Dragnet: The Case of the Courteous Killer. Richard Deming
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I said. “Stat’s and R & I couldn’t turn anything, either. Guess we’d better try C.I.I.”
We got off a teletype to George Brereton at C.I.I. up in Sacramento, giving all the information we had on the suspect. When this was off, Frank said, “What now?”
“Let’s get over to the hospital and talk to Nancy Meere,” I said. “Then we’ve got a little chore to do.”
“Yeah?”
I showed him the card bearing the jeweler’s symbol and told him what Ray Pinker had said.
“Legwork,” Frank groaned.
“What’s your beef?” I asked. “You could be worse off.”
“Huh?”
“You could have been a postman.”
* * * *
3:11 p.m. We drove over to County Hospital and talked to Nancy Meere. The girl’s wound was not serious, and the hospital authorities said she would be able to go home in a few days. She was unable to tell us any more about the suspect than she had at the scene of the crime.
By then it was nearly check-in time for the night watch. We stopped for a cup of coffee and then checked into Homicide at 4:30 p.m. I logged in while Frank read the message book. There was a note for us to meet Captain Hertel in Chief Brown’s office.
We left the squad room and went down the hall to Room 311. Chief of Detectives Thad Brown had Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher in his office, as well as Captain Hertel. The chief was seated behind his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair. He was talking to Hertel, who was seated at the end of the desk next to him. Wynn and Brasher were on our left, seated in chairs.
Thaddeus Franklin Brown has been a policeman for over thirty years. For nine of them he was head of Homicide. Now he’s Deputy Chief of Police, in charge of the 653 officers and 39 civilian personnel of the Detective Bureau. He’s solidly built, with a straight gaze, a broad forehead, and a strong jaw.
When we came in, he looked at us through dark-rimmed glasses and said, “Friday, Smith.” He nodded toward chairs. “Sit down.”
We sat, and Chief Brown said, “You at all close to this lovers’ lane bandit, Friday?”
“Not within a country mile,” I told him. “We’ve run everything we know about him through Stat’s Office and R & I, but they haven’t been able to make him. We’re waiting for a kickback from George Brereton at C.I.I. now. If that washes out, we’ve got one lead.” I told him about the watch.
“Not much to go on,” the chief said, with a shake of his head. “It may have been a stolen watch.”
“Not likely,” Marty Wynn said. “He’s been careful so far to take nothing but money.”
“Well, get on it, anyway,” Chief Brown said. “And continue with your rolling stakeout. Afraid if you don’t get him tonight, your stakeout’s not going to net anything, though.”
I said, “What do you mean, sir?”
“Garcia up in S.I.D. has been working with some of the robbery victims all day, drawing a composite. We’re giving it to the papers in the morning.”
“Oh?” I said.
‘That’s why I’ve called you all together. To let you know what you’re in for. We’re asking the papers to make the story page-one. Full description of the suspect, composite picture, MO—the works. Along with a warning to the public not to park in isolated spots.”
“That’ll tear it,” I said ruefully. “He’ll crawl in a hole and pull it in after him.”
“Yeah,” Chief Brown said. “But we can’t fool with the lives of innocent people. This man’s dangerous. Now that he’s killed once, he won’t hesitate to kill again.”
What he said was true. This was a type of problem that frequently confronts the police: the choice between effective strategy and the safety of the public. Wide publicity about the lovers’ lane bandit would make the task of catching him immeasurably harder. But since it might also save some lives, there was really no choice. Policemen are expected to risk their lives, if necessary, in the apprehension of criminals. They accept this as part of their duty. But they can’t risk the lives of private citizens, no matter how much it disturbs their plans to net a criminal.
It’s better to risk letting a criminal get away with the crimes he’s already committed than to catch him at the expense of more innocent lives.
CHAPTER V
5:02 p.m. We left Chief Brown’s office and began our tour of local jewelry stores. At each store we visited, we showed the inscription on the watch and also the jeweler’s symbol written on the card. The proprietor of the eleventh place we visited said he believed the symbol was one used by a jeweler named Maurice Gavin, who had a store in North Hollywood.
At 7:10 p.m. we arrived at Gavin’s Jewelry Store. Maurice Gavin turned out to be a thin, round-shouldered man in his late sixties. When we showed him the watch, he recognized the engraving as his work at once, but could not recall whom he had done it for.
“Nineteen forty-four’s a long time back,” he said dubiously. “Be a record of it in my books, of course. But if it was a cash sale, I wouldn’t have anything but the date and amount. Don’t ask my customers’ names unless they buy on time.”
“Would you check, please?” I asked.
“Take a while,” he said. “This’d be in the dead-storage file. Only keep stuff in the active file for seven years. Might take an hour to find it.”
I said, “How late are you open?”
“Nine p.m.”
“Then my partner and I will grab something to eat and be back about eight.”
“Fine,” Maurice Gavin said. “Ought to have the dope for you by then.”
We went back to the car, called in a Code 7, and found a nearby coffee shop. We sat at the counter to order.
As we waited for our food, Frank said, “Pretty lucky, huh?”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Only about two hours since we left the office. My feet were just beginning to hurt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“About eighty,” Frank said.
“Huh?”
“The temperature. About eighty.”
“Oh?” I said, glancing around. “I didn’t notice any thermometer.”
“Neither did I,” Frank told me. “My feet are my thermometer. Begin to hurt after two hours, it’s about eighty. Start hurting fifteen minutes earlier, it’s five degrees higher. Fifteen minutes later, it’s five degrees cooler.”
“Yeah?”
“Never fails,” he said. “Prove it to you.”
When the waitress brought our orders, Frank asked, “Know what the temperature is, miss? Outside, I mean.”
The girl walked down the counter to where a double thermometer hung on the wall over the cash register in a spot beyond our range of vision. Apparently it was one of those gadgets that show interior temperature on one side and exterior temperature on the other. “Eighty and a half,” she called back to Frank.
* * * *
8:03 p.m. We returned to Gavin’s Jewelry Store. Maurice Gavin had managed to locate his record on the watch.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “Happened to be a time-payment deal. Woman over on Burbank Boulevard bought it. A Miss Minerva Warden.”
Frank wrote the name and