Colt
3 or 4 times
Recovered
4 casings
Fired .32 auto.
4 to 5 clips
Recovered
(32 to 40)
33 casings
.
It is to be noted that all empty casings, except one, were recovered about 8 feet away from the old car used as a target. It is estimated that Officer Campbell was approximately 8 feet away from Gregory Powell when he fired the first fatal shot.
Respectfully,
P. R. Brooks, #5702
Homicide Division
The defense had all but lost the spontaneity theory as well as the contention that much of Powell's confessions were made by a man with a poor memory.
Then, after Greg had in detail discussed the murder and his string of robberies and the practicing in the desert, it was safe to broach the statement and try to secure a remorseless admission to having made it:
"Greg, there's one point that I think you've hedged on a little.
When the four of you were standing there, the statement you made about the Little Lindbergh Law just before you fired . . ."
"That's wrong, I said absolutely nothing, Mr. Brooks. I heard the statement being made. I don't know who made the statement, whether it was Jimmy or them, but when I walked around the back of that car my mind was blank as I've told you."
"All right," said Pierce Brooks. "Now, I want to ask you once again, would you object for any reason at all if I come and see you once in a while at the county jail?"
"No, I sure wouldn't."
"I mean, does it. . . does it bother you? Or do you want to sign it off here?"
And Gregory Powell's recorded answer was:
"No. I'd like to see you from time to time, Mr. Brooks. You've been very fair and if I would ... if the circumstances were reversed, I don't think I could treat anyone more fairly than you've treated me, and I do feel a certain . . ."
"Well, it's part of my job, Greg."
"... friendship, you know?"
"Greg ..."
"Well, above . . . above the job. I know you're doing what you do as far as the job goes, but above that . . ."
"Greg, I'm trying to . . ."
"I feel you've shown me more than just a normal policeman doing his job. You've shown me consideration above that, and I appreciate it."
"Well, I . . . I've told you the things I could and would do for you . . . ."
"And you've always got it done. Things you didn't have to do at all, not policeman things."
And now Brooks, knowing the tape would be played for the court, was embarrassed by Greg's declaration of affection and feared it might taint the confession.
"They weren't things that... in other words, I've never said to you that if you don't tell me the truth, I won't do these things for you?" said Brooks.
"Oh no, no."
"And actually it's part of my job."
"No, you've been rather good to me, Mr. Brooks."
Gregory Powell, at a later time, crestfallen that he endangered his life by telling so much to Pierce Brooks, sought to explain and understand his feeling toward the detective:
"He was remote as a mountaintop, but yet forgiving and understanding as the dearest person in the world might be if he lived up to everything you hoped. He was stern and disapproving, yet not angry, just rather sad that you were so weak."
But if the detective had earned something approaching filial devotion from one killer of Ian Campbell, he was meeting stubborn, frustrating resistance from the other.
"Jimmy, your original statement was that you had not fired a shot. That Greg had done all the shooting."
"Yes sir."
"In fact, you said nothing about the officer even being shot after he'd fallen on the ground."
"No sir."
"Now, listen carefully. On one occasion while you were relating this story to the Bakersfield police, you said you left the car with the .38, not the automatic. Then you corrected yourself."
"Well I can't remember sayin that. I swear I don't."
"You said a .38 revolver."
"I don't remember sayin it. I swear I don't."
"And you said the first time you felt Greg was going to kill them was driving down the little dirt road."
"But I didn't know it for sure. Greg said in my ear on the trip it's either them or us, you know? And about the Lindbergh Law and everything, and I kind of flinched,
you know? And I tried to change the topic right away."
"What do you remember Greg saying just before he shot Campbell?"
"He said ... he was sayin somethin about the Lindbergh . . . but I ... if I finished the conversation I'd be lyin on him. I don't know what all he said."
"Jimmy . . ."
"I know I'll never forget that officer's light-colored jacket fallin . . ."
Jimmy . . .
'Tallin, you know?"
"Jimmy . . ."
"I heard a pow, you know, and then I see this officer look like he'd been lifted up." "All right . . ."
"If I could a just thought of the handcuffs I coulda saved it all, but I couldn't think . . . didn't think of the handcuffs."
"All right. That's it for tonight, Jimmy."
"Yes sir. I wonder if you recorded all this? Is it all recorded, Sergeant?"
"Yes," said Brooks. "It's recorded."
Pierce Brooks was not surprised when neither man at any time showed the slightest hint of remorse or concern for the dead policeman. The detective understood sociopathy, knew that the thing ordinary people call by numerous names, such as conscience, is as absent in the sociopath as the central nervous system in a shark. And since he didn't expect remorse and understood that for them it does not exist, he never became incensed or horrified no matter how foul were the deeds confessed to him over the years. Therefore the detective knew no outrage. Like most policemen, Brooks could easier forgive a cop killer than one who frustrated every interrogation technique he used on him, who spent hours upon hours talking to him, and told him nothing. Who stubbornly resisted any attempts to cajole, ensnare, outwit. And who, Brooks knew by now, would reveal a bit at a time, only when he felt he must, after he first was fed police information and discovered how much the detective knew for sure. Who simply would not buy what a homicide detective is selling: a trip to the gas chamber. This was not in the detective to forgive.
More than Gregory Powell, Jimmy Smith was what a man like Brooks despised: an admitted liar and coward. Brooks reasoned that after Smith snapped one quick shot at Hettinger with the automatic he hated, he pulled the other gun, Campbell's own revolver, turned, saw the policeman writhing on the ground, saw the Man helpless at his feet, and in panic and horror and even rage for that which he felt had victimized him his entire life, he stepped forward and jerked the trigger four times. Smith's story that he left Campbell's gun on the seat when he got out, and that both Powell and Hettinger did not see it there in plain sight when they slid out just didn't make sense.
But most of all it was that Jimmy, during their first conversation failed to mention the four chest shots at all. Though he remembered what happened before and after, it was as though the chest shots never happened. As though he blocked them out of his mind.
Pierce Brooks's contempt for Jimmy Smith was clear in a report he later wrote for his department superiors:
It is hardly necessary to state that both men were homicidal, however, they are definitely of two different types. Powell, a boastful egomaniac, was a cool, treacherous, scheming, cold blooded killer. Smith, con-wise and cunning, was more impetuous and cowardly. Thus, if possible, Smith could be considered a more dangerous killer than Gregory Powell. There was no question of their sanity, and no pleas of insanity were entered.
During his first night in county jail Jimmy Lee Smith had a fearful dream. In the dream the arm of Ian Campbell, the jacketed arm and hand, jerked toward Jimmy four times, once for each bullet that was fired into his chest. Jimmy told the detectives of the jerking of the jacket sleeve. And though he could almost draw a mental picture of Gregory Powell standing over Ian Campbell firing those shots, each time the image would slip and fade. He could not clearly see Powell, much as he wanted to, only the sleeve and the hand jerking.
For an instant Pierce Brooks was forced to consider the possibility that neither man was willfully lying about those four chest shots. And if that was the case, then of course he could never get Jimmy Smith to confess. Brooks would have to do it all with physical evidence.
But Brooks angrily rejected that interpretation. Like most policemen he'd seen too many criminals escape justice with con jobs done on well-meaning psychiatrists. Jimmy Smith was consciously, deliberately lying. No other interpretation was possible to the detective.
After a few dreams in the county jail, Jimmy Smith never dreamed of the murder again. "Why should I?" he said. "My conscience is clean, if this thing you call a conscience is for real, and not just somethin rich white people say is for real just to make guys like me feel like they oughtta punish themselves. If the truth be known, I don't think it really even exists. Not for anybody."
At a much later time, when Greg and Jimmy were together again planning strategy to beat the gas chamber in any way possible- scheming, promising, hating, fighting-each would become firmly convinced of one fact. Each man would say almost identical words about the other: "One thing s sure, there's no sense fighting him anymore. The sick bastard really believes he didn't fire those four shots."
Chapter 9
A police officer and neighbor of Ian Campbell was one of the pallbearers. He later said, "It was probably hard for the department to choose pallbearers for this thing because really, Ian didn't have any close policeman friends.
All his friends were civilians. I guess I was the nearest thing to a friend because I was a neighbor and had worked with him.
"A weird thing happened at the funeral home just before we buried Ian. I was standing there in the mortuary with the other pallbearers, all uniformed policemen picked by the department, and remembering things about Ian, like how the only time he had cigarettes was when we got some freebies at a cigarette stop. And how he was so quiet to work with, and a big guy but gentle for a policeman. And how he tried to teach me to play the bagpipe chanter, but how it scared hell out of my little kids.
"I didn't know this guy Karl Hettinger very well, but I was looking at him, thinking that they shouldn't have ordered him to be a pallbearer because he looked kind of worn out. Anyway, he must've heard Ian and I were neighbors or something, because he walked up to me in the funeral home and began talking to me in a pleading kind of voice. 'I'm sorry. I'm awful sorry about Ian,' he said. Looking me in the eye, teary, and then dropping his eyes and apologizing to me. Really, I wasn't that close to Ian. And he sure didn't owe me any apologies.
"Then he started blurting things out. 'Maybe I should've done something more. Maybe I should've grabbed the wheel and wrecked the car! I'm so sorry.'
"Now I was getting nervous with this spooky guy. I sure didn't want to hear all this. I just told him it was okay and don't worry about it. I was surprised when I heard he was back on duty. He didn't look like he was in any condition."
It was Grog Tollefson, the psychology student, who had remembered Ian's casual remark about his bagpipe teacher's funeral. Grog suggested that the police department obtain a solo piper to play "Fleurs of the Forest." That was before he knew what the department was planning.
At the gravesite, Grog experienced emotions other than ordinary grief and fear for one's own mortality. It was disgust and anger at the meaningless panoply and pomp: One thousand people. Fifty motorcycles. Hundreds of uniforms. Flags. A firing squad. Police department brass hats who did not know Ian Campbell and cared no more for his death than did the rest of these ghouls. Grog was tall enough to view all of it, and his chalky ascetic face was damp and cold.
It's a goddamned three-ring circus, he thought, staged by professional police mourners who grieved professionally like hags at an Irish wake. And there was the cemetery with its imitations of objets d'art, and uniformed hostesses on duty, and a twenty-one dollar stone placement charge. And the vampires from the press with their shutters clicking every few seconds at Adah, and at the firing squad, and at the uniformed pallbearers. And the uniformed police chaplain, himself a cop, with his platitudes which could be mouthed at the funeral of every cop from here to hell and gone. Grog observed that the pol
ice department spends a good bit of money and takes damn good care of its dead. He wondered how they do with their living.
Art Petoyan had an observation about a living policeman: "The thing I most remember was Chrissie and that Officer Hettinger. She holding his hand in hers. I was close enough to see. She seemed to be reassuring him. I thought it was strange."
Karl could not remember what he said to Chrissie that day. Chrissie was never to forget. It was the one thing which was to remain with her among the thousands of fleeting impressions of that mob scene. It wasn't the words so much as the disoriented expression on the face of Karl Hettinger: pain drawn, eyes pleading, confused. He offered his hand and said four words: "I loved your boy."
Grog was sweating now, seething at all these strangers who never knew that dreamer, that professional Scotsman with his inexplicable attachment to those damned pipes. What the hell was he? Who was Ian, now lying there in that police uniform? Is that who Ian Campbell really was, a cop? And what the hell were those bagpipes really? What the hell were they that they were so much a part of his life?
And in college, his endless, unanswerable questions: "Well, do you think Kant was wrong then when he said . . ." And listening, always listening, damn, it was enough to get on your nerves. Why wasn't he opinionated like I am? Why did I always feel he was in control and I was out of control? Why did I like him so much? Him and his bloody music, his Bach, his Stravinsky. Did he really love his music? Was it just her who made him think he loved his music? And her: Why is she so correct, so courteous, so cordial that she scares me? Why is she sitting there now so sphinx like? She's not some fanatical religionist. She's not tranquilized. So how is she doing it? Look at Adah, demolished, one step from hysteria, and Adah sedated by that Armenian doctor. It was easy at this moment to rage at all of them.
the Onion Field (1973) Page 24