“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked thoughtful, casting her memory backward in time. “Warden. Min Warden. I remember her. But, good lands, she hasn’t lived here in years.”
“Remember how many years?” Frank asked.
Mrs. Lefferts thought some more. “Somewhere in the mid-forties. She was only here one summer. She was on vacation from back East.”
I said, “Remember from where back East?”
The landlady shook her head. “I suppose I knew at the time, but I can’t recall after all these years. What is it you want with her?”
“Just like to talk to her,” I said. “Would you have a forwarding address somewhere?”
She shook her head again. “I don’t keep records like a hotel, young man. Just a ledger showing rent payments.”
Frank said, “Would you still have the one from 1944?”
“I still got them from 1920.”
“Could we see the 1944 one?”
“Sure,” Mrs. Lefferts said. “Come on in.”
She led us into an old-fashioned sitting room and left us there while she went off to another portion of the house. A few minutes later she returned with a small ledger.
The book covered a ten-year period, from 1940 to 1950. Each tenant had a separate page, on which was listed rent payments. Unfortunately nothing but the tenant’s name appeared at the top of the page. The entries on the page devoted to Minerva Warden indicated that she had paid ten dollars per week for a room during the months of July and August, 1944.
“Don’t you keep any other records at all?” I asked. “A sign-in book, for instance, showing roomers’ former addresses?”
“No. I told you this wasn’t a hotel, young man.”
“Do you remember anything about her?” Frank asked. “What she did for a living, for example?”
Mrs. Lefferts frowned in an effort to recall. “Think she was a schoolteacher,” she said finally. “Though I’m not sure. Been dozens of other women have come and gone since then, and I may be thinking of someone else.”
I said, “Recall what she looked like?”
“Vaguely. Around thirty, as I remember. Make her in her forties now. Short and kind of mousy-looking. Light-brown hair, I think.”
“She have any boyfriends?”
She shook her head decisively. “Never that came here. Don’t recall her ever having a visitor of any sort, male or female.”
I said, “The name Gig mean anything to you?”
Mrs. Lefferts corrugated her brow, then shook her head again. “Don’t recall ever hearing it.”
We left a card with the landlady and requested her to phone the office if she remembered anything further about her former tenant. By then it was past eight thirty, and time for us to return to headquarters and get the rolling stakeout underway for the night.
The rest of the evening, until 1 a.m., we cruised the suspect’s area of operations in an undercover car. He didn’t strike that night.
Wednesday morning, July 3rd, the newspapers gave full play to the story of the lovers’ lane bandit. A composite drawing of the suspect appeared on the front pages of all papers, and the public was warned that he was dangerous. Couples were advised not to park in secluded spots, and particularly to avoid the canyon roads in the Santa Monica Mountain district.
The result was as we had predicted. The bandit’s operations stopped completely. We continued the rolling stakeout for the rest of that week and all of the next without result. The newspaper publicity had the effect of making most couples stay away from the roads commonly used as lovers’ lanes. Even the few couples who had either missed the news announcements or decided to ignore the warnings, did not park long. We investigated every parked car we saw and advised the occupants to move on.
In response to our teletype to Sacramento, George Brereton at C.I.I. sent us a couple of dozen mug shots. We checked all of them out without result.
In the middle of July we abandoned the rolling stakeout.
Meantime Frank and I had exhausted every effort to locate Minerva Warden. Her former landlady could not remember what town, or even what state she had-been from. We managed to trace three other tenants who had been at the rooming house during the summer of 1944, but none could give us any information.
The case remained open.
Chapter VI
Wife-beating is another of the twenty-two things aside from murder that it is the responsibility of Homicide Division to investigate. Monday night, July 22nd, Frank and I were called out on a wife-beating case. The wife, who had phoned the police, had changed her mind by the time we arrived, and was belligerently on the side of her husband. When we started to question the husband, she attempted to hit Frank with a frying pan.
We finally got the couple settled down, and when it seemed evident that the woman didn’t want to press charges, no arrest was made. We got back to the office at 11:23 p.m.
As I logged us in, Frank said, “Seems Metro could handle wife-beating cases, doesn’t it? I get the shivers every time we start out on one.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“You know something?” he asked. “Over the years more wives have tried mayhem on me than suspects have. Get sore at their husbands and call in a complaint, then get sore at us when we answer it. Hard to figure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come they never swing at you, Joe? Always at me.”
I grinned at him. “You never noticed, huh?”
“What?”
“When we go out on a homicide, I usually do most of the questioning. When we get a wife-beating, I let you do it.”
The hot-shot speaker suddenly blared, “Attention all units. All units in the vicinity of Parkview and Seventh Street. Two-eleven and a shooting. Female victim believed dead. Units One-A-Fifty-one and One-A-Eighty-one handle the call. No description of suspect as yet. Attention all units—”
“Let’s roll,” I said to Frank.
It was approximately two miles from the Police Building to the edge of Douglas MacArthur Park, where the shooting had taken place. As we roared out of the parking-lot exit onto First Street, I pulled the transmission microphone from its bracket and called in, “Unit Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Seven-K-One-Oh to Control One.”
“Go ahead, Seven-K-One-Oh,” the reply came.
“We are answering call at Parkview and Seventh Street. Please advise additional information.”
The voice from the speaker said, “Now have description of suspect. Described as WMA, forty to fifty years, one hundred sixty to one eighty pounds, medium height, wearing a brown sport jacket, also wears glasses. Last seen driving blue 1955 Ford sedan, California license KXT-Two-Oh-Nine on Seventh from Seventh Street and Parkview. Rolling want already broadcast to available units in area. Witness being held at scene of crime. No further information at this time. KMA-Three-Six-Seven.”
I said, “Seven-K-Ten to Control One. Roger.”
“Something familiar about that description,” Frank said.
I glanced at him. “Yeah. Fits half the male population of Los Angeles.”
Two black-and-white radio cars and an ambulance were already at the scene when we arrived. They were parked on the west side of Parkview, a short distance from Seventh. Three of the uniformed policemen from the radio cars were holding back the small crowd that had gathered. The fourth was talking to a bald-headed man of about fifty, who was in shirt sleeves, slacks, and bedroom slippers. An Oldsmobile convertible was parked in a driveway between two houses, and a blanket-covered figure lay next to it on the lawn.
I showed my ID to the officer talking to the bald-headed man and said, “Friday, Homicide.”
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “Want to look at the victim first?”
He led us over to the blanket-covered figure and pulled back the blanket. The victim was a thin blonde somewhere in her forties, a prematurely dried-up, spinsterish-looking woman. A small spot of blood showed on her right breast, and a similar one on her left, indicating that she had been shot twice. Apparently she had died instantly, for she had hardly bled at all.