The Case of the Crime King

Chapter 3

The next morning, Tuesday, December 3rd, I arrived at the Police Building early enough to have breakfast in the eighth-floor cafeteria before checking into Robbery Division. I was on my coffee when Frank came in and joined me.

“Sick?” I asked, eyeing the sweet roll and cup of coffee he carried over to the table.

He looked surprised. “Me? Why?”

“You usually have more than that for breakfast.”

Frank gave me a self-conscious grin. “Fay fixed me breakfast. Ham and eggs, fried spuds, toast and jelly. This is just dessert.”

When I smiled very slightly, he said in a defensive tone, “Well, she only fixed three eggs.”

Sergeant Tom Anderson of Homicide Division came over to the table and began to unload his tray.

I said, “Hi, Andy.”

Frank, his mouth full of sweet roll, just nodded.

Andy said, “’Morning, gentlemen. Seen the daily bulletin yet?”

We both shook our heads. Andy sat down, pushed his tray to one side, and spread a paper napkin on his lap. “You boys put out an APB on a pair of market bandits yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Descriptions match a pair we want.”

I said, “Oh?”

Andy spread jelly on a piece of toast. “Not for homicide. Just assault and battery. Night watch handled it, but LaMonica and I have got the follow-up.”

Frank asked, “What happened?”

“Your big boy — if it’s the same one — put two guys in the hospital. Tavern brawl.”

I said, “What time was this?”

“Around midnight. Place over on Main Street. The report was that this big fellow and a smaller companion — same descriptions as on your APB — came in drunk. The big guy said he could clean anybody in the place. He got no takers. Couple of customers tried to walk out. Suspect pulled a gun, ordered everybody back to the bar. Then he tossed his gun to his pal, who pulled one of his own and held both on the crowd while the big guy methodically beat two men into unconsciousness.”

There was silence. Then Frank said, “Nice way to get kicks.”

“Yeah,” Andy said. “This is a real congenial pair.”

“Any leads?” I asked.

“Got some pretty good descriptions. They were gone, of course, before the police arrived.”

“Stat’s turn anything?”

Andy shrugged. “Report hadn’t come down yet when I checked in. Should be there by the time I get back to Homicide.”

8:02 a.m. Frank and I rode the elevator down to Third with Tom Anderson. We checked in at Robbery, gave the message book a quick look, and found nothing in it for us. We crossed the hall to Homicide. We found Andy and Joe LaMonica glumly examining a list of seventy-four possibles from the Stat’s Office.

Joe LaMonica is tall and dark and rangy and seldom smiles. He turned his lean face toward us as we entered the squad room and said, “I can’t see it, Joe.”

“See what?” I asked.

“These guys we’re looking for being the same ones you want. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Descriptions match, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but they don’t act alike. Your boys were smooth. Victim even described ’em as polite, didn’t he?”

“Well, if you call it polite to threaten to come back and kill a guy.”

LaMonica said, “You know what I mean. They didn’t knock him around any. But our suspects were about as rough as you find them. Beat the two victims up for no reason at all.”

Frank said, “Drunk, weren’t they?”

“Uh-huh,” LaMonica said.

“Well, you know how some drunks are. Nice as pie sober, but go crazy after a couple of drinks. Used to have a neighbor like that. Nicest person you ever met sober. Take a couple of drinks, and whammo! Spouse ended up in the hospital every time.”

“He beat her up?” Andy asked.

“Not him,” Frank said. “She beat him up. This neighbor was a woman.”

8:26 a.m. The four of us went down to R & I and began the deadly dull chore of checking out the seventy-four names. Forty-five minutes passed in nearly complete silence, the only sound being an occasional disgusted grunt as one or another of us tossed aside a package.

Then Frank emitted a grunt of a different sort. It had a note of triumph in it. The rest of us looked at him.

“Listen to this,” Frank said. “Jules (Big Julie) Martin. Age, twenty-eight. Weight, two-forty-five. Height, six-four-and-one-half. Occupation, wrestling alligators.”

“Alligators!” I said.

Frank studied the case for a moment. “At that alligator farm outside of town. Used to put on demonstrations for tourists.” In silence he read some more, finally said, “Looks more and more like our boy.”

“How’s that?” LaMonica asked.

“Uses exceptionally good grammar. Unusually large vocabulary. Had a year of college at U.C.L.A. Made his living ghosting speeches for businessmen for a while.”

Andy asked, “What’s his record?”

“One arrest, one conviction,” Frank said. “Aggravated assault while drunk. Same circumstances, except he was alone this time. And didn’t pull a gun. Offered to clean anybody at the bar, got no takers, so he picked a guy out. Drew eighteen months in the joint and served a year of it.”

Frank tossed the suspect’s mugg shot over to Andy. Andy studied it for a moment, passed it to LaMonica, who in turn handed it to me when he was through looking at it. Jules Martin was a heavy-featured man with beetling brows and a dour expression. He looked about as tough as they come.

9:17 a.m. We pulled the packages of all known associates of Jules Martin. None of them matched the description of the smaller suspect.

We returned to the third floor. While Andy and LaMonica were phoning their witnesses in the assault-and-battery case, we phoned James Dehelvey at his store and asked if he could come down to the Police Building to look at some more pictures. He said he would be over immediately.

10:17 a.m. James Dehelvey arrived at the Police Building. He was shown a group of mugg shots that included the suspect’s picture. The first time through he gave no indication of recognizing any. The second time he went through more slowly, paused when he reached Jules Martin’s picture, and tentatively set it aside. When he had shuffled through and rejected the rest, he picked up Martin’s mugg shot and studied it carefully.

“I don’t think this is the man,” he said finally. “But he has very similar features. You could almost use this picture on a ‘wanted’ poster.”

I said, “If he looks so much like him, what makes you think it isn’t him?”

“This character is an out-and-out tough,” Dehelvey explained. “You can tell just by looking at him that he’s a coarse, brutal type of person. The man who held me up looked like a scholar. It’s hard to explain, but they’re just different types.”

“Maybe it’s the photography,” Frank suggested. “Mugg shots aren’t very flattering.”

Dehelvey gave his head a positive shake. “I’m sure it isn’t the same man.”

We told Dehelvey that we were putting out a want on the suspect anyway, and that if he were apprehended, we would like him to view a show-up. Dehelvey said he would be glad to.

Later that day muggs of Jules Martin were shown to the bartender of the tavern where the assault had taken place, to three customers, and to the two victims. The latter were still hospitalized, one with a broken jaw and the other with three broken ribs. All six witnesses positively identified the suspect.

A local and an APB were gotten out on Jules Martin. His mugg shot was reproduced in quantity and distributed to the outside members of the force. Word was passed down to police informers to be on the lookout for him.

Unless he had fled this part of the country since the assault, it was now only a matter of time until he was apprehended.

We sat back to wait.