The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter XIII

Once again the elusive Courteous Killer managed to slip through the police net. My Ford was found abandoned on Route 6 at Bishop. As usual, the car had been wiped clean of fingerprints. The following day a farmer near Bishop reported a Plymouth pickup truck stolen. Within six hours this was located at Mount Montgomery, Nevada.

There the trail stopped. How the suspect got beyond Mount Montgomery was unknown. The town was too small for strangers to pass through unnoticed, yet no one recalled seeing anyone of the suspect’s description. It was assumed that he had hitchhiked from there. An appeal was sent out over the wire services to whoever had picked him up to come forward as a witness. This appeared in every major newspaper in the country, but there was no response.

I spent two full days with Garcia of S.I.D. helping him revise the composite drawings of the suspect. He did two fronts and two profiles, one set showing him hatted and wearing glasses, the other bareheaded and without glasses. By the end of the two days I was satisfied that they were almost photographic likenesses.

The composites, a revised description, and all the additional information I had gleaned from conversation with the suspect were sent to the police of all major cities in the country. Through the newspaper wire services and radio and television news broadcasts, the rewards, totaling five thousand dollars, got national publicity. The composite drawings were shown on television over all major networks.

Reports and tips flowed in from everywhere. The suspect was seen in New York City, Miami, and Seattle, all at the same time. There wasn’t a city in the country where at least one crank didn’t confess to being the Courteous Killer. The number of confessions from cranks residing in the Los Angeles area grew to seventeen.

All leads were checked out, most of them by the police in the cities where they originated, the hotter ones by teams of officers flown from Los Angeles.

The suspect remained at large.

On the basis of the additional information I was able to furnish, the Stat’s Office made several more runs. The new information was also teletyped to C.I.I. in Sacramento, and all possibles turned up by both were checked out. Full information was sent to the F.B.I. in Washington, which turned up more possibles.

All of these checked out clean. At the end of September, nearly four months after the Courteous Killer had first begun his activity, the case was still wide open.

On Monday, September 30th, Frank and I logged in at Homicide at 4:23 p.m. There was nothing in the message book, and after reading our mail we relaxed at a table with cigarettes, waiting for a phone to ring or the hot-shot speaker to sound off.

“Bet this will be some night,” Frank said.

“Yeah?”

“Starts quiet like this, things always begin popping before the watch is over. Never saw it to fail.”

I said, “Uh-huh.”

“Like the night the Courteous Killer case started. Dead quiet all evening until the last two minutes. Then, bingo. We were up to our necks for weeks.” He paused to take a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “Ever wonder what that guy’s doing now, Joe?”

“How do you mean?”

“Where he’s holed up. Whether he’s got a respectable job somewhere, or is still using a gun. You know. Whether or not he’s reformed.”

I said, “I’ll bet you one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He hasn’t reformed. They never do.”

The phone on one of the other tables rang, and Frank went over to answer it. “Homicide, Smith,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Yeah, he’s here. What? Okay, send him on up.”

He hung up and said, “Some guy downstairs for you. Asked them to check if you were in before he wasted time coming up. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Huh?”

Frank came back over and sat across the table from me. “That things would start popping. I’ve had the feeling ever since noon yesterday. My luck’s been too good. Bound to change.”

“How’s that?”

“Everything I do lately’s been lucky. Like last Sunday, on the Catalina Day Boat. Actually caught some fish for a change. Nobody else was, but I reeled ’em in till my arms ached. Best day I ever had.”

“One thing wrong with fishing,” I said.

“Huh?”

“You have to eat them.”

Frank grinned. He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. “Then the next day my luck got even better. Armand decided to go live with Fay’s sister for a while. Didn’t even borrow any money before he left. But yesterday noon topped everything.”

“How was that?”

“Fay fixed Swedish meatballs. You know how I like Swedish meatballs.”

“Yeah.”

“Only trouble is, it usually means she’s going to break some bad news. She’s gone and bought a new dress for too much, or Mike’s busted a neighbor’s window. Something like that. She wants to put me in a good mood before she tells me. Makes it hard to enjoy them, wondering what’s coming.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Yesterday there wasn’t any bad news. She just felt like fixing them. See what I mean about good luck? Absolutely bound to change.”

A youngster of about nineteen strode into the squad room. He was tall and arrogantly good-looking, with wavy black hair and long sideburns. There was something familiar-looking about him, but at first I couldn’t place him.

“Hello, Sergeant Friday,” he said. He nodded to Frank. “Hi, Officer Smith.”

In a puzzled voice Frank said, “Hello,” and I said, “How are you, son?” We both got up and stood looking at him.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. “Harold Green.” We both placed him then. The Courteous Killer’s first victim. Neither of us had recognized him because the last time we’d seen him, his head had still been covered from the eyebrows up by a bandage.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “You all recovered now?”

“Feel fine.” He rapped his knuckles against his skull. “You can’t hurt a Green by hitting him here. It’s solid rock.”

Frank said, “How’s Mrs. Stenson?”

The young man shrugged. “Haven’t seen her in a couple of months.”

I couldn’t help saying, “Oh? Working now?”

He grinned at me, unabashed. “Not me. Just got a different girlfriend.”

Frank grunted, and I said a little shortly, “What do you want?”

“Thought I’d make myself a little money,” he said. He pulled out a package of cigarettes and held them toward Frank and me. I indicated the butt I was already smoking, and Frank shook his head. He took one himself and lighted it with a gold-plated lighter. “Got a tip for you.”

I said coldly, “We don’t buy information.”

“Who said I’m selling any?” he asked. “I meant reward money. Know where Rossmore Avenue is?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Starts at Wilshire and runs up into Hollywood.”

He nodded. “There’s a gas station a couple of blocks from where it crosses Santa Monica. Stopped there to have my tank filled about a half hour ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Attendant was a real pleasant fellow. Cleaned the windshield, checked the radiator. Gave me the full treatment. I kept thinking I’d seen him somewhere before. Couldn’t remember where until after I’d driven away, though. Then it hit me.”

“Go on,” I said.

“He was the fellow who batted me over the head with a gun.”

5:01 p.m. On further questioning, Harold Green stated that he was positive that the gas-station attendant was the man who had robbed him on Laurel Canyon Road the previous June. We took him in to see Lieutenant Newton, and he repeated his story. The lieutenant went up the hall to report the development to Chief Brown.

Chief Brown decided to take no chances on the suspect’s again eluding arrest. He issued orders over the phone to have the block in which the filling station was located surrounded by police units. Frank and I would go in to make the arrest as soon as all units were in place.

Frank and I took the elevator down to the garage, checked out Unit 7K10, and drove to the area. We parked on Rossmore a half block from the filling station and waited.

At 6:03 p.m. a voice from our radio speaker said, “Attention, Unit Seven-K-Ten. KMA-Three-Six-Seven to Seven-K-One-Oh. Come in.”

I lifted the microphone from its bracket and said into it, “Seven-K-One-Oh to Control One. Go ahead.”

“The area is now surrounded by police units. You may move in for the arrest when ready.”

“Roger,” I said. “We’ll move in now. Four Adam. Seven-K-One-Oh.”

I put the microphone back into its bracket, and we got out of the car. We walked up the street toward the station, side by side.

Frank said, “Working in a filling station, he probably won’t be armed, huh?”

“We’ll play it like he is until we’ve shaken him down,” I told him. “We take him at gunpoint.”

“Check,” Frank said, and loosened his gun in its holster.

There were no cars at the gas pumps when we approached the station. Through the open door of the garage, we could see a coveralled attendant standing beneath an elevated car with grease gun. Beyond the glass window of the office, another coveralled man stood by the cash register drinking a Coke. The latter’s face was toward us, and I could see at a glance that he wasn’t the suspect. He was a tall, redheaded man of about thirty.

The man with the grease gun had his back to us. His height and the shape of his body were identical to that of the man who had kidnapped me. We walked quietly to the door of the garage, our hands on our guns.

The coveralled man glanced idly over his shoulder. He wore no glasses, but his face was that of the Courteous Killer. He had the same graying hair, slightly receding at the forehead.

I said, “All right, Frank,” and whipped out my gun. Frank’s came up at the same instant.

“Police officers, mister,” I said. “Hold it right there.”

He froze with the grease gun still pointed upward, his back half to us and his face pointing over his shoulder. His mouth fell open in surprise.

“Drop the grease gun on the floor,” I ordered.

He opened his hand and let it fall. Frank put away his gun, moved in fast, and jerked the man’s hands behind him. The handcuffs clicked in place.

The suspect’s gaze followed us as we circled around in front of him. There was no recognition in his expression when he looked at me. Only astonishment. I kept him covered, while Frank gave him a quick but thorough shakedown.

Frank stepped back and said, “He’s clean.”

“What’s this all about?” the handcuffed man asked in a stupefied voice. The arrogant ego was gone from it, but otherwise it was the same voice my kidnaper had.

I put my gun away. “You don’t know,” I said. “You don’t recognize me. You’re just an innocent grease monkey.”

“I never saw you before in my life,” he said on a high note. “What are you talking about?”

The younger man came through the door between the garage and office. His expression was as astonished as the suspect’s. “Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked.

“Police officers,” I said, showing him my ID. “You own this place?”

“Yeah,” he said. “What have you got George handcuffed for?”

“He’s under arrest,” I told him. “How long’s he been working here?”

“About a week.” He gave his employee a fascinated look. “What’d he do?”

I said, “You must not read the papers, mister.”

“Huh,” he said. “Sure, I read the papers.”

“Then you don’t look at the pictures they publish. You just lost yourself five thousand dollars.”

“Huh?”

“Your grease monkey is the Courteous Killer.”