Dragnet: The Case of the Courteous Killer. Richard Deming
did he look like?” I asked.
“He was about forty-five, with a round, cheerful face and rimless glasses. About five feet eight and stockily built. I’d guess about one hundred seventy-five pounds.”
Frank entered the description in his notebook. “You get a real good look at him?”
“Oh, yes. There’s nearly a full moon tonight, you know. Then, too, I examined him quite carefully, because I wasn’t in the least frightened, you see. Not at first, I mean. Later I thought I’d have hysterics.”
“How was that?” I asked.
“He seemed so gentle and so courteous. He wasn’t frightening at all. It just didn’t seem possible that so nice-acting a man would hurt anyone. Even the gun wasn’t frightening. Matter of fact, it seemed kind of ridiculous for him to be pointing it at us.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I guess he impressed Harold the same way. The man was so unassuming, I suppose Harold thought he could take the gun away from him. All of a sudden he grabbed for it.”
“Go on,” I said.
“I never saw anyone move so fast. The gun flashed out like a—well, I hate clichés, but the only simile that fits is, like a striking snake. It landed alongside Harold’s head, and Harold dropped like a—this is another cliché, but he dropped like a poled ox. I opened my mouth to scream, but the holdup man stopped me.”
“How?” I asked.
“His voice changed. All of a sudden it was cold as ice. He said, ‘Madam, if you utter one peep, I’ll put a bullet in your—ah—intestines.’”
“Intestines?” Frank asked, with raised brows.
Wilma Stenson flushed. “I guess the actual word he used was ‘guts.’ Anyway, I saw he meant it, and I just froze. He took the bag from my hand, took out the money in it, and quite courteously handed back the bag. Then he leaned over Harold, emptied his wallet—I don’t believe Harold had more than two or three dollars—and dropped the wallet next to him. He said, ‘Please don’t make any disturbance now, or I’ll have to return.’ Then he walked off down the road.”
“He didn’t have a car?” I asked.
“He may have had one farther along. But he was still walking when he disappeared from sight. I’m not sure exactly what happened then, because I was almost in hysterics. Harold was unconscious and a dead weight, but somehow I got him into the car and drove here. I don’t remember much about it. It was like moving in a dream.”
Frank said, “They tell you how bad Mr. Green is hurt?”
“They said a probable fractured skull. He won’t die, though, I’m sure. He has a marvelous constitution. Then, too, youth is on his side.”
“Huh?” I said.
She dimpled prettily. “He’s somewhat younger than me, you know. I don’t know why younger men find me so attractive, but they do. Perhaps it’s because they so often mistake me for much younger than I am. How old do you think I am, Sergeant?”
I grunted.
“You may not believe it, but I’m nearly thirty.”
“Oh?” I said. “How much younger is Mr. Green?”
“Several years. He’s just eighteen.”
CHAPTER II
1:38 a.m. We continued to question Wilma Stenson. She told us that the holdup had occurred at approximately eleven o’clock, and that she and her fellow victim had been in her car, a 1957 Thunderbird. She had arrived at the hospital about midnight. She said the bandit had taken about a hundred and fifty dollars in bills from her purse.
She also told us that in the confusion of the moment she had neglected to pick up Harold Green’s wallet, which the bandit had dropped to the ground after he emptied it. She offered to show us the spot where she and the injured man had been parked.
Frank phoned Robbery Division to acquaint them with the facts in the case, as this was a robbery case as well as one for Homicide, and we would work together on it. Robbery said they would send over a team to meet us at the hospital.
Frank also phoned the description of the suspect and MO to R & I and arranged for a local and an APB broadcast giving the suspect’s description. As Wilma Stenson was quite certain the bandit had not touched the car at any time during the robbery, we didn’t call Latent Prints. If we managed to locate the wallet the robber had handled, we could take it in for examination instead of requiring a man to go to the scene.
We didn’t call the Crime Lab at this point, either. If we found any evidence at the scene of the crime for S.I.D. to work on, we could call for a man from the lab by radio. Frank did request Robbery to bring along a camera man, however, in case we required photographs of the scene.
The doctor who had treated Harold Green told us the victim was now conscious, and that while X-rays showed a definite skull fracture, there didn’t seem to be any brain damage. We would not be able to question him for at least twenty-four hours, though. The doctor said Green would be transferred to County Hospital in the morning, and that we would probably be permitted to talk to him there the following night.
The team from Robbery consisted of Sergeant Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher. They brought along a civilian photographer from the Photo Lab.
After introducing the Robbery team to Mrs. Stenson and briefly going over the situation with them again, we all drove out to Laurel Canyon Road. Mrs. Stenson rode with us in the back seat of Unit 7K10, while the Robbery unit followed.
A couple of hundred yards from where Laurel Canyon Road crossed Mulholland Drive, Wilma Stenson told us to slow down. I plugged the cord of the hand spotlight into its dashboard socket and directed the beam at the shoulder. Frank let the car creep along at five miles an hour while Mrs. Stenson and I examined the ground alongside the road. Behind us the other car also switched on its spot.
At intervals along the road, cars were parked with dimmed lights—couples taking advantage of the romantic moon. As soon as our spots went on, engines came to life and the cars hurriedly pulled away. Within seconds we had the road to ourselves as far as we could see.
We had moved at this snail’s pace about a hundred yards when Wilma Stenson said dubiously, “I don’t think it was this close to Mulholland Drive.”
Frank halted the car, and behind us Vance Brasher halted the one he was driving. Ahead we could see the lights of an occasional car moving along Mulholland Drive.
Swinging in a U-turn, Frank started back the way we had come, driving on the left side of the road and turning on his red blinker to warn any oncoming traffic, even though there wasn’t any at the moment. The other car swung around also and continued to follow.
Only a few yards beyond where Mrs. Stenson had first told us to slow down, I suddenly spotted the leather wallet lying next to the road. Simultaneously Wilma Stenson said, “There it is!”
Frank pulled over to the right and parked on the shoulder. The Robbery unit parked behind us.
All six of us crossed the road and stood looking at the wallet without stepping off the concrete. Marty Wynn and I both illuminated the scene with flashlights. Tire marks showing where the car had been parked were faintly visible in the dirt of the shoulder. Six gold-tipped cigarette butts lay on the edge of the concrete, where they had been tossed from the driver’s side of the car. Six untipped butts lay near the wallet, where they had been dropped from the other side.
Wilma Stenson flushed when she saw me looking at the butts. In a faint voice she said, “Maybe we were here a little longer than I thought.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Marty Wynn and I stopped at the edge of the road and carefully examined the ground. While the tire marks, though faint, were clear enough, the ground was too hard and dry to show footprints. There