Dragnet: The Case of the Courteous Killer. Richard Deming
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and she was being released. We could see her as soon as she finished being checked out.
Just off the intake desk was a little alcove, which had been furnished with chairs, sofas, and smoking stands to serve as a waiting room. Frank and I waited there.
Frank looked around approvingly at the brand-new furniture and shining, modern smoking stands. “Everything in this building is brand spanking new,” he said. “They didn’t move a bit of the old equipment over from Georgia Street. Pretty nice, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Most modern hospital equipment you can get throughout the building. They even got conductive floors and furniture in the operating rooms.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Drains off static electricity,” he explained. “Ordinary floors and furniture, the surgeon’s apt to build up a lot of static electricity in his body. Spark jumps from him to the patient, and bingo.”
“How you mean?” I asked.
“Ether. Inflammable. The guy’s lungs are full of a mixture of ether and oxygen. Spark hits it, the flame travels right down into his lungs. He goes off like a bomb.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Where’d you learn all this?”
“Couple of weeks back. June 6th. Day the hospital was dedicated. Fay and I came to the ceremony.”
I looked at him. “You taking in hospital openings for kicks now?”
“Well, Fay wanted to see it. She worries about Armand.” Armand is the cross Frank has to bear. He’s Frank’s brother-in-law, and as nearly as I can tell from what Frank says, he’s never held a job for more than a few days at a time. He floats from relative to relative, making his living by sponging. Currently it was Frank’s turn to support him.
I said, “What’s Armand got to do with it?”
“Well, when he’s out late, Fay always thinks he’s been run over or something. He never has been, but Fay says you never can tell. Now that this place is open, accident victims will be brought here instead of to Georgia Street. She wanted to see what kind of treatment he’d get.”
I didn’t say anything. Frank didn’t either for a moment. Then he said broodingly, “Probably never happen.”
The Hospital Division duty officer came along the hall accompanied by a slim, attractive brunette of about thirty-five who had a definite air of wealth about her. This was indicated not so much by her dress as by her soft, well-cared-for look, which suggested little work and much expensive beauty treatment. There wasn’t a line in her face or a sag in her body. She wasn’t satisfied just to be well-preserved, though. She was one of those women who fight chronological age as hard as they fight physical age. She wore a cotton print suitable for a teen-ager and had her hair done up in a pony tail.
Frank and I rose when they neared. The duty officer said, “These police officers want to talk to you, Mrs. Stenson.” Then he said to me, “Want to use the Hospital Division room, Sergeant?”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll make out here.”
The Hospital Division is a branch of the Detective Bureau, and has a man on duty at Central Receiving on all watches. It was the duty officer who had made the preliminary investigation and had called Lieutenant Newton. Now that we were there, we were in charge of the case, however.
When the duty officer had moved off, I said to Mrs. Wilma Stenson, “My name’s Friday, ma’am. This is my partner, Officer Smith.”
“How do you do?” she said, with a nervous nod.
“Want to sit down, Mrs. Stenson?” I suggested, indicating one of the sofas.
“Will this take long?” she asked. “I really ought to be getting home.”
“Depends,” I told her. “Sooner we get your story, sooner we’ll know how long you’ll be held up.”
She thought this over, obviously wondering what I meant by “held up.” Finally she decided to take my invitation, and seated herself on the sofa. Fumbling in her bag, she brought out a silver cigarette case, selected a gold-tipped cigarette and put it between her lips. I held a match to it for her.
“Thanks,” she said, after inhaling deeply and blowing thin streams of smoke from her nostrils. “What is it you gentlemen want to know?”
I said, “We understand this Mr. Harold Green you brought in was hit over the head by a gun. Like to know what it’s all about.”
She took two nervous puffs on her cigarette before saying, “There is a kind of delicate problem connected with this—ah—is it Lieutenant Friday?”
“Sergeant, ma’am.”
“Well, Sergeant, I’ll have to have your guarantee that I won’t be dragged into this as a witness before I can tell you anything.”
I said, “We can’t guarantee anything at all, Mrs. Stenson, until we hear your story.”
She shook her head determinedly. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse to co-operate. I can’t possibly have my name connected with this.”
I said patiently, “Afraid you’ll have to co-operate, ma’am. Our information is that a crime’s been committed, and that you’re a witness. We don’t put innocent people’s names in the paper if we can keep them out, but if you’re the only witness, you may have to appear in court.”
She raised her nose a trifle. “And if I refuse?”
“Afraid we’d have to take you over to the Police Building and hold you as a material witness until we can find out what happened from somebody else.”
She chewed at her lower lip indecisively, looking from me to Frank and back again.
Frank said, “Maybe there won’t have to be any publicity. Can’t tell till we know what happened. Want to tell us about it?”
She took another deep drag on her cigarette, punched it out in one of the smoking stands, and immediately took another from her case. I held a second match for her.
“Thanks,” she said. “The thing is, you see, I’m a married woman.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“My husband is Dr. Carter Stenson. The psychiatrist. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
I shook my head, and Frank said, “No, ma’am.”
In a hesitant voice she said, “Well, he’s in San Francisco at a psychiatric convention at the moment. And I—well, he doesn’t know about Harold.”
“The injured man?” I asked. “Harold Green?”
“Yes. It’s perfectly innocent, you understand. A purely platonic friendship. Carter is busy evenings so much—if it isn’t office hours, he’s addressing a banquet somewhere—sometimes I get bored. So now and then I spend an evening with Harold. I’m sure you understand, but I’m equally sure Carter wouldn’t.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Tonight was so beautiful, we decided just to take a drive. You know where Laurel Canyon Road is?”
“Yeah,” I said. Laurel Canyon is one of the several canyon roads crossing Mulholland Drive that serve as local lovers’ lanes.
“Well, we parked for a few minutes near Mulholland Drive. Just to smoke a cigarette, understand. I was behind the wheel, and I don’t like to smoke when I’m driving.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Suddenly this man appeared alongside the car and pointed a gun at us. He ordered us out of the car.”
“A stickup?” Frank asked.
“Yes. He was very polite about it. Almost ludicrously