The chief of detectives told him that George Whiteman had refused to waive extradition. However, because of the seriousness of the crimes charged against him in California, he didn’t contemplate any difficulty from the Missouri end. He suggested that if the State of California would petition for extradition immediately, we could probably have the man as soon as the papers were in order.
Captain Hertel phoned the district attorney to relay on this information. This set the wheels in motion.
There is very little red tape connected with an extradition proceeding in a criminal case when the state holding the suspect in custody is as anxious to get rid of him as the petitioning state is to get him. Within twenty-four hours the district attorney’s office had prepared a request for extradition and had sent it, along with a statement of facts concerning the case, to the governor of California.
Twenty-four hours after that, it was back in the district attorney’s hands, signed by the governor. That afternoon we held a conference with Captain Hertel and Chief Brown.
“These just came over from the district attorney’s office,” Chief Brown said, indicating the extradition papers on the desk before him. “We may as well send someone after the suspect at once and wind the case up.”
When none of us said anything, the chief said to Captain Hertel, “Friday and Smith have been in on this case from the first. They may as well finish it.”
“I was going to suggest sending them,” the captain said. He turned to us. “I think we’ve got this guy cold because of the fingerprint makes, but we want to make sure of a conviction. We want to tag him with every bit of evidence we have. It would be nice if he still had in his possession the shoes he wore the night he killed that Marine.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We’ll check with the St. Louis police and see if we can bring back every pair of shoes he owns.”
“Bring back any guns the St. Louis police found in his possession, too. We’ll want to make ballistic comparisons.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Hertel said, “A tie-in on the watch the Marine jerked from his killer’s wrist would help, too. Better take it along and see if you can get a make on that in St. Louis.”
“Uh-huh.”
“One other thing. Even more important than the evidence.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Hang on to the suspect.”
On Monday, October 14th, at 8:45 a.m., Frank and I caught TWA Flight Number 24 from International Airport. We landed at Kansas City at 3:17 p.m. Missouri time. Train connections to Jefferson City got us to the state capitol too late to find the governor’s office open that day. We put up at a hotel overnight and were at the governor’s office when it opened on Tuesday morning.
An hour later we were on a train for St. Louis with the signature of the governor of the State of Missouri on our extradition order.
4:56 P.M. We arrived by taxi at St. Louis Police Headquarters on Twelfth Street. We took the elevator upstairs and found the chief of detectives’ office. Chief of Detectives Stanley Helton was expecting us.
The St. Louis chief of detectives was a tall, heavy-set man of about sixty with a square, rocklike face and a clipped manner of speaking. After giving us cordial handshakes, he asked us to sit down. His manner struck me as unusually solemn, and I wondered if he was always that way. But his first words suggested there was an immediate reason for his solemnity.
“Afraid you men have wasted a trip,” he said. “We tried to phone you at Jefferson City, but you’d already left by train.”
“What do you mean, sir?” I asked.
“We’ve been holding Whiteman in the city jail. This morning we started to transfer him to the detention jail in this building, so he’d be all set to go when you arrived.”
“Yes, sir.”
“En route he escaped.”
Frank and I looked at each other.
“We’re still not quite sure how he managed it,” the chief of detectives said. “He was handcuffed to a police officer in the back seat of a police car. Another officer was on his other side, though not handcuffed to him, and a third was driving. We knew the suspect was dangerous, and we weren’t taking any chances.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Somehow he managed to knock out the officer on his left. We think with a judo chop to the Adam’s apple. We’re not certain, because the blow damaged the officer’s vocal cords, and he isn’t yet able to talk.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Whiteman seems to be faster than a streak of lightning because he managed to get hold of the unconscious officer’s gun before the officer he was handcuffed to could get his out. He cracked the second officer over the head and knocked him unconscious, too.”
I said, “I see.”
“Then, at gunpoint, he forced the driver to cross MacArthur Bridge over to East St. Louis. That’s across the river on the Illinois side, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Couple of miles beyond East St. Louis on Route Forty, he had the driver pull over to the side of the road. Forced him to unlock the cuffs and haul the unconscious men out of the car. Left the three officers there. The police car was found abandoned a mile farther on. We figure he pulled some motorist over by using his siren, and commandeered the car at gunpoint. The Illinois police have set up roadblocks all the way to the Indiana border, but haven’t netted him yet.”
Frank asked, “What time did all this happen, sir?”
“Ten o’clock this morning. We started a search for the squad car twenty minutes later, when it didn’t show on schedule and couldn’t be contacted by radio. But it was past noon before it was located over in Illinois. That gave him a two-hour start, and he’s had five more hours to get wherever he’s going since then.”
I said, “Something I don’t understand. Wasn’t the conscious officer able to get to a phone quicker than that, sir?”
Chief Helton stared at me. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“What?”
He scowled. “Even if we catch this guy, you’ve wasted a trip. There won’t be any extradition now.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Before he drove off, Whiteman had the driver drag the two unconscious officers into a ditch alongside the road. So no passing motorist would see them and stop to investigate, we suppose. Gave him more time to make a getaway.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then he made sure the driver wouldn’t get to a phone.”
“How was that?” I asked.
“He put a bullet in him. The officer lived long enough to make a statement, but died on the way to the hospital.”
Chapter XVII
5:31 p.m. We talked to the officers who had originally arrested George Whiteman, and were allowed to examine the file on the case. The suspect had been apprehended just before midnight on Tuesday, October 8th. He had been caught in the act during a lovers’ lane robbery on Forest Park’s Art Hill, a favorite parking place for petters. The St. Louis police had no package on him showing a previous record.
The property section had two pairs of shoes that had been found in Whiteman’s room after his arrest. We asked that they be released to us, and were granted the request.
The gun in the suspect’s possession at the time of his arrest was a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. As no other weapons were found either on his person or in the room he had at the time, apparently he had disposed of the gun he took from me the night of the kidnapping.
The St. Louis police did not want to release the .38 to us, as they now wanted the suspect prosecuted for murder in the neighboring State of Illinois in the event that he was apprehended. To policemen everywhere a cop-killing is the supreme crime, and it was understandable that the rewards offered in California now meant nothing to the St. Louis police. Their prime concern was the suspect’s apprehension and conviction for the murder of a St. Louis police officer.