Dragnet: The Case of the Courteous Killer. Richard Deming
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Wilma Stenson looked on puzzledly while this was going on.
When he had taken the last picture, she asked, “Why are photographs necessary?”
I didn’t tell her that policemen are naturally suspicious, that tentatively we accepted her story at face value, but that on the off-chance that the holdup man was pure fabrication on her part and she had actually fractured Harold Green’s skull herself, we wanted pictorial evidence of the scene. I just said, “Routine, ma’am.”
Marty Wynn said, “Guess there isn’t any evidence to disturb,” stepped off the concrete, and lifted the wallet by thrusting, a pencil inside it.
“Why is he doing that?” Mrs. Stenson asked.
“Fingerprints,” I said succinctly.
When we had collected the butts and dropped them into a plastic bag, we were finished.
We requested Wilma Stenson to meet us at the Police Building at 1 p.m. the following afternoon in order to look at mug shots. She said she would. We then drove her back to the Central Receiving Hospital, where her car was parked, and let her go home.
* * * *
The next day, Thursday, June 20th, I arrived at the Police Building at a quarter of one. Before going up to 314, I stopped on the second floor to see what R & I had come up with. I learned that on the basis of our description and MO, the Stat’s Office had pulled a hundred and forty-three possibles. By weeding out those known to be in jail, out of town, or impossible for other reasons, R & I had reduced this to twenty-two. I took the mug shots of these twenty-two up to Homicide with me.
Frank was on the phone when I walked into the squad room. I raised my hand in a general salute to the day-watch men present, then sat on the edge of the table and waited for Frank to finish his phone conversation.
When he hung up, Frank said, “Hi, Joe. Just talking to Latent Prints. They brought out a couple of sets of prints they think must belong to the owner of the wallet. Plus one partial print that doesn’t match any of the others. Think maybe it was left by the suspect, since it’s superimposed over one of the others.”
I grunted. This was as much as we could have hoped for, but it wasn’t very helpful. It would be helpful if we ever got a suspect whose prints we could compare with the partial, but it was useless for comparison with the thousands of sets of prints in the fingerprint file. It takes the prints of at least three fingers to make a search of records feasible. Theoretically it’s possible to match a single print against a similar one in the fingerprint file, but it would take the entire staff a year to do it.
I tossed Frank the R & I report. “Twenty-two possibles,” I said. “Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to have Mrs. Stenson identify one of the mugs.”
“Bet a Coke?” Frank asked.
I looked at him. “Against a case, maybe. I was just doing wishful thinking.”
Vance Brasher came in then, bringing Mrs. Wilma Stenson with him. She was chatting animatedly into his ear as they entered the room, and Vance was replying with polite monosyllables. Last night Mrs. Stenson had been too upset to pay much attention to Vance, but today she seemed to have become aware of his charm.
He wasn’t reciprocating very well. He was polite, but his expression indicated their relationship was going to stay strictly one of witness-police officer.
When Vance led her over to us, Wilma Stenson reluctantly tore her attention from him long enough to say, “Oh, hello, Sergeant Friday. And Officer Smith.”
Frank said, “Afternoon, ma’am,” and I said, “How are you, Mrs. Stenson?”
After this exchange of greetings, she was all set to return her attention to Vance, but I distracted her by saying, “Like you to look at some pictures, ma’am.”
“Of course, Sergeant,” she said, without much enthusiasm.
I showed her the mug shots of the twenty-two possibles R & I had come up with first. She stated positively that none was the man who had held up her and Harold Green. Then we brought out the mug books, and she spent a full hour going through them.
When she closed the last book, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Some of the faces bear a faint resemblance, but I’m sure the man who held us up isn’t here. I’m quite certain I’d recognize his picture.”
That was that. We thanked her for her time and told her we’d call her if there were any developments in the case.
“Any time at all,” she said enthusiastically. “Phone me any time you wish.” She was looking at Vance when she said it.
After she left, I phoned County Hospital and inquired about the condition of Harold Green. The doctor I talked to said he was resting nicely, and while it was still a little early to say, it was believed he was probably out of danger. He was not yet allowed visitors, but the doctor felt that if we dropped by about eight p.m., it would be all right to talk to him for a few minutes.
I told him we’d be there.
* * * *
8:11 p.m. Frank and I drove over to County Hospital and talked to the victim. He was a well-built young man with a handsome, narrow-jawed face and long sideburns, which showed beneath the bandage covering his head. The nurse said we could have five minutes with him.
After identifying ourselves as police officers, I said, “How do you feel, son?”
“Headache,” he said in a weak voice, gingerly touching the bandage.
“Won’t bother you long,” I said. “Just want verification of what happened last night.”
He looked up at me inquiringly. “Didn’t Wilma tell you?”
“Like to hear it from you,” I said.
“Oh? Well, it was just a stickup. We was parked out on Laurel Canyon Road, and this joker come along and poked a gun at us. Told us to get out of the car. He looked easy, so I tried to take him. That was a mistake.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“He wasn’t. Easy, I mean. Never saw a guy move so fast. Batted my brains out before I knew what happened.”
Frank said, “Get a good look at him?”
“Yeah. There was a pretty bright moon. Somewhere between forty and fifty. Not too tall—five seven to nine, maybe—but well built. Round, friendly face and rimless glasses. Looked the kind of guy would be afraid to talk back to his wife. Surprised the devil out of me when he batted me.”
I said, “How much money did he get from your wallet?”
He grinned a little mockingly. “Three singles. Some deal, huh? Take a busted head trying to defend three bucks.”
I asked, “Where do you work, son?”
“Me?” he asked, surprised. “Who works?”
“In school?”
He snorted. “Naw. Quit at sixteen.”
“Live with your parents, huh?”
He gave me a sardonic smile. “My parents are a couple of drunks. I got an apartment over in Crescent Heights.”
I looked at him for a minute. “Independent income?”
He grinned again, a weak grin, but a man-to-man one. “Might call it that. Wilma picks up the tab.”
The nurse stuck her head in the door and said our time was up.
CHAPTER III
Two nights later the lovers’ lane bandit struck again. He held up a couple in a parked car on Benedict Canyon Drive and robbed them of seventy-four dollars. There was no violence in this case, but the suspect’s description and MO were the same. The victims particularly stressed the bandit’s politeness and unassuming manner. The male