The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter XVIII

The next day, Wednesday, October 16th, Frank and I flew back to Los Angeles. We caught TWA Flight 19, which left Lambert Field at 1:05 p.m. St. Louis time and landed at International Airport at 6:12 p.m. Los Angeles time.

As this was a tourist flight, we hadn’t eaten on the plane. We caught some dinner at a coffee shop and reported in to Homicide Division at 7:30 p.m.

The news of the suspect’s escape had preceded us. Captain Hertel had left word that if we checked in that night, we should take the rest of the night off and report for a meeting in Chief Brown’s office in the morning. We left the two pairs of shoes, the slugs fired from the suspect’s .38, and the watch at the Crime Lab before going home.

At 8:32 a.m. Thursday morning, Frank and I met with Captain Hertel and Chief Brown in the latter’s office. When we had given a complete report of what had happened in St. Louis, Chief Brown thoughtfully tapped the frame of his glasses against his desktop.

“Looks as though we’ll never get this man to trial in California now unless he’s captured in this state,” the chief said. “Too many other people will be fighting for extradition, too. Even the FBI will be in on it now, since the suspect kidnapped those police officers and took them across a state line. They’ll want him on violation of the Lindbergh Law.”

Hertel said, “Why should Missouri care where he’s tried, so long as somebody gets him? Missouri can’t try him, because the murder took place in Illinois. You’d think it would just as soon let us have him as Illinois.”

Thad Brown has the rare capacity of being able to see others’ points of view. He said, “Suppose Whiteman’s shooting had been a little more accurate the night he winged Friday? Would you want to see him tried for some other murder in another state?”

The captain glanced at me and smiled ruefully. “Guess not. Suppose you can’t blame Missouri for wanting him to take the count for that particular kill. This guy’s sure managed to get a lot of people mad at him.”

Thad Brown said, “In any event, I want all the evidence in order in case he does turn up in California. Stick with it until you’ve got every loose end tied up. If we ever do get hold of this suspect, I don’t want there to be a chance of his beating the case.”

Captain Hertel said, “Yes, sir.”

“Hertel, you’ll continue to act as liaison between this department, the police of other cities, and the FBI. The latter will probably jump in with both feet, now that the suspect’s violated the Lindbergh Law. Give them every co-operation.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Hertel said again.

“Above all, if he does return to this area, I want him nailed, and nailed fast. I want to be informed personally at the first whisper that he’s back. No matter what time of day or night you get it. That clear?”

Hertel said, “Yes, sir,” for a third time, and Frank and I echoed him.

When we left the meeting, Captain Hertel paused in the hallway just outside the chief’s door, mopped his brow, and said, “Whew!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

The captain looked at me. “You’ve been in sessions with the corner pocket enough times, Friday. Ever notice how he normally uses terms such as ‘Let’s do it this way,’ or ‘Maybe so-and-so ought to handle such-and-such’?”

“Yeah,” I said, after thinking this over. “Guess he doesn’t usually throw his weight around much.”

“He can throw it around, though,” Hertel assured me. “Brother, he really can. And when the chief says, ‘I want,’ instead of making it sound like a friendly suggestion, he’s getting ready to lay a fire under somebody. It wouldn’t be healthy to be sitting on the pile when he strikes the match.”

I said, “Not much we can do except follow up on the evidence we brought back from St. Louis.”

“Then follow it up. Get every item all set, so if we ever get a chance to use it, we can’t miss getting a conviction.”

I said, “Yes, sir.”

Captain Hertel moved on toward his office. Frank looked at me with a resigned expression on his face.

“What’s eating you?” I asked.

“Just waiting for orders.”

“Huh?”

“The corner pocket told the captain what he wanted, didn’t he? The captain told you. You outrank me. Aren’t you going to pass along the buck?”

I grinned at him. “Let’s see what the Crime Lab came up with.”

We found Ray Pinker in the Crime Lab examining a pair of bullets under a comparison microscope. We waited until he finally raised his head.

“ ’Morning, Joe,” he said. “How are you, Frank?”

We told him we were fine, and I asked if the slug he was checking was one of those we had brought back from St. Louis.

“Yeah,” he said. “The other’s one of those that killed Viola Carr. Take a look.”

I leaned over the twin eyepieces and adjusted the field until the two images came together. The grooves and lands in the slugs matched perfectly. Raising my head again, I said, “Not much doubt, huh?”

“Pay-dirt all along the line,” Pinker told us. “One pair of those shoes you brought back matched the footprints left at the scene of the Grotto killing, too. With the watch traced back to him, we’ve got more than enough for a conviction. All we lack is the suspect.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Only the most important item.”

The scientific police work in the case was now completed. Irrefutable evidence placed the suspect at the scene of at least three crimes, two of them murders. A fingerprint linked him to the robbery and slugging of Harold Green, the first of the Courteous Killer’s victims. One of the pairs of shoes found in his St. Louis room matched the footprints at the scene of the killing of Marine Sergeant Nick Grotto and the wounding of Nancy Meere. Our ballistics expert was prepared to prove in court that the gun in the suspect’s possession at the time of his St. Louis arrest was the same one that had wounded the latter. To cinch matters, we could prove by Minerva Warden’s testimony that the watch clutched in Sergeant Grotto’s hand had belonged to the suspect.

In case the district attorney for some reason might prefer to try the suspect for the murder of Viola Carr, we had equally concrete evidence in that case. The thumbprint on the seat-adjustment knob of the stolen car used in that robbery-murder established George Whiteman as the culprit. And again ballistic comparison proved that the murder weapon was his.

If we ever got hold of the suspect, conviction for at least one capital crime was a certainty. In multiple-crime cases of this sort, the usual procedure is to try the accused for only one crime at a time. If, despite the evidence, Whiteman was acquitted of one murder, he could immediately be tried for the second. If by some remote chance he also beat that rap, he could be extradited to Illinois to face the charge of murdering the St. Louis police officer. If his luck held even then, he would still have to face the Federal charge of violating the Lindbergh Law. As it was hardly likely that he could squeeze by even his first trial, there wasn’t a chance in the world that he could beat the charges all along the line. The only problem remaining was his apprehension.

Frank and I drew up a resume of all the circumstantial evidence against the suspect and submitted it to Captain Hertel. After studying it, the captain relayed it on to Chief Brown. It came back with the terse annotation “Satisfactory.”

A nation-wide manhunt for George Whiteman got underway. Police of every city, town, and village were alerted to be on the lookout for the suspect. He earned the distinction of making the FBI’s exclusive list of “ten-most-wanted men.” Starting with the information furnished by Minerva Warden, Whiteman’s past history was traced back clear to his birthplace in Columbia, Missouri. All close associates he had ever had were contacted and questioned in an effort to locate him. The homes of his only two living relatives — a married sister in Detroit and an aunt in Whittier, California — were placed on twenty-four-hour stakeout.

The investigation of the suspect’s past life disclosed that he did have one previous conviction: for third-degree assault in Buffalo, New York, in 1947. In lieu of a jail sentence, he had been committed to Gowanda State Mental Hospital for a sixty-day observation period. Hospital records indicated he had schizophrenic tendencies, but no deep-seated psychosis at that time. His release had been probationary, its terms requiring him to stay within the state unless he obtained hospital permission to leave it, and to report for an annual psychiatric examination. He had never reported back, and was still on New York’s wanted list.

Gowanda State Hospital authorities expressed the opinion that during the intervening years since his commitment, the suspect’s schizophrenic tendencies quite possibly could have developed into a full-blown psychosis, and that he might now be a dangerous maniac. His crime record indicated that this was probably an accurate diagnosis.

With all the forces of law and order across the nation arrayed against this one man, it would seem that the odds were overpoweringly against him. Yet he continued to evade capture. The usual scores of tips flowed in from every section of the country. All were checked out.

The middle of November arrived. The suspect was still at large.