“No.”
“Were any weapons found at the location of your arrest or elsewhere?”
“No.” There was another pause, then, “Well, I had a pocket knife on me.”
The sergeant asked, “Do you own a car?”
“No.”
“Is a car available to you?”
“A tow truck at the station. Just for work.”
Nothing happened for a short period, then the stage lights dimmed to the blue-purple cast of a starlit night. After a moment they brightened slightly to simulate moonlight.
As the lights came up bright again, the sergeant said, “All right. Step back.”
Fourteen hands shot up in the audience. As exactly fourteen victims of the Courteous Killer were present, that meant all of them had identified him.
The sergeant droned, “Hold Number One to bring back later.”
Frank leaned over to me and whispered, “That ought to clinch it. Fourteen makes.”
On the basis of the many identifications, the district attorney issued a complaint against George Whiteman on Wednesday, October 2nd. The following day the suspect was held to answer at a preliminary hearing in Division 34 of the Municipal Court. He was bound over for the charges filed against him and transferred to the County Jail in the custody of the sheriff. A date was set for his arraignment in the Superior Court.
This by no means ended Frank’s and my responsibility in the case. Our investigation had barely begun.
The purpose of a police investigation in a criminal case is to gather, evaluate, and preserve evidence, so that the prosecuting attorney can prove in court what happened. It is not just to gather evidence that will assure a conviction, however. It’s to establish the truth, which means that evidence of the innocence of the accused person is sought after as diligently as evidence of his guilt.
Every phase of activity on the part of George Whiteman during the period of the Courteous Killer’s operations was checked out. He claimed to have left Los Angeles on September 4th, which, if we could establish it as a fact, would eliminate him as having been my kidnaper. Contact was made with the man Whiteman said had promised him a job in Kansas City. It was verified that there had been such a promise, that the suspect had shown for the job, and that arrangements had fallen through. However, he had not reported until September 9th. The suspect claimed it had taken him five days to hitchhike from Los Angeles to Kansas City, and that he had slept in fields en route. He was unable to give us the license numbers of cars that had given him rides, or the identities of anyone he had had contact with en route.
He was given every opportunity to produce alibis for the dates and times of the Courteous Killer’s robberies. He was unable to come up with any for even one of the dates. Even for the periods when he was off work for claimed illness, his landlady testified that he frequently went out at night.
The circumstantial case against him seemed complete.
Nevertheless, it was entirely circumstantial, and he continued to insist he was innocent. I found myself making frequent trips to the County Jail while the investigation was going on. Ostensibly the reason for these visits was to attempt to get him to make a statement admitting his guilt. Actually I knew I had to keep looking him over to reassure myself we had the right man.
On Wednesday, October 9th, I met Frank at the Police Academy at 2:00 p.m. for our monthly qualification shoot. Every Los Angeles police officer must qualify on the pistol range once a month. If he scores high enough, he can have two, four, eight, or sixteen dollars a month added to his pay. A good natural shot can make four dollars with no practice other than the monthly qualification shoot. To make higher, shooting almost has to be your hobby. The $16 shooters probably spend more than sixteen dollars a month on practice ammunition.
While waiting our turns, I tore a piece of Kleenex in half and wadded part into each ear. Most officers stuff either cotton or Kleenex in their ears when they fire on the range. Rookies sometimes smile at this habit, considering it a sign of sissiness. After a couple of shoots, they’re doing it themselves, though. The concussion from gunfire is highly damaging to eardrums, particularly when men are firing both sides of you. Police officers can’t afford to develop hearing defects. Loosely wadded cotton or Kleenex breaks the effects of concussion without cutting your ability to hear in the slightest.
I noticed that Frank wasn’t stuffing his ears. “Want some Kleenex?” I asked.
“No, thanks,” he said. “Got a new idea I want to try out.”
The range sergeant, seated behind his desk across the room, called our numbers then. We stepped out on the porch to line up. I laid my gun and can of ammo on the brick railing edging the porch, and turned to see what Frank was doing. He was bending over the box where used brass was thrown, picking out a couple of empty shell casings. He straightened and fitted one into each ear.
“Ready-made earplugs,” he said. “Fit perfect.”
As we waited for the other officers who were going to fire to get in line, I said, “Frank, I’ve been thinking about this George Whiteman.”
“What?” he asked.
“I said I’ve been thinking about George Whiteman.”
Frank removed one of the shell casings from his ear. “Can’t hear through these like you can cotton. What did you say?”
“Never mind,” I told him. “We’re almost ready to shoot.” Shrugging, he reinserted the casing.
The order came, “Ready on the right.”
I picked up my gun and faced the targets in the open area directly in front of the porch railing. Frank glanced at me and picked up his, too.
“Ready on the left.”
I raised my gun, from the corner of my eye saw Frank’s head momentarily turn toward me, and then his gun came up, too.
“Commence firing.”
We finished the slow firing and began to reload.
“Work perfect,” Frank said.
“The earplugs?”
“What?” he asked.
I shook my head at him.
“Only trouble is I couldn’t hear the orders,” Frank said. “Had to watch what you were doing.”
When we had fired time, rapid fire, and silhouette, we went inside to return our ammo cans and wait for our scores. I wadded up the Kleenex and dropped it in my pocket. “What were you trying to tell me out there?” Frank asked.
I said, “I was talking about George Whiteman.”
“What?”
I looked at him. He still had the shell casings in his ears. I reached out with both hands, removed them, and dropped them in his palm.
“Oh,” Frank said. “Forgot to take them out.”
The range sergeant called us over to give us our scores then. Despite his inability to hear the orders, Frank had shot as well as usual.
As we walked toward our cars, I said, “This is the fourth time I’ve said it. I’ve been thinking about George Whiteman.”
“Yeah?”-
“It’s all circumstantial evidence.”
“Sure,” Frank said. “But it all fits.”
“How about those horn-rimmed glasses? The Courteous Killer always wore rimless ones.”
Frank glanced at me. “He could have broken the others and had new ones made.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “How about him not having a limp?”
“The doctor explained that. It could have been that com he cut off. Whiteman has the scars of two wounds, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Or two cuts from tin cans. How about neither pair of his shoes matching the plaster casts?”
Frank glanced at me again. “He could have worn the original pair out and have thrown them away, like Pinker suggested. The size was right.”
“Sure,” I said. “He throw away his gun, too, and the one he lifted from me?”
We reached the place where our cars were parked, and Frank stopped to stare at me curiously.