A Death in California

by Barthel, Joan;

  At the station, she was given a sheet of paper headed ARREST AND BOOKING FORM. “I thought I was going to talk to a detective,” Hope protested. They said the detectives weren’t there just now. “What about my family?” Hope asked. “Is anybody watching them?” The officers said her family was fine, and Hope signed the form. It listed her name and address and vital statistics, her occupation as “homemaker,” and the charge as “Suspicion PC 187.” That was the number, in the California Penal Code, for homicide.

  And that was the number on the license plate—CBX187—on a white, two-door, brand-new Chevrolet Impala that was rented at the Avis desk at the Los Angeles Airport at 10:30 P.M., the exact time that, at the ranch, the victim was being pronounced DOS—Dead on the Scene. The man who rented the car gave his name as William T. Ashlock and initialed the rental form W.T.A.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The discovery of Robert Pietrusiak’s beige Buick in a supermarket parking lot at the corner of Higgins and Cumberland in Park Ridge, Illinois, was good news only to Mr. Pietrusiak. It now bore a new Missouri license plate—YG9-902. The manager at Dominic’s Market said that by the time the car was found, just before two o’clock in the morning on February 22, it had been there at least a week, maybe ten days. It was empty, except for a Daily News dated January 31, and there were no latent fingerprints. “The vehicle was searched with negative results,” Bob Swalwell reported tersely.

  By that weekend—the weekend Hope Masters and Bill Ashlock had driven to the ranch—Swalwell and the many other men involved in the search for G. Daniel Walker had other information, other leads, other cars. Lots of other cars, especially three Mercury Montegos.

  Ronald Tonsel, the tall, slim Corrections officer whom Swalwell considered arrogant, had spotted a blue Mercury Montego, 1973 Illinois license BC 7806, following him one day when he was following Marcy Purmal. Tonsel thought the driver might have been Walker: white male, dark beard, wire-rimmed glasses. The license plate check led to Budget Rent-a-Car on Higgins Road, not far from Dominic’s Market, where the clerks traced the rental back to February 2, by a Robert Zierk of Wheaton, Illinois, who had used an American Express card.

  Mrs. Zierk sounded surprised when the police called. “The car is right here in our driveway,” she said. “We had an accident with our own car and we rented this one while ours is in the shop.” Swalwell asked her to please go outside, anyway, and check to make sure both license plates were on the car. When she came back she said yes, both plates were on the car, and she assured him the car had never been out of Wheaton. Anyway, the car was brown, not blue.

  Back at Budget, Swalwell asked about a blue—repeat, blue—Mercury Montego that might be missing. One was: a four-door, 1973, light blue, Illinois license BC 7803, missing for nearly a month. Swalwell notified Chicago P.D. Communications Center, which put out a 1028, advising all units on the South Side to be on the lookout for said vehicle, possibly being driven by G. Daniel Walker, fugitive. That very night, an armed man robbed the Standard station on South Lake Park Avenue and drove off in a light blue 1973 Mercury Montego, Illinois license beginning BC, the rest of the number missing. Swalwell hurried over, but that wasn’t Walker, either.

  Swalwell wasn’t deeply discouraged, but he had to admit he was keeping one eye on the calendar. The last time he had tracked this man, after Gus had been shot, it had taken eighteen days before Walker was run to earth, literally, in LaBagh Woods. He had been loose more than three weeks already, with no solid leads.

  No, Swalwell corrected himself, that wasn’t true. There were leads all over the place, infinite possibilities. Some of them led nowhere—staking out the volleyball court, or hanging around the Pizza Factory on North Clark Street for hours the night Marcy Purmal and a bunch of Legal Aid people had a party there after work. And some of them might have seemed pointless to anyone but Swalwell. He had always felt that the ex-convicts that Walker had hung around with in prison could be useful, and when he and Trooper Rowe had a few hours on their hands, they would often drive around to see one, just checking.

  Swalwell was right in thinking that Walker kept in touch with some of his ex-con friends. Walker himself said so. In one letter to Marcy, he furnished a list of eleven people who were helping him in hiding, a list headed by three men—Leo, Tony, and Sam—whom Swalwell knew very well indeed, though he never was able to prove anything against them. “Knowing and not being able to prove it is a hell of a lot more frustrating than not knowing,” Swalwell said ruefully.

  Walker’s letters did not surface immediately, as they were written; as Walker had pointed out, in Walker’s midnight letter to Marcy on the day he walked out of Illinois Research, his letters wouldn’t reach her “for awhile.” Walker managed, maddeningly, to stay at least a day or two, a step or two, ahead of Swalwell and the assorted searchers. Not that they weren’t very good cops, but Walker was a very good player at this game of cat-and-mouse. Walker, however, did not consider himself the quarry. In one of the first letters he wrote, dated February 6, six days after his escape, he called himself “Top Cat” and boasted gleefully that he had indeed been hiding in a building that the police had searched the day before:

  I was in a bind, thanks to approximately 16 Feds and 21 FBI and State Police who got me cornered in a building—but alas! This Old Fox is not an Under Cat because he has single moments of being Top Cat—I actually played with ’em. Yep! Played with ’em until it hurt. I knew an instant escape route, having cased the building over, and yet, when I realized and saw the spreading trap—I played with ’em. Just like old times, and twice the fun.

  Some of Walker’s letters were hand-delivered, such as the three notes in the black purse. Others arrived in the mail, sometimes with the name “Charlie Brown” in the upper left corner of the envelope, always with “Attorney/Client” typed on the envelope. In them, Walker freely mixed fact with fiction. “He’ll give you a little tidbit of truth and mix it in with the garbage, to confuse you,” Swalwell noted. Even the garbage, though, sounded good, such as the information Walker gave, in his February 6 letter, about his hideout with some “old and very dear friends of the family”:

  With open arms they met me, sending a car and two back-up cars in the event of trouble or a tail. Like always, you first must eat—out to a little old lady’s home in an old neighborhood. She did not know me nor did I know her. We were never introduced. Nine men came into her home, she served wine, lots of wine, and then set about preparing a dinner the likes of which you would not believe. Everything was homemade and beautiful. We sat around a huge kitchen table, were loud, and drank wine, and drank wine, and then coffee so strong it could serve as battery acid. Finally, The Man and I had our private little talk. He rejected much of what I told him was my plan, and I rejected much of what he wanted me to do. We settled on a compromise of sorts—he forced me to go-to-mattress. While I cannot tell you where, there are many spots around the city and out in the sticks where large homes and/or apartments are kept with stacks of mattresses, kept in the event that large groups of men must go into hiding (an old holdover from the gang war days). My mattress was and is on the floor. There is TV and food and booze. (Excuse me, a phone call: would I like to be part of a three-man team being sent to a city in the East to take off a jewelry salesman? My end would be four big ones. Nope. Oh, yes, I have had several offers—the feeling-out process to determine whether I am back with all my heart or just willy-nilly.)

  Anyway, after we finished at the old lady’s house and it was time to be taken for my ride into the night, in pranced three young girls, 17 to 20. Which would be my choice? I explained a few more days would be allotted for you to come to your sense before I would undertake another—better hurry and come to your sense, my darling, for one looked like she would be a great lay.

  As you can see, I am in great shape and being well provided for—you should have it so good. This morning two buttons drove by to see if I wanted any different types of food, needed pipe tobacco, and to bring a relief baby sit
ter—ah yes, even this side keeps me under constant guard. You see, someone must answer the door, phone, and be prepared to spirit me away in the event of trouble. I am being measured for I.D. shortly, and then a tailor will measure me for tropical suits, and then comes the barber. When the time is right—out of the city and into the blue I will go, and there is no doubt that I will make it now, unless a pigeon along the way spots who I am.

  One might suspect I am happy—I am not. This carries a price tag, one you never get to see until it is too late.

  From his own knowledge of Walker, and from his knowledge of the Chicago underworld, Swalwell discounted Walker’s Mafia jargon, “going-to-mattress” and “The Man,” as simply Walker’s braggadocio, his attempt to sound very big time. And he was also dubious about the “price tag” ending, Walker’s unhappiness, although with a guy like Walker, who could say? Fortunately, Swalwell was not assigned to deal with Walker’s soul. But he didn’t doubt for a minute that some of Walker’s friends, both ex-cons and civilians, were helping him and, Swalwell admitted, doing a pretty good job of it so far. Even when a letter was postmarked Chicago, Swalwell knew that didn’t necessarily mean Walker was still in town. Sometimes Walker specifically said he was not.

  It is seven-ish, I am back in Denver with a Dr. Pepper at hand and the bath is slowly filling with extra hot water. I need it, yes indeed, do I ever need it.

  Skiied Loveland Basin early this A.M. and then on over to Vail and the big monster Lion’s Head this afternoon. Busted my ass but good, too. Not only that but ruined a new pair of $59.95 ski pants. The only saving feature of having blood run down my left leg was there happened to be a cute little blond ski with me who insisted I come right off the slopes and into her suite at the lodge, where she bathed and dressed my leg, and then fixed us a drink. Ah yes, escape can be pure hell. Actually, she was quite safe, for the other two gentlemen skiing with us also joined the first aid session—Jimmy was 5 and Brad was 7, both her sons. Actually, I met them first and they introduced mommy. (Daddy was off earning enough bread to keep them in the $100-a-day suite.)

  Tell the boys at Illinois State Police to look for a fugitive with a limp for the next week or so, huh.…

  Since it is eight where you are, I suspect you are playing volleyball or choosing up sides for who gets who after the game—I hate you! Not really. I love you and miss you and want you (and not necessarily in that pecking order, I’ll have you know, Ma’am. Damn, it has been so long I am certain I must be a virgin, again).

  Got to turn the water off and make a scotch (still your bottle of stuff, I’ll have you know, sweetie-pants).

  The letter continued on a second page:

  Hi there, that didn’t take long, huh. Sonny and Cher are on the tube (like her and can’t stand him).

  Now then, I have a problem. Due to good eating and five meals a day, I suddenly find myself getting pudgy again. What do you suggest? Actually, a steady diet of fucking probably would help considerably. Know anyone I could sign up to join me who is not Laura Lawyer and afraid of losing her ticket, and is guaranteed not to be a virgin or a nice girl? (What did I ever see in you, I keep asking myself. Ohhhhh, I kinda have an idea, lover.)…

  Love and Stuff …

  That letter was dated Friday, February 16. The next evening, Swalwell was notified that Ronald Tonsel from Corrections and Willis Stephans, the Parole Board agent who had intercepted the black purse, were on a flight to Vail, Colorado, due to arrive at 8:00 P.M., where FBI agents working out of Denver would meet them. Marcy Purmal was on board, too.

  By Tuesday everybody was back. Swalwell met with FBI agent Baucom, who reported that his men couldn’t find Walker in Vail, then with Tonsel, who told Swalwell all about the trip. Again, Swalwell made a terse entry in his report: “The results of the trip were negative, and it was never established that Walker was ever in Vail, Colorado.”

  Swalwell was not surprised; Walker himself had said he was moving on. But it bothered the hell out of the detective that some of the men involved in the hunt didn’t share information as it trickled in; presumably they aimed to be the men who finally cornered Walker and got the glory. Swalwell had no particular aversion to glory, and it had certainly occurred to him that success on this case might get him out of uniform and into the three-piece blue suit permanently. He figured there would be glory to spare when this man, on whom the FBI had a fat file, was caught. Not if; when.

  One of the most intriguing things about Walker’s letters were the details he scattered about, apparently in an attempt to liven up the chase. Swalwell knew all about Walker’s low threshold of boredom, so he was prepared when Walker taunted the police; as in a February 15 letter in which he not only named the dining room at his hotel—The Oak Room—but went on to itemize his dinner:

  First, a series of martinis (four or five in number), oysters on the half shell (six), followed by turtle soup and sherry, a lovely salad with house dressing, bacon bits, grated cheese, etc., etc., hot shrimp, and then a 10 oz. steak beaten with pepper on both sides and cooked to medium rare with mushrooms, green peppers, onions, and topped with a brandy and served flaming, accompanied by the normal, and trailed by four Irish Coffees and a strong desire to take the blond away from the guy at the next table who did not appreciate what he had.

  While FBI men, directed by Baucom in Chicago, were combing Denver—it was amazing how many restaurants and hotel dining rooms had names like The Oak Room—Swalwell worked his territory. When he went back out to Park Ridge, where Bob Pietrusiak’s car had been found, he talked with Detective McDonald of the Park Ridge police about a third Mercury Montego.

  This one was white, 1973 Illinois license BC 7962, rented on February 8 at 1:30 in the afternoon by a man using an American Express card that later checked out as stolen. The man had given his local address as the Marriott, Room 102, his company name and address as “Zipco,” on Peachtree Street in Atlanta, Georgia. The car had been rented at the Budget rental place on Higgins Road that Swalwell knew so well by now, but when he and Trooper Rowe talked with the young clerk who had handled the rental, John Bianchi, and showed him Walker’s picture, Bianchi was uncertain whether that had been the man.

  Nevertheless, Swalwell and Rowe headed over to the suburb of Rosemont, because the American Express card belonged to a traveling salesman from Georgia who had been robbed in his room at the Regency Hyatt House, also on Higgins Road, but over the line, in Rosemont. Detective Wilezynski of the Rosemont police related that robbery to them.

  Larry Burbage, a salesman who had flown in from Atlanta, said he had been sitting on the edge of the bed in his room, 877, at 10:30 on the morning of February 7. The door to his room was closed but not locked, because his boss at Agronomics, Anthony Kupris, had gone downstairs and Burbage expected him back any minute. Kupris had the adjoining room. The inner door between the two rooms was unlocked, too.

  Burbage was about to make a phone call when suddenly a man was in the room with him, pointing a small blue steel revolver at him. “Up!” the man ordered.

  Burbage stood up and looked closely at the man, who seemed about five feet eleven and thirty to thirty-five years old, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, very neatly dressed in a dark blue suit with a yellow shirt and yellow tie.

  “In here,” the gunman said, motioning toward the door connecting the rooms. “Lay on the bed face down and give me your wallet,” he ordered, closing the door behind him. Burbage handed over his wallet, with eighty-five dollars in it. “Do you have any more money?” the gunman asked. Burbage said no. “Take everything out of your pants.” Burbage did that, too. “Take anything you want,” he told the gunman, “but leave me my keys.”

  “You’re not the one I want,” the man said abruptly. “I’m waiting for Kupris.”

  “He’s in the lounge.”

  “Well, looks like we’re in for a long wait,” the man said casually. But then he ordered Burbage to go into the bathroom and strip. “What kind of watch you got?” he asked, still casually. />
  “It’s an old one,” Burbage replied.

  “Forget it,” the man said.

  When Burbage was naked, he was told to put his hands behind his back. He felt them being tied with what he thought must be the cord from an electric razor. Then he was ordered to crawl under the sink and not to move. His feet were then tied with neckties, which were tied to drain pipes under the sink. Once again the man left, but when he came back, he had two pillows, which he placed under Burbage’s head. He left again.

  When, after a while, the man hadn’t returned, Burbage wriggled loose, wrapped himself in a towel, and ventured out into the room. He heard noise in his own room, 877, so he went out into the hall and found a maid, who called the desk, who called the police.

  Besides the cash, Larry Burbage had been robbed of his brown attaché case and a handful of credit cards, including a Mobil Oil card, a Bankamericard, a Master Charge card, and the American Express card that was used to rent the white Mercury Montego at Budget the next day.

  Detective Wilezynski explained to Swalwell how he and his partner, Detective Magrowski, had been tracking the Burbage credit cards ever since, for more than two weeks. Swalwell was amused at the name of the team—Wilezynski and Magrowski, a mouthful for sure. Wilezynski said that the next use of the American Express card seemed to have been Friday, February 9, at the Marriott Inn in Ann Arbor. The person using the card had rented Room 109, the room in which, sometime that night and the early morning, a jewelry salesman named Taylor Wright of Benton Harbor, Michigan, had been beaten and robbed.

  Swalwell asked Wilezynski for the addresses of Taylor Wright in Benton Harbor and Larry Burbage in Lilburn, Georgia. Then he called Agent Baucom, told him the story, and asked him to have his agents in those areas talk to the two salesmen and show them Walker’s picture.