At 6:03 p.m. a voice from our radio speaker said, “Attention, Unit Seven-K-Ten. KMA-Three-Six-Seven to Seven-K-One-Oh. Come in.”
I lifted the microphone from its bracket and said into it, “Seven-K-One-Oh to Control One. Go ahead.”
“The area is now surrounded by police units. You may move in for the arrest when ready.”
“Roger,” I said. “We’ll move in now. Four Adam. Seven-K-One-Oh.”
I put the microphone back into its bracket, and we got out of the car. We walked up the street toward the station, side by side.
Frank said, “Working in a filling station, he probably won’t be armed, huh?”
“We’ll play it like he is until we’ve shaken him down,” I told him. “We take him at gunpoint.”
“Check,” Frank said, and loosened his gun in its holster.
There were no cars at the gas pumps when we approached the station. Through the open door of the garage, we could see a coveralled attendant standing beneath an elevated car with grease gun. Beyond the glass window of the office, another coveralled man stood by the cash register drinking a Coke. The latter’s face was toward us, and I could see at a glance that he wasn’t the suspect. He was a tall, redheaded man of about thirty.
The man with the grease gun had his back to us. His height and the shape of his body were identical to that of the man who had kidnapped me. We walked quietly to the door of the garage, our hands on our guns.
The coveralled man glanced idly over his shoulder. He wore no glasses, but his face was that of the Courteous Killer. He had the same graying hair, slightly receding at the forehead.
I said, “All right, Frank,” and whipped out my gun. Frank’s came up at the same instant.
“Police officers, mister,” I said. “Hold it right there.”
He froze with the grease gun still pointed upward, his back half to us and his face pointing over his shoulder. His mouth fell open in surprise.
“Drop the grease gun on the floor,” I ordered.
He opened his hand and let it fall. Frank put away his gun, moved in fast, and jerked the man’s hands behind him. The handcuffs clicked in place.
The suspect’s gaze followed us as we circled around in front of him. There was no recognition in his expression when he looked at me. Only astonishment. I kept him covered, while Frank gave him a quick but thorough shakedown.
Frank stepped back and said, “He’s clean.”
“What’s this all about?” the handcuffed man asked in a stupefied voice. The arrogant ego was gone from it, but otherwise it was the same voice my kidnaper had.
I put my gun away. “You don’t know,” I said. “You don’t recognize me. You’re just an innocent grease monkey.”
“I never saw you before in my life,” he said on a high note. “What are you talking about?”
The younger man came through the door between the garage and office. His expression was as astonished as the suspect’s. “Hey, what’s going on here?” he asked.
“Police officers,” I said, showing him my ID. “You own this place?”
“Yeah,” he said. “What have you got George handcuffed for?”
“He’s under arrest,” I told him. “How long’s he been working here?”
“About a week.” He gave his employee a fascinated look. “What’d he do?”
I said, “You must not read the papers, mister.”
“Huh,” he said. “Sure, I read the papers.”
“Then you don’t look at the pictures they publish. You just lost yourself five thousand dollars.”
“Huh?”
“Your grease monkey is the Courteous Killer.”
Chapter XIV
Back at the car, we reported by radio that the suspect was in custody and the surrounding police units could be removed. Then we drove him to the Police Building. All the way he kept assuring us that we had made a mistake.
Because of his record of violence, we took him directly to the booking desk in the Felony Section and had him booked on suspicion of robbery and homicide. Ordinarily we would have taken him to an interview room for questioning before having him booked. But the Courteous Killer was classified as too dangerous a criminal to get less than the full security treatment.
At the desk he was required to empty his pockets and was thoroughly searched. A Form 5.1 was filled out, listing the items in his possession and the amount of money he had. He wore no watch or jewelry. In his pockets he had cigarettes and matches, a handkerchief, a small pocket knife, a key ring with two keys on it, some change, and a wallet. A driver’s license in the wallet gave his name as George Whiteman and a North Hollywood address.
All these items were sealed in a manila envelope, to which the white sixth copy of the Form 5.1 was attached. The pink fifth copy was given to the prisoner as a receipt. Of the remaining copies, one would go to C.I.I. in Sacramento, one was for us, and one would go to the district attorney. The original, which contained his complete booking record in addition to the property list, was the Felony Section’s file copy.
The door leading to the cell rows was unlocked by the booking sergeant, and the prisoner was led inside to be fingerprinted. From the fingerprint desk, he was taken to the shower cell. All newly booked prisoners are required to take a shower before being assigned to a regular cell.
When he had had his shower, he was led to a cell in the first row and locked in. Frank and I remained out in the corridor. The booking sergeant left us there, locking the door at the end of the corridor when he went back to the desk.
The cells of the Felony Section are clean and modern, with white porcelain fixtures and double-decker bunks. Instead of bars, the front walls are of shatterproof herculite glass thick enough to withstand the blows of a sledge hammer. The only bars are on the doors.
George Whiteman gazed around his cell with a numb look on his face. Then he turned to us.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”
“We don’t think so,” I told him. “George Whiteman your real name?”
“Of course it is.”
“How’d you get the nickname Gig?”
He gave me a blank look. “Nobody ever called me Gig.”
I looked at him for a moment. “Still live at the address on your driver’s license?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody live with you?”
He shook his head. “It’s a rooming house. I just got one room.”
“How long you lived there?” I asked.
“Couple of weeks this trip. I’ve stayed there on and off for over a year.”
“Where’d you live before a couple of weeks back?”
“In Kansas City. I thought I had a job there, but it didn’t pan out, so I came back to Los Angeles.”
“Uh-huh. What date did you leave Los Angeles to go to Kansas City?”
“First week in September. The fourth, I think.”
September seventh was the night I had been kidnapped by the Courteous Killer. I said, “Where were you living from June nineteenth until you left for K.C.?”
“At the rooming house. I checked in about the first of May. Mrs. Lawson can tell you I’m not any bandit.”
“Who?”
“My landlady. Mrs. Lawson. You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Not from where we sit,” I told him. “What size shoe you wear?”
He looked puzzled. “Eight-and-a-half-B.”
“Where are your glasses? In your room?”
He looked even more puzzled. “What glasses?”
“The ones you read with.”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “In my room. I never wear them at work.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You told me the night of September seventh. The guns in your room, too?”