The Case of the Courteous Killer

Chapter VII

The next afternoon we met with Gerald Wesson at the Homicide Office and had him look at mug books. He was unable to identify the suspect.

Meantime the owner of the stolen 1955 Ford was checked out by another team, and it was determined that he had no connection with, or knowledge of the bandit. The Stat’s Office made us a run on the suspect’s description and MO, and came up with a number of possibles. All of them checked out clean.

Frank called the Crime Lab and learned from Ray Pinker that both of the slugs recovered from Viola Carr’s body were in good condition and would be usable for comparison if we ever located the murder weapon. When he hung up, Frank had a thoughtful look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

“This suspect’s description keeps sticking in my mind, Joe. Rings a familiar bell.”

I know Frank’s moods, and I know his tenacious memory. I let him worry out the answer by himself without saying anything.

“Got it!” he suddenly said. “The Nick Grotto kill!”

It took a moment for me to sort this out in my mind, for we had worked on a dozen other cases since the murder of the Marine sergeant and the wounding of his girl companion. When it finally clicked, I said in a slow voice, “Yeah. Forty to fifty, round, pleasant face, rimless glasses. And a killer. Could be. Except guys stupid enough to kill don’t often have sense enough to change their MO’s.”

“It’s a chance,” Frank said. “In this case we forced him to drop his original MO with all that publicity. Let’s check it out. The Crime Lab still has that bullet he put through the Meere girl’s shoulder.”

I picked up the phone and called Ray Pinker. I told him Frank’s idea and asked him to compare the bullets from the Viola Carr kill with the one that had wounded Nancy Meere. Pinker said he’d call me back.

Fifteen minutes later he phoned back. I took the call. When I hung up again, Frank looked at me questioningly.

“Jackpot,” I said. “The bullets came from the same gun.”

Now that we had substantial evidence that the suspect was the former lovers’ lane bandit, we called Latent Prints and asked for a check of the partial print developed on the wallet of the first lovers’ lane victim against the thumbprint that had been brought out on the Ford’s seat-adjustment knob. The two failed to match, but Latent Prints explained that this didn’t eliminate the possibility of their having been made by the same person. They assumed that the print on the seat-adjustment knob was probably of a left thumb, as the left hand would normally be used in adjusting a car seat. The print on the wallet could be that of a right thumb.

We got out a local and an APB giving the new information on the suspect and requesting all officers to familiarize themselves with the suspect’s appearance as pictured in his composite drawing.

But the suspect remained at large.

During the following week three more lone women driving convertibles were held up by a bandit in the vicinity of MacArthur Park. The MO and description of the suspect were the same in all cases.

On Wednesday, July 31st, Frank and I got together with Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher of Robbery to discuss the case. As a result of this discussion, Frank and I went in to talk to Captain Hertel.

When we were seated in his office and had cigarettes going, I said, “We’ve been talking over this convertible bandit with Robbery, Skipper. We’ve got a plan.”

“Yeah?” the captain said.

“It stacks up like this. We’re pretty sure this is the same man who was knocking over lovers’ lane couples last month, and killed that Marine. He’s just changed his MO.”

The captain nodded. “That seems pretty evident.”

I said, “He seems to have pretty set habits, though. Now that he’s picked a new racket, he sticks to it without variation. His victims are always lone women driving convertibles with the tops down. We figure this is because he can get a full view into the cars, and be sure they’re alone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He tails a victim to her home in a stolen car, parks when she stops in front of where she lives, or turns into her driveway, steps up and sticks a gun in her face just as she gets out of the car. As soon as he has the money, he gets back in his car, drives a few blocks, and abandons it. Probably he has his own parked near where he abandons it.”

“I see,” Captain Hertel said. “So what’s your idea?”

“This isn’t as big an area to cover as when he was hitting the lovers’ lanes. He’s concentrating on women who live in the MacArthur Park district. There’s a lot of apartment houses around there, you know, where women art students and stenographers and so on live. About the best district in town for his purpose. Lots of lone women driving home alone at night, and a lot of them owning convertibles.”

“So?”

“We thought we’d dangle some bait,” I said. “Give him a woman riding alone in a convertible with the top down.”

The captain frowned. “A policewoman, you mean? This guy’s a killer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But we’d make it foolproof. We’d have stakeouts all along the route she followed. If she picked up a tail, she could signal the first stakeout she passed by flashing her lights.”

Captain Hertel continued to frown. “Still, she’d have to be alone in the convertible, or he wouldn’t take the bait. If there was a slip-up, we might have a dead policewoman on our hands.”

“I said we’d make it foolproof,” I told him. “She won’t be alone.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll be on the floor in the back seat. With a gun in my hand.”

After some discussion Captain Hertel agreed to the plan and said he would take it up with Chief Brown. The next day he told us that the chief had given his approval.

As there were no convertibles in the motor pool, we made arrangements with a fellow officer to borrow his personal car. We considered having Communications fit it out with a two-way radio, but finally decided against this. With the top down, the microphone on the dashboard would be clearly visible to passing motorists, and might tip off the suspect that his proposed victim was a decoy.

Because of the dangerous nature of the assignment, we decided that the policewoman we used should be a volunteer. After a discussion of various girls’ appearances and qualifications, we made up a list of six we thought would be most suitable for the job. All six volunteered. We picked Harriet Shaffer, who ordinarily worked out of Valley Juvenile Division. Harriet doesn’t look very formidable. Only about five feet five, with brown eyes and a fair complexion, she’s about as feminine-looking as they come. She would look like an easy touch to the suspect. However, this was only surface appearance. She is an experienced policewoman, and we knew we could count on her to keep a cool head in an emergency.

As all of the robberies had taken place late at night, we decided to dangle the bait from 10:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. nightly. We worked out a route for Harriet to follow starting at Eighth and Alvarado, driving west on Eighth to Hoover, north to Wilshire Boulevard, east through the park to Witmer, north to Third Street, west to Alvarado, then south alongside the park again to the starting point. This effectively crisscrossed the whole area of the bandit’s operations.

We settled on three stakeout cars as enough, one at Eighth and Hoover, one at Wilshire and Witmer, and the third at Third and Alvarado. Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher would handle the first, Frank and another Homicide officer named Jack Emlet would be in the second car, and a second Homicide team would take the third spot. Harriet was instructed to drive with her ordinary lights on until she picked up a tail. When she got a taker, she would flick on her highway lights, then lower them again at the first stakeout point she passed. She would then lead the suspect to some quiet street, pull into a driveway as though she had arrived home, and wait for him to make his move. The stakeout cars we were using were equipped with triplex radios. The car she signaled would cue the other two cars by radio, and all three would converge on the spot.

It took us two days to complete all arrangements, so it was Saturday, August 3rd, before we were ready to roll. The three stakeout cars and the convertible left the Police Building at 9:45 p.m.

The convertible was a 1956 Ford. I lay on my left side on the rear floor, my knees drawn up to my chest and my head pillowed on my left arm. I held my gun in my hand, as it would be difficult to draw in that position.

It was not a comfortable position. In addition, the motion of the car had a lulling effect, and I found it hard to keep from dropping off to sleep. By 11:30 p.m. I began to wonder if there wasn’t some simpler way to catch bandits.

I called up to Harriet, “Pull up somewhere for a minute. I’m about to freeze permanently into this shape.”

“All right,” she said, and started to slow. But immediately she picked up speed again. In a low voice she said, “Think we just got a taker.”

I forgot the necessity of getting out for a stretch. “Where are we?” I asked quickly.

“Going east on Wilshire. Witmer’s just ahead.”

Wilshire and Witmer was Frank and Emlet’s stakeout point. I said, “Signal the stakeout when you turn left, but keep going toward Third. If your tail turns left, too, pick a driveway just short of Third. That’ll give the stakeout at Third and Alvarado time to close in, too.”

“Roger,” Harriet said in a calm voice.

I felt the car turn left. “Still with us?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. The stakeout car just joined the parade.”

“Can you make out the suspect’s appearance in your rearview mirror?”

“No,” she said. “Just that it’s a lone man. He’s driving a Chevrolet coupe.”

We were driving at no more than twenty-five miles an hour. The convertible slowed to fifteen. “Third’s just ahead,” Harriet said. “I’ve spotted a driveway. Here we go.”

The car turned right into the driveway and stopped. “He’s slowing,” Harriet whispered. “Now he’s parking at the curb.” There was a long pause before she said, “He’s not getting out of the car. He’s just sitting there.”

“You sit, too,” I directed. “Let him make his play. What are Frank and Jack doing?”

“They’re parked fifty feet behind him. Here comes the other stakeout car, too. It’s parking across the street. The suspect doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.”

“Sit tight,” I said.

Five minutes passed without anything happening. I knew none of the stakeout men would move until the suspect did. We wanted to take him in the act.

“Think he’s waiting for me to get out of the car?” Harriet asked in a low voice.

“Let him wait,” I said. “We’ve got all night.”

Another five minutes passed before the man in the Chevrolet finally decided to move.

“He’s getting out of the car,” Harriet said softly. “He’s heading this way. The stakeouts are getting out and closing in, too.”

I gripped my gun and got my left hand underneath me, ready to push myself erect.

“Fifteen feet away,” Harriet whispered. “Ten now.”

A hesitant voice from a few feet away said, “Having trouble, lady?”

I came up from the floor like a jack-in-the-box, my gun leveled. “Police officer, mister. Hold it right there!”

He was a tall, gangling blond kid of about nineteen. Before he could even react, Frank was on him from behind and had his arms twisted behind his back. The youngster’s eyes bugged out when he found himself surrounded by three other detectives leveling guns at him.

Jack Emlet gave the suspect a fast shake and said, “He’s clean.”

Frank released his arms. I stepped from the car, and we all put our guns away, since it was pretty obvious this wasn’t the fish we’d been angling for.

“Wha... what is this?” the blond boy gasped.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked.

“Mar — Martel. Harry Martel.”

“Got a driver’s license?”

“Sure,” he said. He pulled out a wallet and thrust it toward me, eager to co-operate.

Without touching the wallet, I said, “Take out the license.”

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then withdrew the license and gave it to me. His name was listed as Harry Martel, and his address was on Hoover. I handed the license back, and he put it away.

“Why were you tailing this car, Harry?” I asked.

“Tailing it?” he said in a tone indicating such a thought had never occurred to him. “I just thought the lady was in some kind of trouble. She sat there without getting out of the car for so long. I was just offering to help.”

“Sure,” I said. “You weren’t trying to pick her up, were you?”

“Me?” he asked on a high note. “I was just being helpful. Honest, mister, I didn’t mean anything.”

Frank said, “Ever take a fall, Harry?”

“A what?”

“Ever been arrested?”

“Me? No, sir. Well, for speeding once.”

“Never been arrested for mashing?”

“Mashing?” he said in a shocked tone. “Not me, mister. You’ve got this all wrong. I wasn’t trying to pick up this lady.”

“You’ve got a lousy technique if you were,” I told him. “You wouldn’t score one time in a hundred.”

We took Harry Martel down to the Police Building and ran his name through R & I. There was no record on him. His description did not answer that of any recently reported mashers.

He was released with an admonition not to attempt to follow any more strange women.

For the next two nights we continued to dangle the bait without getting a rise from the convertible bandit. Harriet, being an attractive woman, drew the attention of several more mashers, but none went so far as to attempt to approach her. In all cases they merely drove slowly by when she parked, looking her over but apparently not having the courage to make an overt advance.

Tuesday, August 6th, at 11:42 p.m., we were cruising as usual. I was half dozing on the floor of the car when Harriet suddenly said, “Another taker, Joe.”

I came awake instantly. “Where are we?”

“We just passed the stakeout at Third and Alvarado. I won’t have a chance to signal again until we hit Eighth and Hoover.”

“That’s Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher,” I said. “Keep going straight on Eighth after you signal them, instead of turning right. He might get suspicious if you start circling.”

“Roger,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Joe, I have a feeling this one is our fish.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I got a glimpse of his face when we turned left at Alvarado. It was too late to signal the stakeout, but he answers the description.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Middle-aged, round face, rimless glasses. He’s driving a Buick sedan.”

A feeling of elation rose in me, only to be immediately replaced by one of consternation. There was a loud bang, and the convertible swerved to the right. Harriet wrenched it straight again, we bumped along for a few yards and slowed to a stop.

“A broken bottle in the street,” Harriet whispered. “I saw it just too late. He’s pulled past and is stopping just ahead of us, Joe.”

We couldn’t have picked a worse spot for a front-tire blowout. We were exactly halfway between two stakeout points. And we had no radio communication.