She thought some more, finally shook her head. “Afraid I can’t come any closer than the first or second week of August.”
There wasn’t any point in asking her about the seventh of September, the night of my kidnapping, as he had checked out of the rooming house on the fourth. We thanked her for her trouble and left.
* * * *
9:27 p.m. We drove over to Stoddard’s Texaco Station on Moorpark. The place stayed open till 11:00 p.m., and we found Earl Stoddard, the proprietor, still there. He was a plump, middle-aged man with an easygoing manner.
The filling-station proprietor could give us no information about George Whiteman’s evening activities on the dates we were interested in. However, he did have a record of the days the suspect had missed work because of illness. One of the periods was from Sunday, August 4th, through Friday, August 9th.
“I remembered I suspected at the time he’d been on a toot Saturday night, and all he really had was a hangover,” Stoddard told us. “Must’ve really been sick, though, to stay out six days. When he went on a bust, usually he only missed a day or two afterward.”
The record showed that he had missed several other periods from work because of claimed illness, but none of the others were for more than three days at a time.
As we drove back to the Police Building, Frank said, “Funny he laid off sick two days before he was shot.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Course, he might have gone on a drunk on Saturday the third, like Stoddard seemed to think, and missed a couple of days because of that. Then missed more time because of his wounds.”
“One way to find out,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Have a doctor look him over for a couple of eight-week-old wounds.”
CHAPTER XV
Back at the Police Building, we signed the suspect out and took him to the Central Receiving Hospital, where we had him examined by a doctor for evidence of gunshot wounds inflicted approximately eight weeks before.
It developed that the suspect had two recently formed scars that could have been from gunshot flesh wounds. One was on the fleshy inside part of his left thigh; the other was a light scar on his left forearm that could have been made by a bullet barely searing the flesh. Whiteman claimed that both were the result of a fall he had suffered about two months previously when he was cutting across a vacant lot in an intoxicated condition. He said he had fallen on some tin cans, cutting his leg and arm, and that he had not sought medical attention for the injuries.
I asked the doctor to check for any sign of an old injury to the suspect’s right leg.
After examining it, the doctor said, “Don’t see any. We could X-ray it if it’s important. Is it?”
I said, “Man we’re looking for favors his right leg. No noticeable limp except when he’s on stairs, but then it’s pretty definite. We figured he had some kind of leg injury.”
The doctor gave the leg another examination and then looked at the man’s foot. He said, “There’s the mark of a corn having recently been removed from the right big toe. A corn could cause a temporary limp.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, I guess that does it. Thanks, Doctor.”
We had the suspect dress and took him back to the Felony Section.
I wasn’t very satisfied with the physical examination. It left me feeling vaguely uneasy. After Whiteman was back in his cell, I stood in the corridor for a time carefully looking him over. The size and shape of his body were identical to that of the man who had kidnapped me. The contours of his face were the same. His voice was the same.
The feeling of uneasiness died. I was reassured that we had the right man.
* * * *
Regular showups are held in the first-floor auditorium of the Police Building on Monday and Thursday nights at 8:00 p.m. As we didn’t want to wait until Thursday to complete our case, we scheduled a special showup for Tuesday night. We arranged for all victims of the Courteous Killer who could make it to attend.
Meantime, the Crime Lab checked the shoes the suspect had been wearing at the time of his arrest, and also the shoes Frank and I had found in his closet, against the plaster casts of the footprints lifted at the scene of Marine Sergeant Nick Grotto’s murder. Before I checked in at Homicide at 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday, October 1st, I stopped by the Crime Lab to find out the results of these comparisons.
Ray Pinker shook his head. “They’re the same size shoes, Joe, but neither pair are the ones the suspect wore that night. Of course, it’s been four months. He might have worn the others out and have thrown them away.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Ray.”
When I walked into the Homicide squad room, Frank was already there. I said, “Pinker didn’t come up with a match on the shoes.”
Frank said gloomily, “McLaughlin didn’t turn anything, either. Just talked to Latent Prints. Suspect’s prints don’t match either the partial on Harold Green’s wallet, or the thumbprint on that seat-adjustment knob.”
I grunted.
“Doesn’t mean that he’s not our man, though,” Frank said. “McLaughlin says there’s no proof the suspect made either of those prints. Maybe Green handed his wallet to somebody to look at a picture. Maybe somebody came along while it was lying there, picked it up, then dropped it again when he found it didn’t have any money in it. And anybody could have left that print on the seat-adjustment knob. Some grease monkey, for instance, when the car was left at a station to be washed or greased.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you know something?”
“What?”
“I’d feel better if they matched.”
* * * *
8:07 p.m. The audience in the auditorium was seated, and the sergeant at the control board at the rear of the room began his introductory remarks over the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is a special showup. Before we begin, I’ll explain procedure. Suspects are brought from the Felony Jail Section under maximum security. They will appear in groups of six to eight behind the copper screen you see before you, which runs the width of the stage. When the lights of the house are dimmed and the stage lights left on, you will be able to see the suspects clearly, but they will be unable to see you. Each suspect has been assigned a number. As I call his number, he will step forward into the circle painted in the center of the stage. I will ask him certain standard questions over the microphone. These are designed not for information value, but to let you hear the sound of his voice. The acoustics of this room were planned so that a person standing in the circle can be heard all over the auditorium without the aid of a microphone, thereby letting you hear his natural voice. There are also lighting controls on the panel before me which allow the adjustment of backstage lights to simulate actual lighting conditions at the time of the crime. If you recognize a suspect, please raise your hand. Identified suspects will be brought back for a second showup when the regular showup is over. Thank you for coming.”
The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up bright, and a group of six suspects were led from the right side of the stage to line up against the height chart. George Whiteman was the first in line.
The sergeant at the control panel said, “Number one. Robbery and homicide. Step forward into the circle.”
Suddenly Whiteman moved forward to the center of the stage and stood peering at the screen in front of him with lowered head.
“Raise your head, please,” the sergeant said.
The man’s chin came up. His expression remained sullen. “Where were you born?” the sergeant asked.
Whiteman muttered something in a low voice.
“Speak louder, please.”
“Columbia, Missouri.” This time he could be heard as clearly as though he were only two feet away.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
“Where were you arrested?”
“At work. Filling station on Rossmore.”
“Were you armed
?”
After a pause the suspect said, “I didn’t understand that.”
“Were any weapons found on you?”
“No.”
“Were any weapons found at the location of your arrest or elsewhere?”
“No.” There was another pause, then, “Well, I had a pocket knife on me.”
The sergeant asked, “Do you own a car?”
“No.”
“Is a car available to you?”
“A tow truck at the station. Just for work.”
Nothing happened for a short period, then the stage lights dimmed to the blue-purple cast of a starlit night. After a moment they brightened slightly to simulate moonlight.
As the lights came up bright again, the sergeant said, “All right. Step back.”
Fourteen hands shot up in the audience. As exactly fourteen victims of the Courteous Killer were present, that meant all of them had identified him.
The sergeant droned, “Hold Number One to bring back later.”
Frank leaned over to me and whispered, “That ought to clinch it. Fourteen makes.”
* * * *
On the basis of the many identifications, the district attorney issued a complaint against George Whiteman on Wednesday, October 2nd. The following day the suspect was held to answer at a preliminary hearing in Division 34 of the Municipal Court. He was bound over for the charges filed against him and transferred to the County Jail in the custody of the sheriff. A date was set for his arraignment in the Superior Court.
This by no means ended Frank’s and my responsibility in the case. Our investigation had barely begun.
The purpose of a police investigation in a criminal case is to gather, evaluate, and preserve evidence, so that the prosecuting attorney can prove in court what happened. It is not just to gather evidence that will assure a conviction, however. It’s to establish the truth, which means that evidence of the innocence of the accused person is sought after as diligently as evidence of his guilt.
Every phase of activity on the part of George Whiteman during the period of the Courteous Killer’s operations was checked out. He claimed to have left Los Angeles on September 4th, which, if we could establish it as a fact, would eliminate him as having been my kidnaper. Contact was made with the man Whiteman said had promised him a job in Kansas City. It was verified that there had been such a promise, that the suspect had shown for the job, and that arrangements had fallen through. However, he had not reported until September 9th. The suspect claimed it had taken him five days to hitchhike from Los Angeles to Kansas City, and that he had slept in fields en route. He was unable to give us the license numbers of cars that had given him rides, or the identities of anyone he had had contact with en route.
He was given every opportunity to produce alibis for the dates and times of the Courteous Killer’s robberies. He was unable to come up with any for even one of the dates. Even for the periods when he was off work for claimed illness, his landlady testified that he frequently went out at night.
The circumstantial case against him seemed complete.
Nevertheless, it was entirely circumstantial, and he continued to insist he was innocent. I found myself making frequent trips to the County Jail while the investigation was going on. Ostensibly the reason for these visits was to attempt to get him to make a statement admitting his guilt. Actually I knew I had to keep looking him over to reassure myself we had the right man.
On Wednesday, October 9th, I met Frank at the Police Academy at 2:00 p.m. for our monthly qualification shoot. Every Los Angeles police officer must qualify on the pistol range once a month. If he scores high enough, he can have two, four, eight, or sixteen dollars a month added to his pay. A good natural shot can make four dollars with no practice other than the monthly qualification shoot. To make higher, shooting almost has to be your hobby. The $16 shooters probably spend more than sixteen dollars a month on practice ammunition.
While waiting our turns, I tore a piece of Kleenex in half and wadded part into each ear. Most officers stuff either cotton or Kleenex in their ears when they fire on the range. Rookies sometimes smile at this habit, considering it a sign of sissiness. After a couple of shoots, they’re doing it themselves, though. The concussion from gunfire is highly damaging to eardrums, particularly when men are firing both sides of you. Police officers can’t afford to develop hearing defects. Loosely wadded cotton or Kleenex breaks the effects of concussion without cutting your ability to hear in the slightest.
I noticed that Frank wasn’t stuffing his ears. “Want some Kleenex?” I asked.
“No, thanks,” he said. “Got a new idea I want to try out.”
The range sergeant, seated behind his desk across the room, called our numbers then. We stepped out on the porch to line up. I laid my gun and can of ammo on the brick railing edging the porch, and turned to see what Frank was doing. He was bending over the box where used brass was thrown, picking out a couple of empty shell casings. He straightened and fitted one into each ear.
“Ready-made earplugs,” he said. “Fit perfect.”
As we waited for the other officers who were going to fire to get in line, I said, “Frank, I’ve been thinking about this George Whiteman.”
“What?” he asked.
“I said I’ve been thinking about George Whiteman.”
Frank removed one of the shell casings from his ear. “Can’t hear through these like you can cotton. What did you say?”
“Never mind,” I told him. “We’re almost ready to shoot.” Shrugging, he reinserted the casing.
The order came, “Ready on the right.”
I picked up my gun and faced the targets in the open area directly in front of the porch railing. Frank glanced at me and picked up his, too.
“Ready on the left.”
I raised my gun, from the corner of my eye saw Frank’s head momentarily turn toward me, and then his gun came up, too.
“Commence firing.”
We finished the slow firing and began to reload.
“Work perfect,” Frank said.
“The earplugs?”
“What?” he asked.
I shook my head at him.
“Only trouble is I couldn’t hear the orders,” Frank said. “Had to watch what you were doing.”
When we had fired time, rapid fire, and silhouette, we went inside to return our ammo cans and wait for our scores. I wadded up the Kleenex and dropped it in my pocket. “What were you trying to tell me out there?” Frank asked.
I said, “I was talking about George Whiteman.”
“What?”
I looked at him. He still had the shell casings in his ears. I reached out with both hands, removed them, and dropped them in his palm.
“Oh,” Frank said. “Forgot to take them out.”
The range sergeant called us over to give us our scores then. Despite his inability to hear the orders, Frank had shot as well as usual.
As we walked toward our cars, I said, “This is the fourth time I’ve said it. I’ve been thinking about George Whiteman “
“Yeah?”-
“It’s all circumstantial evidence.”
“Sure,” Frank said. “But it all fits.”
“How about those horn-rimmed glasses? The Courteous Killer always wore rimless ones.”
Frank glanced at me. “He could have broken the others and had new ones made.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “How about him not having a limp?”
“The doctor explained that. It could have been that com he cut off. Whiteman has the scars of two wounds, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Or two cuts from tin cans. How about neither pair of his shoes matching the plaster casts?”
Frank glanced at me again. “He could have worn the original pair out and have thrown them away, like Pinker suggested. The size was right.”
“Sure,” I said. “He throw away his gun, too, and the one he lifted from me?”
We reached the place where our car
s were parked, and Frank stopped to stare at me curiously.
I said, “How about his fingerprints not matching?”
“McLaughlin explained how that could be.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Every point in his favor has got a logical explanation.”
“What’s eating you, old buddy?” Frank asked. “We’ve got this guy dead to rights. You positively identified him yourself. The case is closed.”
“That’s what’s eating me,” I said.
“Huh?”
“I think we’ve got the wrong man.”
CHAPTER XVI
2:45 p.m. I followed Frank’s car to the Police Building, and we went upstairs to talk to Captain Hertel. He looked up from a telegram he was reading and said, “Friday, Smith. You’re not due in for a couple of hours yet.”
“Got something on our minds, Skipper,” I said. “Want to talk it over.”
He pointed to chairs. “Sit down.”
We took seats and lit cigarettes. “This is going to jolt you,” I said. “I’ve been stewing about it for days. It just came to a head.”
“Yeah?”
“This George Whiteman. I don’t think he’s really the Courteous Killer. I think he’s just a guy unlucky enough to be his twin.”
The captain’s eyes widened, but he seemed more bemused than upset. “You got some reason for thinking this?”
“A lot of small reasons. Things that don’t quite fit. It’s more hunch than evidence.”
Captain Hertel nodded. He still didn’t seem either surprised or disturbed, and I wondered why. I found out when he tossed the telegram he had been reading over in front of me.
“You couldn’t have timed your hunch better,” he said. ‘Take a look at that.”
I picked it up, held it so that Frank could read it at the same time. It was from the chief of detectives of the St. Louis Police Department, and it read:
HAVE IN CUSTODY GEORGE WHITEMAN, WMA, AGE 46, BORN COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, BELIEVED ROBBERY-MURDER SUSPECT DESCRIBED YOU WANT NUMBER 314 DATED SEPTEMBER 10TH. HEIGHT FIVE NINE AND ONE HALF, WEIGHT ONE SEVENTY-TWO, HAIR GRAY-BROWN, EYES BROWN, COMPLEXION RUDDY. SLIGHT LIMP RIGHT LEG. WEARS RIMLESS GLASSES. MUGS AND PRINTS BEING AIR-MAILED. CHARGED ARMED ROBBERY HERE, BUT IF YOUR MAN, WELL HOLD FOR POSSIBLE EXTRADITION.
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