Dragnet

by Richard Deming

  “He might,” the handwriting expert said. “He might also be as illiterate as he sounds. It’s too small a sample to make much of a guess.”

  That left us with little more than we had had before the anonymous note arrived. We did have three additional items of information. We knew the suspect was still in Los Angeles, or at least had been up to the time the letter was mailed the day before. We knew his wounds were sufficiently healed for him to walk to a mailbox.

  And we knew he wanted to kill me.

  This wasn’t the first threat I had ever received. I couldn’t count the number of convicted felons who had snarled threats of revenge as they were led away to prison after being convicted on the basis of my testimony. Every police officer is used to such threats, and dismisses them for what they are: the childish and momentary anger of caught criminals railing at their fate.

  But this wasn’t in the same category. This threat was from a dangerous and nameless killer who I knew wouldn’t hesitate an instant to carry out his threat, if he had the opportunity. He had already twice demonstrated that he would kill on the slightest provocation.

  Then another thought struck me. Harriet Shaffer’s name had been included in the news item, too, and the item had said that it was believed the first wound the bandit had received had been inflicted by Harriet’s gun.

  I went to the phone to call Valley Juvenile Division and find out if Harriet had received a similar threatening note.

  When I got her on the phone, I said, “Joe Friday, Harriet. How are things going?”

  “Fine, Joe,” she said. “What’s up? Another decoy assignment?”

  “Not tonight,” I told her. “Just checking up to see how you survived the ordeal of that night.”

  “Me?” she said. “You were the one hurt.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Anything interesting going up that way?”

  “Just, the usual. Runaways, vandalism, Two-eighty-eights.” Her voice sounded a little puzzled.

  Since she didn’t mention an anonymous note, I knew she hadn’t received one. There was no point in upsetting her by telling her about mine.

  “Well, see you around,” I said.

  “Sure, Joe,” she said. She sounded even more puzzled.

  I hung up.

  While I had been phoning, Frank had been preparing a supplemental local bulletin giving the information that the suspect was still believed to be in town, and asking all officers to be on the lookout for him. He showed it to me, and when I agreed with the wording, he got it out.

  “Let’s go talk to the skipper,” I said.

  We went in to see Lieutenant Newton. As it was now well past 6:00 p.m., Captain Hertel had gone home and the night-watch commander was in charge.

  After showing the lieutenant the anonymous note and explaining what we had done about it, I said, “Harriet Shaffer hasn’t received a similar one, but the suspect knows from the news item that she put a bullet in him, too. We think she ought to have some protection.”

  The lieutenant thoughtfully scratched an ear. “Think she’d accept it?”

  I said, “We are going to suggest not asking her. Just put her under protective surveillance until we net this guy.” Lieutenant Newton nodded. “Might be best. I’ll check with Chief Brown and see what he says. I think he’s still around.”

  “Might suggest stakeouts on me, too,” I said. “If this joker’s serious, it’s the best break we’ve had yet. We might catch him in the act of potting at me.”

  After thinking this over, the lieutenant said, “Yeah, I guess we better stake you out. This guy is top priority, and we haven’t a whisper on where he’s holed up. But if he means this threat, we know where he might show. Somewhere you are. Stick around while I talk to the chief.”

  He rose from his desk and walked off down the hall to the chief of detectives’ office. He was gone only about ten minutes.

  “All set up,” he said when he walked back into the office. “The chief’s on the phone arranging it now. We figure he won’t try to take you while you’re on duty, but he might at your place, or en route to work or home. So starting tonight, you’ll be under surveillance every minute you’re off duty. There’ll be three triplex-radio cars tailing you to and from work, alternating every few blocks so that the suspect won’t tab them as tails. They’ll also be on you whenever you leave home during off-duty hours. To make it easy for them, we want you to phone in ten minutes before you leave your place any time you plan to go anywhere off-duty, even if it’s only down to the corner for a paper. That’ll give Communications time to alert the stakeouts, and eliminate the chance of a slipup.”

  I nodded. It didn’t occur to any of us that there was anything strange about an armed police officer suggesting and getting this type of protection against a lone bandit. It was simply normal routine. It’s only in western stories that lawmen go up against killers man-to-man. In dealing with a dangerous criminal, you can’t play Marquis of Queensberry rules. You use every facility you have.

  Even with stakeouts following me around, it wasn’t an even contest. On the surface the odds were all on my side. I was backed by an army of 4,400 police officers, armed with the finest law-enforcement equipment in the world. My opponent was a lone man, hunted and in danger of being recognized every time he stepped outdoors.

  That was only on the surface, though. I was a known quantity to the suspect; he was an unknown one to me. If he didn’t already know where my Westlake-district apartment was, he could find out by the simple method of looking in a city directory. Without much difficulty he could learn my daily routine: the time I left for work, the route over which I drove my Ford to the Police Building, the time I usually arrived home after work. He had the advantage of being able to pick his time and place. A single shot from a recessed doorway when I stopped for a traffic light would end the contest.

  On the other hand, I had no idea where to look for him. I had seen him but once, fleetingly, at night. I knew practically nothing about him, except that he was a killer. Not even his name.

  It was a little like fighting a wraith.

  CHAPTER X

  During the next three weeks there was no activity on the part of the Courteous Killer, and no progress made toward his apprehension. The stakeouts on Harriet Shaffer and me continued without result.

  You can’t continue such an operation indefinitely. On Wednesday, September 4th, Frank and I attended a conference in Chief Brown’s office during which it was decided that the suspect must have left the city. The stakeouts were pulled that night.

  Three days later, Saturday, September 7th, was my day off.

  I arrived home from a movie at 9:30. I shucked off my coat, laid my gun and holster on an end table, loosened my tie, kicked off my shoes and put on lounging slippers. I was having a sandwich and a glass of milk in the Pullman kitchen when the doorbell sounded.

  I was surprised, because I don’t often have visitors at that hour. When the Detective Headquarters Unit calls me out on a case, it always contacts me by phone. As I headed for the door, it occurred to me that my phone might be out of order, and that Headquarters Unit might have sent a cruising squad car to deliver a message. As the only message I would be getting at this time of night would be to go out on an emergency case, I hoped that my guess was wrong.

  It was. But when I opened the door, I wished I could reverse the hope.

  He stood there in the hall with an amiable smile on his face, his eyes glinting cheerfully behind his rimless glasses. He wore a light-tan Panama hat, a brown sport coat, and light-tan slacks. A blue-steel .38 revolver pointed at my belt buckle.

  He didn’t say anything. He merely moved forward. I didn’t say anything, either. I moved backward.

  He pushed the door closed with his left hand, looked me up and down, and decided I didn’t need a shakedown. His gaze quickly flicked over the room, settled on the holstered gun lying on the end table. He circled around me sidewise, keeping me covered, until he reached the table. He lifted the gun w
ithout taking his eyes from me and dropped it in his pocket.

  I said, “You may think you’re holding the cards right now, mister, but your neck is out a mile. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Didn’t you get my note?” he asked in a soft, pleasant voice.

  “Yeah, I got it. That wasn’t any smarter than you’re playing now. We figured you might be along. This place is staked out like a military garrison. Give it up and put down that gun, and you’ll get out of here alive.”

  He smiled cheerfully. “The stakeouts were pulled two nights ago. I’ve been driving past right under their noses once every night for three weeks. The trouble with you badges is you haven’t got enough patience.”

  So much for that attempted bluff. “All right,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “I thought you got my note.”

  He wanted to play cat and mouse. His ego stuck out all over him. He wasn’t content just to pull the trigger. He had to draw it out by toying with me, by strutting a little to show how much smarter he was than the police. It figured. He had to be an egomaniac in order to go gunning for a cop in the first place.

  “Think you can get away with burning a police officer?” I asked.

  “You fellows haven’t had much luck with me so far,” he said, with a grin of enjoyment.

  “We will, mister,” I assured him. “Maybe not me personally. But you’ve had it. You don’t know it, but you reached the end of the line when you pulled your first kill.”

  His tone suddenly changed. In a flat voice as deadly as the hiss of a cobra, he said, “Pretty brave talk from a dead man.”

  I felt the hair rise along the back of my neck. But I didn’t let my expression change. “You’re really stupid enough to carry out your threat, are you? Want to know something?”

  His expression smoothed as swiftly as it had become menacing. “What?” he asked in his previously cheerful tone.

  “You could have blown town weeks ago. We’d almost given you up. We thought you had blown, until you mailed that letter. That started us all over again. Pull that trigger and they’ll never give up. They’ll track you down even if you make it to India.”

  In a mocking voice, he said, “Do I detect a note of pleading?”

  I forced a cold grin. “I wouldn’t ask you for the time of day, mister. I’m just telling you how stupid you are. You might have beat the rap if you’d run. Now you haven’t a prayer.”

  Momentarily his face turned menacing again. But it was just a flicker of an expression. His voice was as pleasant as usual when he spoke. “Get your shoes and coat on.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Get dressed to go out. You didn’t think I’d do it here, did you?”

  I just looked at him, and he said patiently, “You weren’t giving me any news when you said burning a badge makes you hot. I’m leaving these parts, and you’re chauffeuring me. In that nice new Ford you own. This is your day off. Nobody’s going to be looking for you till 4:30 tomorrow. By then I’ll be halfway to the East coast. And you’ll be where you might be found in a month or two.”

  His plan made sense in a twisted sort of way. I wasn’t due to log in again for nearly twenty hours. By then he could have disposed of me somewhere on the desert, and be a thousand miles away in my car. He could abandon the car and go on by train or bus long before it was even reported stolen. By the time it and my body were located, the trail would be cold. It was a much better plan than killing me in the apartment and attempting to flee in my car, because then he would have to risk the crime’s being discovered at any moment. He might run into roadblocks an hour after he started running. I said, “Suppose I tell you to shove it?”

  His eyes glinted behind his glasses. “Then I’ll have to risk it here. It’s your choice.”

  There wasn’t any doubt that he meant it. He preferred it his way, but he wouldn’t hesitate a minute to risk the sound of a shot in the apartment if he had to. I was becoming more and more sure that he was insane. He had to be in order to build such a terrific grudge against a police officer, merely for performing his duty, that he was willing to risk everything to satisfy it.

  It occurred to me that I might make it easier for the police if I made him kill me right there. But you cling to life as long as possible, even when the outcome is inevitable.

  I crossed the room to put on my shoes and shrugged into my coat.

  CHAPTER XI

  Ever since the Courteous Killer had walked into the apartment, I had been subconsciously memorizing his description. Not because I thought I’d ever have the chance to relay it to anyone. It was merely the automatic reaction of long training. None of his victims had seen him for more than a few moments, and always at night. The look Harriet and I had gotten of him wasn’t much better.

  But tonight I was able to study him for a considerable length of time under good lighting conditions. I could see now that the composite drawing of him that had been circulated was only slightly similar to his actual appearance. Now, taking my time, I could make an accurate estimate of his weight and height, and fix the shape of his body and the contours of his face in my mind. If I somehow managed to get out of the situation alive, I would be able to sit down with Garcia of S.I.D. and help him create a drawing that would be an almost photographic likeness.

  It seemed unlikely that I’d ever have the chance, but I went on memorizing him, anyway.

  I even got a look at his hair when we left the apartment. The composite we had circulated showed him wearing a hat, because that’s the way all witnesses had seen him. When he followed me from the apartment, he took off his hat and dropped it over his gun hand in order to conceal the gun in case we ran into anyone in the hall. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw that he had medium-brown hair, receding slightly at the temples and beginning to gray. I filed the information in my mind along with the rest of his description.

  Ray Pinker’s deduction that he favored his right leg proved correct. I hadn’t noticed any limp in the apartment, but he showed a slight but obvious stiffness in the leg when we went down the stairs.

  We didn’t encounter anyone, either, in the building or outdoors. We made my Ford without incident. He had me get in from the right-hand side, then slide over under the wheel, so that he could more easily keep me covered while we were getting in the car. Once settled, he put his hat back on and kept the gun leveled at me at belt height.

  Before starting the engine, I glanced up and down the street and asked, “What did you get here in?”

  “Stolen car,” he said.

  I thought my smile of satisfaction was suppressed, but something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he said indulgently, “It’s parked ten blocks from here. I walked the rest of the way. Did you think I’d park it right in front of your place, so some cop would drop in to say hello when it was found, and maybe get to wondering why you didn’t answer the door?”

  I started the engine.

  “Don’t get any heroic ideas,” he said. “Like driving without lights, or speeding so we’ll get stopped by some cop. If we do get stopped, you get a slug in the guts. That goes for trying to crack up the car, too. You’ll be dead before we crash, if you try it.”

  I believed him. Both ideas he mentioned had occurred to me, but I decided neither would work. I switched on my lights.

  He had me cross town to San Fernando Road, then follow it northwest out of town. San Fernando Road is both U.S. Highways 6 and 99. Where the two separate beyond San Fernando, he had me bear right on Route 6.

  The fastest route out of the state would have been straight east on 60 toward Arizona. I guessed he was taking the northern route because it passed through the Mojave Desert, and later through the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Either place would be excellent to dispose of a body.

  Neither of us spoke until we were past San Fernando. Then I said in a casual tone, “Must not have been hit very bad that night, Gig.”

  I felt him stiffen in the seat.
“What?”

  “I said you must not have been hit very bad.”

  “Couple of flesh wounds. I mean, what did you call me?”

  “Gig. It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer. After a moment I said, “What’s your full name?”

  “The Courteous Killer, according to the papers.”

  He wasn’t going to tumble, so I tried another tack. “How’d you manage to stay out of the way of four thousand cops looking for you?”

  “Disguise,” he said laconically.

  I glanced sidewise at him. “Yeah?”

  “Simple one,” he said. “In the first place, that drawing you published wasn’t much good. And it stressed the glasses They’re only reading glasses, you know. I see just as well without them. I deliberately wear them on jobs, because ordinarily nobody ever sees me on the street with them. Just taking them off was a perfect disguise. I’ve walked right past a hundred cops in the past three weeks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Rather clever idea, huh?”

  Instead of answering, I said, “You’re not as illiterate as that letter you wrote, are you?”

  I could almost feel his ego inflate. “That was a disguise, too. I’m pretty well educated.”

  “College?” I asked.

  I’d touched a sore spot. His tone was defensively short when he said, “Self-education sometimes beats a college degree. What you dig out yourself sticks better.”

  I said, “Ever take a fall anywhere?”

  He snorted. “Only suckers get caught in this racket.”

  That told me that somewhere, sometime, he’d at least been questioned on suspicion. Maybe he’d even served a term somewhere. He wouldn’t have been so familiar with the term “take a fall,” otherwise.

  “Where’d you take it?” I said.

  He frowned at me. “Who told you I had?”

  “You did,” I said. “Hurts your vanity, huh?”

  His voice underwent a sudden change, turning as frigid as a deep-freeze. “You’re talking more and more like a cop… and less and less like a chauffeur. Just shut up and drive, unless you want your part of the trip to end sooner than I planned.”