The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter VI

Wife-beating is another of the twenty-two things aside from murder that it is the responsibility of Homicide Division to investigate. Monday night, July 22nd, Frank and I were called out on a wife-beating case. The wife, who had phoned the police, had changed her mind by the time we arrived, and was belligerently on the side of her husband. When we started to question the husband, she attempted to hit Frank with a frying pan.

We finally got the couple settled down, and when it seemed evident that the woman didn’t want to press charges, no arrest was made. We got back to the office at 11:23 p.m.

As I logged us in, Frank said, “Seems Metro could handle wife-beating cases, doesn’t it? I get the shivers every time we start out on one.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“You know something?” he asked. “Over the years more wives have tried mayhem on me than suspects have. Get sore at their husbands and call in a complaint, then get sore at us when we answer it. Hard to figure.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come they never swing at you, Joe? Always at me.”

I grinned at him. “You never noticed, huh?”

“What?”

“When we go out on a homicide, I usually do most of the questioning. When we get a wife-beating, I let you do it.”

The hot-shot speaker suddenly blared, “Attention all units. All units in the vicinity of Parkview and Seventh Street. Two-eleven and a shooting. Female victim believed dead. Units One-A-Fifty-one and One-A-Eighty-one handle the call. No description of suspect as yet. Attention all units—”

“Let’s roll,” I said to Frank.

It was approximately two miles from the Police Building to the edge of Douglas MacArthur Park, where the shooting had taken place. As we roared out of the parking-lot exit onto First Street, I pulled the transmission microphone from its bracket and called in, “Unit Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Seven-K-One-Oh to Control One.”

“Go ahead, Seven-K-One-Oh,” the reply came.

“We are answering call at Parkview and Seventh Street. Please advise additional information.”

The voice from the speaker said, “Now have description of suspect. Described as WMA, forty to fifty years, one hundred sixty to one eighty pounds, medium height, wearing a brown sport jacket, also wears glasses. Last seen driving blue 1955 Ford sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine on Seventh from Seventh Street and Parkview. Rolling want already broadcast to available units in area. Witness being held at scene of crime. No further information at this time. KMA-Three-Six-Seven.”

I said, “Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Roger.”

“Something familiar about that description,” Frank said.

I glanced at him. “Yeah. Fits half the male population of Los Angeles.”

Two black-and-white radio cars and an ambulance were already at the scene when we arrived. They were parked on the west side of Parkview, a short distance from Seventh. Three of the uniformed policemen from the radio cars were holding back the small crowd that had gathered. The fourth was talking to a bald-headed man of about fifty, who was in shirt sleeves, slacks, and bedroom slippers. An Oldsmobile convertible was parked in a driveway between two houses, and a blanket-covered figure lay next to it on the lawn.

I showed my ID to the officer talking to the bald-headed man and said, “Friday, Homicide.”

“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “Want to look at the victim first?”

He led us over to the blanket-covered figure and pulled back the blanket. The victim was a thin blonde somewhere in her forties, a prematurely dried-up, spinsterish-looking woman. A small spot of blood showed on her right breast, and a similar one on her left, indicating that she had been shot twice. Apparently she had died instantly, for she had hardly bled at all.

“Name’s Viola Carr,” the policeman said. “She lived there. Alone.” He nodded toward the house to the left of the driveway, then turned toward the bald-headed man. “This gentleman here identified her.”

“Oh?” I said. I looked the man over. “Want to tell us your name, sir?”

“Gerald Wesson,” he said. “That’s my house there.” He pointed to the building to the right of the driveway. “I saw the whole thing, Officer. Terrible thing, murderers coming right up on your lawn and killing your neighbors. Ought to be stopped.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “You actually saw the shooting?”

“Well, not that part of it,” he amended. “Heard the shots and got to my front door just in time to see the killer grab poor Viola’s purse and run. I was sitting in the front room watching television when it happened, so it was just a step to the door. Just luck, really.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Usually go to bed at eleven. Wife’s out playing bridge tonight, so I was waiting up.” He frowned. “Woman ought to be home by now. Silly bunch of hens, playing cards till this hour.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You say the suspect ran? Our information was that he escaped by car.”

“Oh, sure. That came from me. I told the man on the phone at Police Headquarters. Even gave him the license number. I mean he ran to his car, which was parked at the curb. He jumped in and took off around the corner, up Seventh.”

The uniformed officer said, “A description of the car and of the suspect were broadcast, Sergeant. There’s wants on both.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “You get a good look at the suspect, Mr. Wesson?”

“Sure. Not while he was running, because his back was to me and it was dark. But when he pulled open his car door, the dome light automatically went on. Got a perfect side view of him. Middle-aged man with a smooth, round face and rimless glasses. Funny thing, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Didn’t look like a killer at all. Looked like a nice fellow.”

We continued to question the witness. He said he and his wife had lived next door to the victim for the past ten years, and that Miss Carr had lived there all her life. She had been born in the house next to his. Two years before, when both her parents had died, she had talked of moving to a small apartment, but had never got around to it. Wesson said she worked for a law firm as a stenographer, and had never been married.

“She often went out alone at night,” he said. “To a show or something. My guess is this holdup man spotted her for well-off on account of her convertible, followed her home, and stuck her up just as she got out of the car. I could have told him.”

“Huh?” I said.

“That he’d have to kill her. Viola wouldn’t let a nickel get away without a fight. Tightest woman I ever knew. Not that she had to be. Folks left her the house and some money, and she socked more in the bank every month from her paycheck. Must have twenty thousand or more stashed away. But tight! Always borrowing stuff from my wife. Cup of sugar, couple of eggs, stuff like that. Never bring it back, though. Few days back somebody gave her four dozen eggs. More than she could use, so she brought a dozen over. And you know what?”

“What?” I asked.

“She must’ve owed us about a gross. But instead of giving us the dozen as a part payment, she charged the wife fifty-five cents.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I figure when this robber demanded her money, she probably swung at him with her bag. So look what she got.” His gaze strayed to the blanket-covered figure, and he shook his head pityingly. “Not a soul in the world to leave it to, either. Bet she’s got twenty thousand in the bank, and not a soul to leave it to.”

Frank went back to the car to call for the Crime Lab. When he returned, he said, “They located the car. Just got the flash.”

“Yeah?”

“Abandoned at Seventh and Vermont. He only drove it a dozen blocks.”

I asked, “D.M.V. checking the registration?”

“Yeah. And I asked for somebody at Latent Prints to meet us at the car as soon as we’re finished here.”

I nodded. A third radio car pulled up, and I detailed the two officers in it to canvass neighboring houses to see if they could turn any witnesses in addition to Gerald Wesson. A few minutes later Lee Jones and a photographer arrived and photographed the body from various angles. After carefully scrutinizing the area around the body with a flashlight, Lieutenant Jones grunted.

“Not much to work on,” he said to me. “Best bet is the slugs. Aren’t any exit wounds, so they must still be in her.

I’ll call Dr. Newbarr in the morning and ask him to hold them for me after the autopsy.”

The two policemen I had detailed to canvass nearby homes came back with a negative report. None of the neighbors aside from Gerald Wesson had even heard the shots, or if they had, they had dismissed them as backfires.

We arranged with Gerald Wesson to come down to the Police Building and look at mug shots the next day.

12:28 a.m. Frank and I left the scene and drove over to Seventh and Vermont. The 1955 Ford was parked on the north side of Seventh, facing west. A squad car was parked in front of it, and one member of the uniformed team was watching Sergeant McLaughlin delicately apply fingerprint powder to the door handle. The other member sat in the squad car monitoring the radio.

McLaughlin looked up and said, “Hi, Joe. Frank.”

I nodded, and Frank said, “How you making it?” McLaughlin shook his head. “This boy was a pro. So far everything’s been wiped. Afraid you’re out of luck with D.M.V., too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He nodded toward the uniformed policeman. “Officer here tells me they just got a radio report from Auto Theft. Car was reported stolen earlier tonight. Suspect must have heisted it just for the job.”

That was disappointing, for it meant the car was a dead end unless the suspect had left his prints on it somewhere. We watched McLaughlin finish with the outside of the car and begin on the interior. After a few moments he said, “Steering wheel and glove compartment are clean. One place he may have missed, though.”

Holding the left front door open, he stooped and brushed powder over the little knob that controlled the seat adjustment. He emitted a grunt of satisfaction.

“Got something?” Frank asked.

McLaughlin nodded. “Suspect’s legs must be a different length than the car owner’s. Beautiful thumbprint. Must have forgotten he had to adjust the seat.”

He photographed the print, then lifted it with Scotch tape, transferred it to a card, and wrote the identifying information on the back of the card.

“All yours,” he said to the uniformed policeman, beginning to pack up his equipment.