And we knew he wanted to kill me.
This wasn’t the first threat I had ever received. I couldn’t count the number of convicted felons who had snarled threats of revenge as they were led away to prison after being convicted on the basis of my testimony. Every police officer is used to such threats, and dismisses them for what they are: the childish and momentary anger of caught criminals railing at their fate.
But this wasn’t in the same category. This threat was from a dangerous and nameless killer who I knew wouldn’t hesitate an instant to carry out his threat, if he had the opportunity. He had already twice demonstrated that he would kill on the slightest provocation.
Then another thought struck me. Harriet Shaffer’s name had been included in the news item, too, and the item had said that it was believed the first wound the bandit had received had been inflicted by Harriet’s gun.
I went to the phone to call Valley Juvenile Division and find out if Harriet had received a similar threatening note.
When I got her on the phone, I said, “Joe Friday, Harriet. How are things going?”
“Fine, Joe,” she said. “What’s up? Another decoy assignment?”
“Not tonight,” I told her. “Just checking up to see how you survived the ordeal of that night.”
“Me?” she said. “You were the one hurt.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Anything interesting going up that way?”
“Just, the usual. Runaways, vandalism, Two-eighty-eights.” Her voice sounded a little puzzled.
Since she didn’t mention an anonymous note, I knew she hadn’t received one. There was no point in upsetting her by telling her about mine.
“Well, see you around,” I said.
“Sure, Joe,” she said. She sounded even more puzzled.
I hung up.
While I had been phoning, Frank had been preparing a supplemental local bulletin giving the information that the suspect was still believed to be in town, and asking all officers to be on the lookout for him. He showed it to me, and when I agreed with the wording, he got it out.
“Let’s go talk to the skipper,” I said.
We went in to see Lieutenant Newton. As it was now well past 6:00 p.m., Captain Hertel had gone home and the night-watch commander was in charge.
After showing the lieutenant the anonymous note and explaining what we had done about it, I said, “Harriet Shaffer hasn’t received a similar one, but the suspect knows from the news item that she put a bullet in him, too. We think she ought to have some protection.”
The lieutenant thoughtfully scratched an ear. “Think she’d accept it?”
I said, “We are going to suggest not asking her. Just put her under protective surveillance until we net this guy.” Lieutenant Newton nodded. “Might be best. I’ll check with Chief Brown and see what he says. I think he’s still around.”
“Might suggest stakeouts on me, too,” I said. “If this joker’s serious, it’s the best break we’ve had yet. We might catch him in the act of potting at me.”
After thinking this over, the lieutenant said, “Yeah, I guess we better stake you out. This guy is top priority, and we haven’t a whisper on where he’s holed up. But if he means this threat, we know where he might show. Somewhere you are. Stick around while I talk to the chief.”
He rose from his desk and walked off down the hall to the chief of detectives’ office. He was gone only about ten minutes.
“All set up,” he said when he walked back into the office. “The chief’s on the phone arranging it now. We figure he won’t try to take you while you’re on duty, but he might at your place, or en route to work or home. So starting tonight, you’ll be under surveillance every minute you’re off duty. There’ll be three triplex-radio cars tailing you to and from work, alternating every few blocks so that the suspect won’t tab them as tails. They’ll also be on you whenever you leave home during off-duty hours. To make it easy for them, we want you to phone in ten minutes before you leave your place any time you plan to go anywhere off-duty, even if it’s only down to the corner for a paper. That’ll give Communications time to alert the stakeouts, and eliminate the chance of a slipup.”
I nodded. It didn’t occur to any of us that there was anything strange about an armed police officer suggesting and getting this type of protection against a lone bandit. It was simply normal routine. It’s only in western stories that lawmen go up against killers man-to-man. In dealing with a dangerous criminal, you can’t play Marquis of Queensberry rules. You use every facility you have.
Even with stakeouts following me around, it wasn’t an even contest. On the surface the odds were all on my side. I was backed by an army of 4,400 police officers, armed with the finest law-enforcement equipment in the world. My opponent was a lone man, hunted and in danger of being recognized every time he stepped outdoors.
That was only on the surface, though. I was a known quantity to the suspect; he was an unknown one to me. If he didn’t already know where my Westlake-district apartment was, he could find out by the simple method of looking in a city directory. Without much difficulty he could learn my daily routine: the time I left for work, the route over which I drove my Ford to the Police Building, the time I usually arrived home after work. He had the advantage of being able to pick his time and place. A single shot from a recessed doorway when I stopped for a traffic light would end the contest.
On the other hand, I had no idea where to look for him. I had seen him but once, fleetingly, at night. I knew practically nothing about him, except that he was a killer. Not even his name.
It was a little like fighting a wraith.
Chapter X
During the next three weeks there was no activity on the part of the Courteous Killer, and no progress made toward his apprehension. The stakeouts on Harriet Shaffer and me continued without result.
You can’t continue such an operation indefinitely. On Wednesday, September 4th, Frank and I attended a conference in Chief Brown’s office during which it was decided that the suspect must have left the city. The stakeouts were pulled that night.
Three days later, Saturday, September 7th, was my day off.
I arrived home from a movie at 9:30. I shucked off my coat, laid my gun and holster on an end table, loosened my tie, kicked off my shoes and put on lounging slippers. I was having a sandwich and a glass of milk in the Pullman kitchen when the doorbell sounded.
I was surprised, because I don’t often have visitors at that hour. When the Detective Headquarters Unit calls me out on a case, it always contacts me by phone. As I headed for the door, it occurred to me that my phone might be out of order, and that Headquarters Unit might have sent a cruising squad car to deliver a message. As the only message I would be getting at this time of night would be to go out on an emergency case, I hoped that my guess was wrong.
It was. But when I opened the door, I wished I could reverse the hope.
He stood there in the hall with an amiable smile on his face, his eyes glinting cheerfully behind his rimless glasses. He wore a light-tan Panama hat, a brown sport coat, and light-tan slacks. A blue-steel .38 revolver pointed at my belt buckle.
He didn’t say anything. He merely moved forward. I didn’t say anything, either. I moved backward.
He pushed the door closed with his left hand, looked me up and down, and decided I didn’t need a shakedown. His gaze quickly flicked over the room, settled on the holstered gun lying on the end table. He circled around me sidewise, keeping me covered, until he reached the table. He lifted the gun without taking his eyes from me and dropped it in his pocket.