9:27 p.m. We drove over to Stoddard’s Texaco Station on Moorpark. The place stayed open till 11:00 p.m., and we found Earl Stoddard, the proprietor, still there. He was a plump, middle-aged man with an easygoing manner.
The filling-station proprietor could give us no information about George Whiteman’s evening activities on the dates we were interested in. However, he did have a record of the days the suspect had missed work because of illness. One of the periods was from Sunday, August 4th, through Friday, August 9th.
“I remembered I suspected at the time he’d been on a toot Saturday night, and all he really had was a hangover,” Stoddard told us. “Must’ve really been sick, though, to stay out six days. When he went on a bust, usually he only missed a day or two afterward.”
The record showed that he had missed several other periods from work because of claimed illness, but none of the others were for more than three days at a time.
As we drove back to the Police Building, Frank said, “Funny he laid off sick two days before he was shot.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Course, he might have gone on a drunk on Saturday the third, like Stoddard seemed to think, and missed a couple of days because of that. Then missed more time because of his wounds.”
“One way to find out,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Have a doctor look him over for a couple of eight-week-old wounds.”
Chapter XV
Back at the Police Building, we signed the suspect out and took him to the Central Receiving Hospital, where we had him examined by a doctor for evidence of gunshot wounds inflicted approximately eight weeks before.
It developed that the suspect had two recently formed scars that could have been from gunshot flesh wounds. One was on the fleshy inside part of his left thigh; the other was a light scar on his left forearm that could have been made by a bullet barely searing the flesh. Whiteman claimed that both were the result of a fall he had suffered about two months previously when he was cutting across a vacant lot in an intoxicated condition. He said he had fallen on some tin cans, cutting his leg and arm, and that he had not sought medical attention for the injuries.
I asked the doctor to check for any sign of an old injury to the suspect’s right leg.
After examining it, the doctor said, “Don’t see any. We could X-ray it if it’s important. Is it?”
I said, “Man we’re looking for favors his right leg. No noticeable limp except when he’s on stairs, but then it’s pretty definite. We figured he had some kind of leg injury.”
The doctor gave the leg another examination and then looked at the man’s foot. He said, “There’s the mark of a corn having recently been removed from the right big toe. A corn could cause a temporary limp.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, I guess that does it. Thanks, Doctor.”
We had the suspect dress and took him back to the Felony Section.
I wasn’t very satisfied with the physical examination. It left me feeling vaguely uneasy. After Whiteman was back in his cell, I stood in the corridor for a time carefully looking him over. The size and shape of his body were identical to that of the man who had kidnapped me. The contours of his face were the same. His voice was the same.
The feeling of uneasiness died. I was reassured that we had the right man.
Regular showups are held in the first-floor auditorium of the Police Building on Monday and Thursday nights at 8:00 p.m. As we didn’t want to wait until Thursday to complete our case, we scheduled a special showup for Tuesday night. We arranged for all victims of the Courteous Killer who could make it to attend.
Meantime, the Crime Lab checked the shoes the suspect had been wearing at the time of his arrest, and also the shoes Frank and I had found in his closet, against the plaster casts of the footprints lifted at the scene of Marine Sergeant Nick Grotto’s murder. Before I checked in at Homicide at 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday, October 1st, I stopped by the Crime Lab to find out the results of these comparisons.
Ray Pinker shook his head. “They’re the same size shoes, Joe, but neither pair are the ones the suspect wore that night. Of course, it’s been four months. He might have worn the others out and have thrown them away.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, Ray.”
When I walked into the Homicide squad room, Frank was already there. I said, “Pinker didn’t come up with a match on the shoes.”
Frank said gloomily, “McLaughlin didn’t turn anything, either. Just talked to Latent Prints. Suspect’s prints don’t match either the partial on Harold Green’s wallet, or the thumbprint on that seat-adjustment knob.”
I grunted.
“Doesn’t mean that he’s not our man, though,” Frank said. “McLaughlin says there’s no proof the suspect made either of those prints. Maybe Green handed his wallet to somebody to look at a picture. Maybe somebody came along while it was lying there, picked it up, then dropped it again when he found it didn’t have any money in it. And anybody could have left that print on the seat-adjustment knob. Some grease monkey, for instance, when the car was left at a station to be washed or greased.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you know something?”
“What?”
“I’d feel better if they matched.”
8:07 p.m. The audience in the auditorium was seated, and the sergeant at the control board at the rear of the room began his introductory remarks over the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is a special showup. Before we begin, I’ll explain procedure. Suspects are brought from the Felony Jail Section under maximum security. They will appear in groups of six to eight behind the copper screen you see before you, which runs the width of the stage. When the lights of the house are dimmed and the stage lights left on, you will be able to see the suspects clearly, but they will be unable to see you. Each suspect has been assigned a number. As I call his number, he will step forward into the circle painted in the center of the stage. I will ask him certain standard questions over the microphone. These are designed not for information value, but to let you hear the sound of his voice. The acoustics of this room were planned so that a person standing in the circle can be heard all over the auditorium without the aid of a microphone, thereby letting you hear his natural voice. There are also lighting controls on the panel before me which allow the adjustment of backstage lights to simulate actual lighting conditions at the time of the crime. If you recognize a suspect, please raise your hand. Identified suspects will be brought back for a second showup when the regular showup is over. Thank you for coming.”
The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up bright, and a group of six suspects were led from the right side of the stage to line up against the height chart. George Whiteman was the first in line.
The sergeant at the control panel said, “Number one. Robbery and homicide. Step forward into the circle.”
Suddenly Whiteman moved forward to the center of the stage and stood peering at the screen in front of him with lowered head.
“Raise your head, please,” the sergeant said.
The man’s chin came up. His expression remained sullen. “Where were you born?” the sergeant asked.
Whiteman muttered something in a low voice.
“Speak louder, please.”
“Columbia, Missouri.” This time he could be heard as clearly as though he were only two feet away.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-six.”
“Where were you arrested?”
“At work. Filling station on Rossmore.”
“Were you armed?”
After a pause the suspect said, “I didn’t understand that.”
“Were any weapons found on you?”