He then had the officers file up onto the stage a team at a time, and pointed out to each team the point on the map where it was to park. When all locations had been assigned, he appointed a half dozen additional teams to act as rolling stakeouts in different areas. Frank and I were assigned the eastern portion of Mulholland Drive from the place Coldwater Canyon intersected it up to the Outpost Estates, where the most recent robbery had occurred.
When this was finished, Captain Hertel released the extra officers and had the ones he had picked file back to their seats.
“The idea is to look like lovemaking couples,” he said. “Each team can decide which one is to play the role of the woman. No elaborate disguises will be necessary, because it will be dark. A woman’s hat and coat should be sufficient. I want every car in its assigned place by eight thirty P.M. The rolling stakeouts will report in by radio when all cars in their sections are in position.”
He paused a moment, then went on. “You all know how dangerous this suspect is. He’s killed three times, and he’s injured several more people. He won’t hesitate to kill again. We’d like to take him alive, but don’t take any chances. We don’t want any dead police officers. If you have to shoot, make sure you don’t miss.” Slowly he ran his gaze over the assembled group, then finished by saying, “Good hunting.” The briefing session had lasted forty-five minutes. It broke up at 7:45 p.m., which gave the officers only forty-five minutes to decide which would act the parts of women, put on simple disguises, and get into position. Some borrowed hats and coats from female employees in the building. Others, who lived nearby or on the way to the canyon-roads area, drove home to get hats and coats from their wives.
8:26 p.m. Frank and I started at the point Coldwater Canyon Drive intersects Mulholland Drive, and began to check the cars in our detail. The eleven cars assigned to us were spotted along Mulholland between that point and the Outpost Estates. Only three were police undercover cars equipped with two-way radios. The remaining eight were privately owned by the officers driving them. We placed one radio car at either end of our area and the third in the center.
As we drove slowly along Mulholland Drive, Frank said, “Moon makes it bright enough now, but it feels like a fog’s coming up.”
I stuck my head out the window to glance up at the clear sky, pulled it back in, and looked at Frank. “What do you mean, feels like it? You got a corn that tells you about changes in the weather?”
Frank shrugged. “I can always feel fog coming up, Joe. Don’t know how. Just feel it in my bones. You watch. By ten o’clock we won’t be able to see a dozen feet in front of us.”
I grunted. Then as we approached the next curve, I said, “Hold it up.”
Frank let the car drift over onto the shoulder and stop. He looked at me inquiringly.
“Ramirez and Emlet aren’t in position yet,” I said. “Ought to be along any minute now. May as well wait.”
Even as I spoke, a green Ford sedan drove past us from behind, drew off on the shoulder, and parked. Frank shifted into drive and pulled up alongside of it.
Tony Ramirez, in the driver’s seat, peered across at us. He grinned and said, “Three minutes late, boss. Jacqueline couldn’t get her lipstick on straight.”
Jack Emlet growled, “Keep it up, Buster. Just keep it up.” He was wearing a woman’s coat draped over his shoulders and a floppy-brimmed woman’s hat. He stared across at Frank and me belligerently, waiting for a comment.
Frank said, “You don’t have to be self-conscious, Jack. I think you look lovely.”
Emlet made an impolite sound. Ramirez said, “With this moon, I don’t think it’s going to work, Joe.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“The suspect gets a good look at Jacqueline’s face, he’ll know we’re plants. He’d know a good-looking fellow like me wouldn’t be out with a hag like this.”
Emlet said, “If he sees your face, he’ll know it’s a phony setup, too. A guy as ugly as you couldn’t even get a hag to park with him.”
Frank said, “Maybe you both better hide your faces.”
“Yeah,” I said. “One thing you better not hide, though.”
“What’s that?” Ramirez asked.
“Your guns. Keep them in your laps.”
We rode on to check the rest of the detail. All the other cars were now in position. I lifted the radio microphone from its bracket and reported that we were all set.
For the rest of the night, up till 2:00 a.m., we rolled up and down Mulholland Drive checking on the decoys. As Frank had predicted, a fog settled down about 10:00 p.m. By eleven it was so thick we had to creep along at ten miles an hour. The Courteous Killer didn’t appear. At 2:00 a.m. we were ordered to close up shop for the night. We made one final run to pass the order along to the decoy cars.
Sunday night was a repetition of the first night. Monday, December 1st, we set up the decoys again. And again Frank predicted fog.
11:21 p.m. We were approaching the Outpost Estates at the eastern end of our assigned territory. Frank’s prediction had been right for the second time. Fog had started to descend about 10:00 p.m., gradually thickened until visibility was cut to a dozen feet.
As we crept along, Frank said, “Got another hunch, too, Joe.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“This one isn’t anything physical. Not like telling the temperature by my feet, or feeling fog in my bones.”
“Uh-huh. What is it?”
“It’s sort of psychological. You believe in psychology?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t know much about it.”
“Fay brought home a book the other day. Talked about the experiments they’ve been running at Duke University. Extrasensory perception, they call it. Sort of like mind reading. Tells about some pretty weird cases. The woman who dreamed her son was drowning, for instance. Didn’t even know he was on a ship. Thought he was in an Army camp in Texas. But next day she got a telegram from the War Department saying his troopship had been torpedoed and he’d drowned in exactly the way she’d dreamed it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“Some of the stuff’s hard to believe. But there must be something to it. These professors aren’t just crackpots. The whole study’s being run like a scientific investigation.”
“Sure,” I said. “You gonna get to the point?”
“Huh?”
“What’s your hunch?”
“Oh, that,” Frank said. “I think he’s going to hit tonight.”
Chapter XXIII
The parking lights of the last car in our assigned territory appeared out of the fog. Sergeant Marty Wynn and Vance Brasher were in this car. Because of the fog we had been moving at only ten miles an hour. Frank slowed to five as we passed the car.
I said, “Okay, Marty?” as we drifted by.
“Quiet as a barrel of butterflies,” Marty’s voice came back.
We rounded the last bend, and Frank stepped up the speed to ten miles an hour again. Suddenly a car, parked on the shoulder without light loomed out of the fog. As we crawled past it, our lights momentarily picked out a mist-shrouded figure standing on the far side of the car.
We were past then, and fog swallowed both the car and the figure. Fifty feet beyond was the entrance to a narrow road that wound up the mountainside to one of the Outpost Estates. We had been using it as our turning-around point at the end of each run. As Frank swung the car into it and backed out again, he said, “Check him out, huh?”