The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter XX

The next morning I arrived at the Police Building at 8:30 a.m. Before going to Captain Hertel’s office to make a personal report, I stopped by Latent Prints and the Crime Lab. At Latent Prints I learned that the ejected shell casings were so clean it was apparent that they had been wiped carefully before being loaded. At the Crime Lab, Ray Pinker said that the bullet we had dug from the ground was perfect for comparison purposes.

“All you have to do now is bring in the gun it was fired from,” he said.

At Homicide Division I found Captain Hertel in his office. When I had described the shooting incident, he asked, “Any idea who this guy was?”

“I didn’t have last night,” I said. “Sat up a couple of hours mulling over the ex-cons who might have a grudge against me for sending them up. Even thought about the Courteous Killer, because he passed at me once before. Didn’t seem likely, though, that with all the heat on him, he’d come back to the place he’s hottest just to settle a grudge.”

“No,” the captain said. “Los Angeles is the last place in the world that guy would go.”

“That’s the way I figured until I talked to Latent Prints. Remember how careful the Courteous Killer always was not to leave prints?”

“Yeah.”

“This joker was just as careful. Each shell had been wiped before it was loaded.”

Captain Hertel stared at me. “He couldn’t be stupid enough to come back here. He’d have to be crazy.”

I said, “According to that New York mental hospital, he is. Maybe he figures his location doesn’t matter because he’s hot everywhere. Who knows how a nut will think?”

The captain drummed his fingers on the desk, still staring at me. “It doesn’t make sense, Joe. With every cop in the country looking for him, he wouldn’t stick his neck out just to avenge a grudge. He’d stay as far from Los Angeles as he could get.”

“A sane man would,” I agreed. “I don’t think this guy is sane.”

Hertel drummed some more, then decisively pushed back his chair and rose. “Even if you’re guessing wrong, we can’t take a chance on it. Let’s go talk to the chief.”

I followed him down the hall to Chief Brown’s office. The chief of detectives was talking on the phone. He waved us to seats. When he finished his phone conversation, he leaned back in his chair and looked at Captain Hertel inquiringly.

“About this guy who potted at Friday last night,” Hertel said. “Guess you got a report on it.”

Brown nodded. “Any leads?”

“Just a wild hunch. Friday thinks it was the Courteous Killer.”

Thad Brown’s eyebrows went up. He looked at me. “What’s your reasoning, Friday?”

I said, “It takes a zany to deliberately gun down a cop. Whiteman’s a zany. We know he’s got a grudge, because he tried his luck once before. We also know he’s careful about not leaving fingerprints. The ejected casings had all been wiped clean before they were loaded.”

The chief pursed his lips. “Not much to go on. Hot as he is, seems unlikely he’d go out of his way to come back to Los Angeles.”

“He’s hot everywhere,” I said.

“Yeah,” Brown said. “Rather remarkable that he hasn’t been picked up long ago. By now everybody in the country must know what he looks like.”

“I’ve thought about that,” I said. “Trouble is, he’s too average-looking. And he’s got such a pleasant expression, nobody’d suspect he was a killer just to look at him. Probably he’s been spotted by lots of people who thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place where they saw him. Looks like such a nice guy, wouldn’t occur to them they saw his mug shots in the paper or on television.”

“Uh-huh,” Chief Brown said. He removed his dark-rimmed glasses and thoughtfully polished them with a handkerchief. “Suppose we’d better play it safe, even though it is unlikely. Get out a local and an APB on him. Better take the pressroom reporters into confidence and ask them to withhold publicity for a time. If Whiteman knows that we suspect he’s back in town, he’ll run like a scared rabbit. We’ll put stakeouts on you again, just as we did before. On Harriet Shaffer, too, just to play safe.” He looked at Hertel. “You can call on Metro for stakeouts.”

“Yes, sir,” Hertel said.

Thad Brown turned back to me. “How about this weapon he used? Understand it was a rifle or carbine.”

“Thirty-caliber carbine,” I said.

“Army surplus, maybe?”

I shook my head. “This was a bolt action, not a semi-automatic. I heard him pull back the bolt.”

Captain Hertel said, “A lot of Army carbines were modified to bolt actions after the war so that they could be used for hunting. Most states won’t let you use an automatic or semiautomatic rifle.”

“It still wasn’t an Army carbine,” I said. “I’ve heard those fired plenty of times. This one had an odd sound. Louder and not as sharp.”

Chief Brown said, “If the suspect is Whiteman, he must have acquired the weapon recently. He certainly didn’t have it when he made his escape. We’ll start the pawnshop detail checking for recent sales of .30-caliber carbines. Better check recent theft reports, too, for a weapon of that type.”

I nodded, and Hertel said, “Yes, sir.”

“If it is the Courteous Killer we’re dealing with, I’ve got one final order.”

“What’s that?” Hertel asked.

“Get him.”

A local manhunt of unprecedented proportions was now set underway. Every man on the force was furnished mug shots of the suspect and was instructed to be on the lookout for him. Teams of officers combed the pawnshop district and questioned the proprietors of sporting-goods stores about recent sales of .30-caliber carbines. The purchaser of every such gun was checked out. A week passed with no leads developing.

Meantime, stakeouts were again put on me and Harriet Shaffer every moment we were off duty. This, too, led to no result.

On Wednesday, November 27th, the day before Thanksgiving, Frank and I checked in at Homicide Division at 4:33 p.m. There was nothing in the message book, and no mail in either of our boxes. It looked like the beginning of a quiet watch.

Frank said, “Gonna make it for dinner tomorrow, aren’t you, Joe?”

“Sure,” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Just going to be a family party,” Frank said. “Just the six of us.”

“Six?” I asked.

“Sure. Fay and me, the two kids, and you.”

“That’s only five.”

Frank looked at me. “Didn’t I tell you? Armand’s back.”

“Oh,” I said, without much enthusiasm.

Frank smiled a secret little smile. “Got a surprise for Armand this year.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember how he kept needling me last Thanksgiving? About the way I carved.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lot of science to carving. When the host knows how to do it, he feels at ease, and that makes everybody else feel at ease. Fay says it’s a matter of poise. Get all flustered and wrestle around with the bird the way I did last year, everybody feels a little embarrassed.”

I said, “I thought you did all right.”

“Aw, I was a rank amateur. Course, it didn’t help any to have Armand sit there snickering all the time. This year he won’t have a chance to snicker.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“I got it licked. You’re looking at the prize turkey carver in the whole Valley.”

“Yeah?”

“Been practicing up.”

“On what?” I asked.

“A turkey. You know O’Malley, the butcher over our way?”

“I remember the shop,” I said.

“Got one of those papier-mâché turkeys from O’Malley. The kind they put in windows for display. He got a new one this year, because the old one was getting a little beat up. Brown paint was beginning to peel off in spots.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I got me a set of instructions on carving. Had a diagram of a turkey in it, with dotted lines showing just where you’re supposed to cut. I took a fountain pen and made dotted lines on this papier-mâché turkey in the same places the lines were on the diagram.”

I said, “I see.”

“Then I sharpened up my carving tools and cut the thing up. Worked perfect.”

I looked at him. “And that makes you an expert carver?”

“Why not?” Frank asked. “I’ve got the location of those lines memorized. All I’ve got to do is cut the real turkey in the same places I cut the papier-mâché one.”

“One thing you didn’t think of,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Real turkeys have bones.”

One of the phones rang, and I went to answer it. It was Johnson in Burglary.

“Got a man here I thought you’d like to talk to, Joe,” he said. “I’m sending him over.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Came in to report a burglary. Thinks it happened last week, but he just discovered it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Only one item missing. Thought it might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“A thirty-caliber Army carbine converted to bolt action. With the barrel sawed off to twelve-inch length.”

A few minutes later a wrinkled little man with a hooked nose and a birdlike manner of cocking his head to one side when he looked at you came into the squad room. He introduced himself as Arthur Morrison.

I said, “Sit down, Mr. Morrison. Understand you had a burglary.”

Morrison took a chair, cocked his head at me, and said, “Certainly did, young fellow. Already told the whole story to the people over in Burglary Division. Don’t understand why I have to do it again.”

“They think the burglar might be a man this division wants,” I explained. “Where’d the crime take place, sir?”

“At my store. Morrison’s Secondhand Store on Main. Come in and try our swap-or-buy. That’s my slogan.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “When did you discover the burglary?”

“Well, I found the busted lock on the back door last week. Monday, the eighteenth. Figured it was busted some time over the weekend. Didn’t find nothing missing in the store, so didn’t bother to report it. Figured it was kids. Just put on a new padlock and forgot it.”

I said, “Then later you discovered something had been taken?”

“Yeah. Silly thing to steal, too. Lots of good stuff in the store he could’ve took. Can’t understand what anyone’d want with a gun like that.”

“Nothing was taken but this sawed-off carbine?”

“Not a thing, near as I could figure. Checked my entire inventory when I found the broken lock. Missed checking the gun because it was in the window.”

“Sir?”

“Didn’t check the window. Same stuffs been in it for years. Junk I’d like to get rid of, mostly. Figured there was nothing in the window worth stealing, so didn’t bother to look.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then this afternoon I was standing out front. Drum up business that way sometimes. Stand out front, a fellow comes along and stops to look in the window. I get him in conversation, invite him to come in and look around. Surprising how many customers I get in the store that way. People that’d pass right by, otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Today I happened to glance in the window myself. Hardly ever do that. Most of the stuff’s been there so long, I’m tired of looking at it. Just happened to today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right away I knew something was missing. Couldn’t figure what at first. Just knew the display looked wrong. Then I realized it was that worthless old gun. Fellow didn’t have to steal it. I was only asking five bucks for it, and I’d have come down to two.”

I said, “Would you describe the gun, please?”

“Sure. Thirty-caliber Army carbine. Fellow I bought it from had Winchester Arms convert it to bolt action so he could use it for deer hunting. Then he used it as a lever to move a big rock and bent the barrel. Was gonna cost too much to have it straightened, so he swapped it to me for a fishing rod. I sawed off the bent part and reset the front sight. Figured somebody might buy it for varmint shooting. I tried it out, and it shot pretty good up to a hundred yards. But it was funny-looking with that short barrel. Nobody seemed to want it.”

I looked at Frank, and Frank said, “Maybe the short barrel was what made it sound so funny, Joe.” He turned back to Morrison. “Did sawing off the barrel like that make it sound different when it was fired?”

“Sure did,” the secondhand dealer said. “Didn’t sound like either a rifle or a pistol. Sort of halfway in between. Sharper than a pistol, but flatter than a rifle.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I heard it once.”

Arthur Morrison was unable to give us any further information. He had no idea who the thief had been, and could recall no customer who had shown any particular interest in the missing gun.

After Morrison had left, I phoned Burglary and talked to Johnson again. He said he planned to have Latent Prints go over the display window, but there wasn’t much else that could be done in the way of an investigation. The only bit of evidence, the broken padlock, had been thrown in a trash can by Arthur Morrison, and the trash can had subsequently been hauled off to a dump.

When I hung up, Frank said, “Guess it was the gun he tried to use on you, all right.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Morrison was wrong in thinking no one would want a gun like that. It’s got one big advantage for a guy like the Courteous Killer.”

“How’s that?”

“You can carry it under a topcoat.”

We got out a supplementary bulletin on George Whiteman describing the cut-down carbine with which he was now believed to be armed.

Later that night Johnson of Burglary dropped by and said Latent Prints had been unable to come up with anything from the display window. All prints in it had been old, and all were made by Arthur Morrison.