Somewhere throughout the land there are probably a handful of
old men who can claim the title connected to this Hollywood icon.
On the east coast in New York City every New Year’s Eve since
1907 the ball has dropped in Times Square. People come from great
distances to be there and be part of the action.
3000 miles to the west however, we have the holy grail of
locations—Hollywood and Vine. Famous the world around. If Hal had a dollar for
every time he drove through this intersection he would have more money than Bill
Gates.
I think I can say without contradiction that Hollywood
has more strange, unusual, weird and bizarre characters than any
place else in the city. If that is not enough thousands more are imported for New
Year’s Eve.
Hollywood and Vine circa 1952
Without having specific instructions, the new comers and maybe
some locals too, are largely engaged as follows:
They are required to drink tremendous amounts of alcohol (mostly
beer), to wander aimlessly in small groups or herds, to argue at the tops of
their lungs with anyone and everyone, to challenge all comers to fight, “You
want a piece of me buddy, come on.”
And then either lose interest or forget what they were doing,
usually throwing up on anyone within range or themselves, and last but not
least to fall down and sometimes fall asleep.
The following is true, so help me. I once saw one of our coppers walking while pulling on a piece of rope, holding on to the rope were 4 or 5 real, real drunks. He said with a straight face that he was taking them to get coffee and if they didn’t have the rope, they would fall down.
There are no elves, nor grinches, no Jacob Marley and no Tiny Tim.This is the tale of one minor incident in the city on any given day.
The Call Box
I was a sergeant working Wilshire Division detectives and with three others were the “Christmas crew.” My hope for a quiet day to work on reports evaporated when a patrol officer called in a “DB” (dead body) call at the far west end of the division, the high rent area.
Homes were well-tended and pricey. I was met by the uniformand the neighbor who is a “Spring Byington” look-alike, both in looks andmannerisms. “Spring” came over to wish Merry Christmas to her friend Abigail. Receiving no answer, she went home and called. Alarmed when there was no reply, she phoned the police.
The uniform had no trouble gaining entry and found Abigail deceased.
Dressed in pajamas, quilted robe, and slippers she was seated in an overstuffed arm chair facing the tree. The remnants of a cocktail sat ona low table to her left.
From all outward appearances she died the night before. After deciding cause of death to be “natural” and thinking that was a pretty good wayof checking out, I released the uniform and turned my attention to “Spring.”
I covered Abigail’s face with a blanket and asked “Spring” about next of kin. She confirmed her friend like herself was in her 80’s and a long-time widow.
Spring Byington in Kentucky Jones 1965
Three grown children, a daughter, Ellen, living in Arizona who she spoke to by phone on a weekly basis, and two sons both estranged, whom Abigail never discussed, names unknown.
Kitchen “wall phones” were popular then and usually had a corkboard or message receptacle adjacent. Abigail did not disappoint. In one corner of the board was “E” with an Arizona number. Directly below was “T” and “D”who I hoped were the sons. Neither E nor T answered nor did a machine.
D answered, “Merry Christmas, this is Dick.” Now the crappy part. Anyone who has ever made a death notification can verify there is just no easy way. I couldn’t blurt out, “Merry Christmas, mom’s dead.” So, in my most diplomatic fashion, I gave him the news as gently as possible.
Now, this is a man who, by his later admission, had not spoken to nor made any inquiry regards his mother’s health or well-being for many years. He completely went to pieces. He was an hour away and would be enroute.
“Spring,” bless her heart, had without prompting nor asking has made a pot of coffee. We sat with our coffee sharing the silence, I finally asked about Abigail’s doctor.
“Spring” had driven her friend to the cardiologist on several occasions. He was on Wilshire and although she could not remember his name it started with “W.”
Abigail came through again when the board yielded Dr W. Department policy stated if a doctor who had seen the deceased within the last thirty days (I think) and was willing to attest to cause of death, he could sign the death certificate. Otherwise it became a coroner’s case.
Dr W’s service stated Dr G was covering for him. I asked Dr G’s
service for a call back a.s.a.p. Ten minutes later, Dr G confirmed his
association with Dr W, knew Abigail and was sure Dr W would sign off.
Thank you.
“Spring” left and when Dick arrived, he cried openly and told me of his regrets. It was awkward and there was nothing I could really say. I was finally able to calm him down enough to call a mortuary. I then walked next door responding to “Spring’s” invitation and enjoyed a very good breakfast.
The names Abigail, Ellen, T and D along with the doctors’ are invented for this story as it was long ago.
When someone mentions the 1950’s we tend to think of a more innocent time, a peaceful and happier period.
Take 1957 for example: Ike was president, The Bridge on the River Kwai won the Academy Awards best picture, the Milwaukee Braves won their first ever World Series, beating the N.Y. Yankees 4 games to 3. The Super Bowl was ten years in the future, the Russians gave us Sputnik, the National Guard enforced school integration in Little Rock, Gunsmoke was number one on TV with Danny Thomas second. Five of the top ten were westerns. Nobody had ever heard of Viet Nam.
And 128 law enforcement officers died in the line of duty. 13or 10% were in California.
This the story of two of them.
The city of El Segundo is south and west of LA. A beach community approximately 5.46 square miles, today about 17,000 residents. The name Segundo is Spanish for second as the city is home to the second Standard Oil Refinery Tank farm.
On a hot summer night, Monday July 22 at 1:30 A.M., El Segundo Patrol Officers Richard Phillips, 28, with 2 years’ service and Milton Curtis, 25, 2 months out of the academy stopped a 1949 Ford for running a red light at Sepulveda and Rosecrans.
Phillips exited the police vehicle while Curtis remained seated. At that time a second patrol unit, Officers Charles Porter and James Gilbert slowed to observe. Phillips gave the “ok” signal and they moved on.
A few moments later the motorist produced a 9 shot Harrington and Richardson .22 revolver and shot each officer three times.
Harrington & Richardson
Curtis died instantly. Phillips, considered the best shot on the department, though mortally wounded, emptied his 6-shot revolver at the fleeing vehicle. He put out a help call bringing Porter and Gilbert first to the scene.
Phillips was transported to a local hospital where he succumbed to his wounds as police units from surrounding communities responded and hundreds of officers took up the search.
The unoccupied car was found four blocks away. One item of note was that three of Phillips’ rounds struck the vehicle but only two were found, leading detectives to believe the missing round struck the suspect.
El Segundo PD Officer Richard Phillips EOW July 22, 1957
Off-duty sheriff’s deputies from Firestone Station arrived and set up a perimeter. The search continued throughout the night and the day intothe next night. He was gone.
El Segundo PD Officer Milton Curtis EOW July 22, 1957
What Phillips and Curtis had no way of knowing was that an hour or so prior to the stop the shooter had approached two teen aged couples in the “Lovers Lane” area in the small neighboring community of Hawthorne. Brandishing a revolver, he robbed the group, forced them to strip, bound them with adhesive tape and raped one of the girls, before stealing their ‘49Ford.
What Phillips and Curtis had no way of knowing was that an hour or so prior to the stop the shooter had approached two teen aged couples in the “Lovers Lane” area in the small neighboring community of Hawthorne. Brandishing a revolver, he robbed the group, forced them to strip, bound them with adhesive tape and raped one of the girls, before stealing their ‘49Ford.
They later provided descriptions to profile the shooter indicating he had spent a lot of time with them, was very polite and had a southern accent.
The El Segundo traffic stop was only a short time after the robbery/rape and the victims had not yet freed themselves. The traffic stop turned out to be anything but routine.
Two partial prints (both left thumb) were obtained from the Ford, however this was 1957 and unless they had something to compare them to, they had nothing. L.A. Sheriff’s Homicide took over and the agency with an excellent reputation for closing cases began what was to become a decades long search.
THE HUNT
Many, many interviews, suspects printed, interrogated and released. They chased tips, leads and hunches, all to no avail. Finally, it went “cold” but they did not quit. You do not walk away from this.
In those days’ DNA stood for “does not apply.” Fingerprint searches were done by hand; there were no computers. And still they carried on.
FBI fingerprint analysis
THE FIRST BREAK
In September 1960, just a little over three years after the murders, a resident of 33rd Street in neighboring Manhattan Beach found a rusted .22 revolver in his backyard along with a woman’s watch. In poor condition when tested for ballistics, the gun could only be listed as consistent with the murder weapon. The find was about one mile from where the Ford was located. It was assumed the suspect threw them as he ran. The watches (a search turned up number two) were identified as belonging to the robbery victims.
Now, finally, the detectives had a physical piece of evidence. Something tangible, something to look at, something to hold and better yet something with a serial number.
The Harrington & Richardson model gun had been purchased at a Sears store in Shreveport, Louisiana in June, one month beforethe shooting. The clerk Billy Gene Clark, who was 18 at the time of the sale, was found and interviewed. He remembered the transaction and stated the buyer wanted the cheapest model available $29.95 for “protection.” He liked the composite drawing (from the robbery victims) and provided the paperwork wherein the buyer had signed as G.D. WILSON. Checking other business in the area they found a GEORGE D. WILSON had spent the night at the YMCA. The handwriting looked similar to the Sears receipt.
Over the next few years detectives found and cleared every George D. Wilson in the United States.
What looked like a closer was now just another tempting clue gone cold.
Throughout the 1960’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s a succession of detectives plodded on, following leads, tips and just plain hunches. Nothing. During this period over 1000 people were fingerprinted and eliminated and in excess of 2100 “looked at” and cleared.
In the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks the FBI revised their fingerprint data base to include thousands of prints from various departments of unsolved crimes, however the base went only to 1980. Not 1957.
THE END GAME
In September 2002 (45 years after the shooting), LASO Homicide Detectives Kevin Lowe and Dan Macelderry who were then responsible for the file took a call from a woman who had overheard a man bragging he was the shooter. His prints were obtained, and he was eliminated. As they were reviewing the file they decided to have the partial prints digitally enhanced using technology not previously available. The prints were then entered into the FBI data base and within minutes—they had a hit!
I can only imagine what those detectives felt at that moment.
In 1956, Gerald Mason age 22, had been arrested and printed for burglary charges in Columbia, South Carolina. Released in 1957, he hitchhiked to California. The gun purchase in Louisiana and the southern accent described by the robbery/rape victims now made sense.
The prints were a gift from heaven, but the detectives knew the D.A.would want more. Over the next four months samples of his handwriting were obtained and proved a match. His 1956 mug shot was ID by the victims, the second radio car (Porter and Gilbert) who drove by just before the shooting and the clerk at Sears.
They built their case slowly and meticulously and in late January 2003, Mason was placed under surveillance for a full week. On January 30, 2003, a phalanx of officers descended on Mr. Mason and his worst nightmare became reality.
When he fled the scene of the shooting, he made his way home to South Carolina where he lived a quiet life never coming to the attention of the authorities. Not so much as a parking ticket. He became a successful businessman owning a string of gas stations before his retirement. He was living the good life, husband, father, grandfather, respected member of the community. Now his home was filled with police officers and when El Segundo was mentioned, he stated, “You are here for that?”
His back still bore the scar of Phillips bullet which had marked him for ID so many years ago.
When confronted about the rape/robbery he stated he was drunk and did not want to remember it. He admitted the shooting, “I had to get thembefore they got me.”
Mason’s friends and relatives were convinced the police had the wrong man. Don’t we always?
He pleaded guilty to two counts of murder on March 24, less than two months after his arrest. He was sentenced to two consecutive life terms, to be served in a South Carolina Prison as part of the plea deal.
He died on January 22, 2017, 4 days before his 83rd birthday.
In 1957 I was a brand-new officer working a radio car and learning how to be a policeman. I carried the wanted notice for the killer until it fell apart.
Over the years I sometimes wondered when and how it would besolved. A fluke and some luck, no doubt. How about both? A five and dime burglary puts his prints on file. A loud mouth in California boasts of being the shooter which brings out the file which updates the prints which gets the hit. Life can be capricious as we know.
This column/blog is written for several different reasons. For those of you too young to remember this, those who knew some but not all and to make sure we don’t forget.
This is also dedicated to those brave men and women who wear or have worn the badge while doing a thankless task for a sometimes unknowing and uncaring public.
Those who have never, helped, or bled or cried for a stranger do not have the faintest clue what it is like to be a police officer.
I observed an altercation last week in the seafood department at Safeway. The argument was over freshness. An irate and intoxicated customer threw a large chunk of Atlantic Salmon at the seafood manager and hit him in the face. A bloody nose was the result.
Being a retired law enforcement officer, I stepped in and made a citizen’s arrest. I told the customer he was being arrested for Assault with a Dead Weapon.
When the police arrived, they complimented me on my creativity, but just charged the man with Battery and Drunk in Public.
Jim Hasse’s Bio: I had a 28-year law enforcement career. I worked as a deputy sheriff and a detective in Madison County, Illinois, early in my career, but served as a U. S. Postal Inspector for 20 years, retiring in 1998. The short answer is: Jim Hasse, retired U. S. Postal Inspector from Walnut Creek, CA.
December is about gifts. Christmas, Hanukah, Three Kings—however you celebrate this season, it’s often done with gifts. My original idea was to have authors write about their gifts, whether it’s a talent they were born with, a life change because they received a gift, a skill they were able to learn, gifts are meant to be given. Authors often write about their gifts.
Decades ago my sister-in-law gave me a horse. Talk about a life changing event!When hubby and I decided to move to a larger home, it had to include enough land to support a horse. Years later, when we moved to the Eastern Sierras, my new horse had enough energy that he wore me out. I had to decide whether to sell him or quit smoking. No brainer. I quit smoking (after 26years-man, I loved that horse!).
All of my books have some mention of a horse. I can’t help it. I love horses and passed that trait on to my protagonist. Gardeners talk about azaleas, chefs write mysteries about quiches, and so on. I mention horses.
But now, I have another gift to tell you about: several yearsago, my husband offered to treat my writing career as a job. I’d work on my stories and he’d take over running the house, laundry and cooking. What a deal! I didn’t pass it up. I wrote my three books over those years. Then, in July of 2017, he fell ill. Without getting into details, roles changed. I became the caregiver. He was sick enough that he couldn’t be left alone. The doctors sent him home from the hospital to either get better or…
Fast forward to today. He’s not fully recovered but he is significantly healthier. I know he feels better because he kicked me out of the kitchen. He’s been doing laundry for a month or so and I now can leave him without overly worrying.
So, his recovery is my gift. Maybe re-gift is more accurate as he’s given it before. But the bottom line is that I’ve been given a second chance. I have a fourth novel to finish and now he is helping me do it.
But there’s a catch. During all those months when I couldn’t work on my novel, I spent time on my blog. I posted police stories from several retired and active duty cops every Sunday. On Fridays, I posted guests expounded on pre-set themes. My post was always the first Friday of the month, theirs followed. Anyway, this has become so labor-intensive that I can’t get back to my novel. So, I’ve decided that this incarnation of “Writer’s Notes” must retire in its current format. I’ll still happily accept guest posts but won’t be assigning themes and won’t be tied to two posts a week. The cop stories will continue as it is my mission: to show the public but especially writers that these are living, breathing people behind the badges. With luck, maybe they will even inspire a story in you.
My gift to you is a place where you can read about the heroes who keep us safe. Your gift to me has been your readership. It is with sincere gratitude I thank all my guest authors from the past eighteen months. It’s been great fun meeting you, making new friends, but now it’s time to knuckle down and finish that novel. I’m fortunate to have a publisher who has committed to publish it—and re-issue all my previous novels.
Time for Thonie to get to work.
By Force or Fear, Intent to Hold, and With Malice Aforethought
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
My husband, Danny, opened the front door. With a smile and a strong but friendly voice, he said, “What brings this show of force to my door?”
“We’re looking for Shannon,” the first officer said with a soft smile, his right arm bent at the elbow and the heel of his right hand casually resting on the butt of his holstered gun.
In Danny’s usual way, he didn’t offer what he knew about Shannon, the former tenant who’d lived in this house we’d recently rented.
“What crime did she commit?” His habit of answering a question with a question wasn’t muted by police officers at his door.
“We got a call from her family in Oregon.”
“This is a lot of manpower for a welfare check. I was a police officer for thirty-eight years. Good deployment of personnel, though,” Danny said as he looked beyond the front yard to the third uniformed officer on the sidewalk. There were no police cars in sight.
“Oh, you’re from L.A.?” a fairly obvious question given that Danny was wearing his blue LA Dodger cap. “What department?”
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.
“You know why they bury attorneys eight feet down instead of six?” the first officer asked. “Because deep down they have a good heart.” They all laughed.
The young officer closest to the first officer casually rested his forearm on his holstered gun. Clearly, they weren’t going to need to deploy tactical force.
In my full-length robe and uncombed hair, I made myself more visible to the officer at the door, still behind Danny as he took up most of the space at the wide-open doorway. “We just moved in last week,” I said. Danny stepped aside slightly. “Shannon lived here before us. She told our landlady she was moving to Oregon where she’d bought property.”
“That fits what we know,” said the first officer. “We got a call from her family in Oregon that she never arrived.
“She also had a business here in town,” Danny said.
“We checked there too,” but offered no further information.
“I’d be happy to give you our landlady’s name and number,” I said. “She might have a phone number or email address, but I know she didn’t leave a forwarding address because we’re still getting her mail.”
“Thanks. That could be helpful,” the officer said.
While I stepped away to write down our landlady’s information, the two officers facing each other at the door continued their police banter. Danny, the confident, retired, equally strong dog had sniffed the butt of the confident, younger, seemingly capable first officer who’d gingerly sniffed Danny’s butt. The two watchdogs meant each other no harm and their tails wagged as they shook hands.
I handed the officer my note and said, “I hope she’s okay.” I didn’t step too far into the doorway. No need for the whole neighborhood to know I was still in my robe at ten in the morning.
“Thanks for the information,” he said.
Everyone said, “Have a nice day.”
After he closed the door, Danny said, “They’re looking for Shannon for something else.”
“What makes you think so?” I often accuse him of being cynical. Sometimes a bad driver is just a bad driver and not trying to piss him off; but, sometimes his suspicious nature is warranted. His career experience and wisdom have served him well.
“First, there’s no way they send a sergeant, and three officers to do a welfare check and park half a block away. The sergeant between our cars, the third officer a distance from the house on the sidewalk, another uniform behind the guy at the door—that’s pretty tactical deployment for a missing person. It was more in line with looking for a violent offender.”
“I heard the guy on the sidewalk say it was a training day when you said this is a lot of manpower.”
“I was going to tell the training officer he was standing too close to the door,” Danny said with his typical wide grin.
“What do you think? She left town with too much debt?”
“By the way she left this house and yard in such a mess, it’s hard to believe she could run a business. Looked to me like she left pretty quickly. I’m guessing check fraud or grand theft. Maybe a warrant. Even the neighbors said her tweaker boyfriend had brought her down. I don’t know why the police are looking for her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to be found. No forwarding address. Didn’t arrive where she said she was going. Family in Oregon looking for her. If the boyfriend is looking for her, that’s where he’d look too. Who knows?”
“They sure didn’t offer any information,” I said.
“I don’t usually tell people I’m a retired cop, but I thought they’d offer a little quid pro quo.”
“They definitely stayed tight-lipped,” I said.
“Did you hear what they said when the neighbor across the street asked what was going on when they were leaving?”
“No, but I’ll bet he was a little disturbed by his new neighbors bringing the police to his neighborhood,” I said. “What’d the police say?”
“One of the officers answered, ‘Somebody stole a baby stroller.’”
“Do they teach that in the police academy, how to never give a straight answer and redirect the conversation?”
Danny chuckled and said, “You tell ‘em what they want to hear. Don’t leave ‘em scared. They don’t need to know the truth. They might try to help and get themselves hurt.”
“I’d like to have known the truth,” I said.
“Need-to-know basis, Sweetheart…”
—————————————————————————————————————–
Belinda Riehl
Associate Editor 2018 Redwood Writers anthology Redemption–Stories from the Edge; author of “Security at the Inn,” a fictional story told in 2020 after surviving the 2017 Sonoma County Wildfires included in Redemption; author of “Lighter Load,” a 100-word poem about the loss of her beloved dog in RW 2018 poetry anthology Phoenix–Out of Silence, and then…; author of “Wallet Karma,” a true story published in Sonoma Seniors Today, January 2018 issue, http://www.councilonaging.com/news-events/sonoma-seniors-today/; author of “Speak in Ink,” a poem published in online magazine Medium.com, https://medium.com/indian-thoughts/speak-in-ink-29152214a785#.e1e6i9q4j; winner of Redwood Writers 2015 Pullet Surprise for exceptional volunteer service to Sonoma County writers.
Please visit my blog: https://belindariehl.wordpress.com/ to read Occasional Musings by this writer.
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.