The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 9

The next morning when I checked in at 8:00 a.m. I found a reply to our inquiry to C.I.I. in my box. Gerald Federson had a record of four arrests and two convictions in San Francisco. Three of the arrests were as a juvenile: one for ADW, one for grand theft — auto, and one for forced rape. He’d been convicted of the last only, and had served two years at Preston for it. As an adult he’d taken a five-year fall for armed robbery. He’d served three of the five.

Frank came in, said, “’Morning, Joe,” and started to check the message book.

I said, “I already caught it, Frank. Nothing.” I handed him the report from C.I.I.

Frank looked it over, grunted, and handed it back. “Been to Handwriting yet?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Just pulled in. Let’s see what they can tell us.”

Handwriting is on the same floor as Robbery Division, at the opposite end of the hall. We found Keith Woodward alone there. Woody is a stocky, dark-haired man with the soft-spoken manner of a bank teller. I handed him the stack of letters and asked him to check them against Big Julie Martin’s 5.7.

A Form 5.7 must be made out by all persons arrested in Los Angeles except drunks and traffic violators. On the front of the card, in his own handwriting, the suspect writes in his name, address, place and date of birth, occupation, where employed, name and address of nearest relative, and the date he completed the form. This would seem to be enough to give an adequate handwriting sample, but there are more spaces for him to fill in on the reverse of the card. Here, in addition to items of physical description, there are spaces in which he must write the complete alphabet in longhand, both in capitals and small letters. There is also a space in which he must write the numbers one to twenty.

Woody pulled Big Julie’s 5.7 from a file cabinet and briefly compared it to the letters. It didn’t take him more than thirty seconds to come to a conclusion.

Shaking his head, Woody said, “Sorry, Joe. Martin didn’t write them.”

Frank asked, “Any chance he could of dictated them to somebody?”

Woody gave him a quizzical look. “You think we’re miracle men around here?”

“I’ve seen you pull some near miracles,” Frank said. “I just wondered.”

The challenge seemed to appeal to Woody. Seating himself behind his desk, he quickly scanned all five letters. Then he singled out one sheet, read it carefully, and finally examined it with a magnifying glass.

“For what it’s worth,” he said presently, “my opinion is that it’s unlikely they were dictated.”

“What do you base that on?” I asked curiously.

“The writing, the spelling, and the punctuation all match the vocabulary. You noted the unusually good vocabulary, didn’t you?”

Frank nodded, and I said, “Yeah.”

“If it was dictated, the writer was as highly educated as the person who did the dictating. There isn’t a single hesitation mark, as there would be if he’d had to stop and ask how to spell a word. And no mistakes in punctuation. You got some reason to believe they were dictated by Martin?”

“Just a hope,” I said. “Would have made things easier. Now we’re nowhere.”

“Larry will be along any minute,” Woody said. “Want his opinion, too?”

He referred to Larry Sloan, the other handwriting expert.

“Naw,” I said. “We gave up long ago trying to catch you guys in a mistake.”

8:28 a.m. We got off a teletype to San Francisco requesting a list of Gerald Federson’s known associates. Then we took the letters into Captain Peters’ office and showed them to him.

The captain decided they were important enough to show Chief Brown. We followed him up the hall to the chiefs office.

Deputy Chief of Police Thaddeus Brown is in charge of the 653 officers and 39 civilian personnel of the Detective Bureau. He’s a dedicated police officer with more than thirty years on the force. He is a solidly built man with a level gaze, a strong jaw, and a deceptively quiet manner of speaking. Deceptive, because he can be as tough as a Marine drill sergeant if he has to.

When we walked into his office, he looked up from a report he was reading, said, “’Morning, gentlemen,” and pointed to chairs.

We all sat down, and Chief Brown looked inquiringly at the captain.

“About this robbery suspect Friday and Smith had to shoot yesterday,” Peters said. “You know about it, don’t you?”

“I saw the report.”

“Well, in a routine shakedown of the suspect’s room, they ran across these.” Captain Peters handed him the letters.

Some minutes passed in silence as the chief read them over. When he finished, he took off his dark-rimmed glasses, laid them on the desk, and frowned at me.

“Looks like somebody’s planning a major gang operation,” he said.

“What we figured, sir,” I said. “Statewide.”

“Any idea who the writer is?”

“We thought it might be a con named Big Julie Martin. Due for parole the end of this month. But he was checked out clean by Handwriting. Federson, the guy the letters were addressed to, has a package in San Francisco. We’re waiting for a kickback on Federson’s known associates now.”

The chief was still frowning. “This Federson have any next of kin?”

“A Lester Federson in San Francisco,” I said. “Don’t know what relation. We asked the San. Francisco police to get in touch with him.”

“Suppose eventually he’ll be along to make funeral arrangements,” the chief said thoughtfully. “And clean the personal effects out of the suspect’s room.”

I said, “We haven’t heard from him yet.”

“The letters imply that there were to be six in this gang. We have to consider the possibility that this Lester Federson could be one of them. Or at least could be in contact with members of the gang.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.

“If there’s no sign of the letters in the room, it might tip off the gang we knew their plans. Or at least make them suspect we might know.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “See what you mean.”

“So suppose we photostat them and put them back for Lester Federson to find.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s probably a good idea.”

“Have sufficient copies made to send to all major communities in the state. Maybe we can nip this in the bud.”

I said “Yes, sir” again, and the chief put his glasses back on, indicating that the session was over.

Captain Peters remained in the chief’s office to discuss another case when Frank and I left. Outside in the hall, Frank said, “Corner Pocket’s pretty sharp, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“That gimmick of putting the letters back so we don’t tip our hand would never of occurred to me.”

“Me, either,” I said.

“Probably why I’m a sergeant and he’s a deputy chief,” Frank said musingly.

9:27 a.m. We had a couple of dozen photostatic copies of the letters run off, then drove over to Gerald Federson’s rooming house with the originals. The landlady made no objection to our seeing the room again. She gave us the key and remained downstairs.

Frank put the letters back in the dresser drawer, exactly where he had found them.

We heard the doorbell ring as we went down the stairs.

When we reached the hall, the landlady was opening a telegram. She looked up from it and said to me in a relieved tone, “Well, looks like I’ll be able to get that room cleared out tomorrow.”

“Oh?” I said.

She exhibited the telegram. “From his brother, Lester, in San Francisco. He’ll be down tomorrow to make funeral arrangements and pack up Gerry’s stuff.”

I said, “Like to do us a favor, ma’am?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m always willing to co-operate with the law.”

“Don’t mention to Federson’s brother that we had a look at his room.”

“Sure,” she said agreeably. “I don’t mind telling a little white lie as a favor to the law.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Frank said. “Just don’t mention it.”

“I’ll do better than that,” the woman told him. “If he asks if the law was around, I’ll tell him no.”