Ed Lacy - Dead End

We were each given color photographs of a homely, pug-nosed little girl with bright eyes and red hair. And there was a sketch of a thin-faced man—a drawing that didn't mean a thing. It could have been a quick sketch of a thousand guys.

“That's all. Except for two things: The child's life depends upon our acting quietly. Since the father's made it public, despite his hands-off plea, the kidnappers must know we're working on the case. There's little chance of the kid being returned alive, but we can't give up on even that small chance. Wyckoff has told the papers if we do stick our hand in, he'll hold us responsible for the child's life. That's bull, but unless we work quietly there could be a hell of an uproar. Finally, if you do come up with anything, notify me before you make a move. That's orders. Keep in touch with this squad room every two hours. That's all.”

Doc and I managed to get a squad car—or rather Doc did—and as I drove off he said, “The first thing we do is have lunch at the zoo and read the papers.”

“I thought you were so hot to get working?”

“We've reported in. We're covered.”

Over bacon and eggs on the zoo terrace I read the papers. I didn't learn anything new except the girl was adopted. You know the way a little thing can change all your ideas—well, her being adopted is what really got me interested in the case. “Imagine this, Doc, Joanie is an adopted child.”

“So what?”

“I don't know, a guy raising a kid alone, and willing to shell out a million, and the kid adopted—I mean, that's a hell of a good joker.”

“According to the papers, he can afford the dough. He was a damn fool to tell the press, the cops.”

“Why? It seems to me by being away aboveboard, he's assuring the kidnappers he's playing ball with them. How long could he have kept it quiet, anyway?”

Doc shook his head. “There's going to be a tail on Wyckoff, on everybody in his household and factory. Don't you think the punks will know that? Just as they know we can't take a hands-off attitude, no matter what daddy wants.”

“Yeah, but we'll be under wraps.”

Doc took out a cigarette. “Give me some fire; my lighter is out of fuel. Look, Bucky, there's fifty men asking questions. How long is that going to be under wraps?”

“You think it's an inside job?”

“It has to be. Maybe without the inside person knowing it. Somebody, say a secretary or a valet, gets high at a party, shoots off his mouth about Wyckoff's dough and the kid. This tendency of servants to brag about their employer's wealth is a curious form of envy complex. The point is, while they're loud-talking, a smart punk is within listening distance, and the idea for the snatch is born.”

It was dull, tedious work. Doc called on his stoolies—mostly by himself, as they didn't want to be known to another cop. Doc used the car and I did plenty of walking, talking to the few characters I knew. Then we visited a lot of bars, made small talk. One advantage of the case being out in the papers, we could more or less openly ask about strangers. You couldn't help but talk about it—everybody else was talking, and mostly about the million bucks ransom. As Doc cracked, “That's inflation. Price of everything has gone up.”

Around four in the afternoon Smith gave us a number of crackpot leads to check. Everybody was “certain” they'd seen the tall man. Even Elma kept phoning, and when I called back she gassed about a thin man she'd seen that morning in the grocery store. She was sure she had seen his face in one of her crime magazines. We checked every tip. It only took me an hour to learn that Elma's thin man happened to be a salesman who had lived in the neighborhood for the last twenty years. We also scared the daylights out of a couple of tall guys who happened to have been seen walking with their own redheaded children. In one case the child was fourteen years old, but that didn't make any difference to the excited old lady who pointed out the guy's house.

These crackpots made me tired but they seemed to amuse Doc. “It's amazing, Bucky, this love to be an informer. Most times the public is against the police—we all hate authority. If a cop is being ganged up on by a dozen thugs, the average citizen might call in for help— if there was a phone handy—but they damn well wouldn't risk their necks by going to his aid. But now they flood the phone with these idiotic tips.”

“They don't want anything to happen to the little girl.”

“Bull. They don't give a damn about the kid or the law. They're selfish. This is their chance to be a somebody.”

“Maybe.”

“In reality they envy the crook for being able to pull off something they themselves haven't the nerve to do, so they want to see him—or her—collared.”

“Could be,” I said, thinking of Shep Harris tipping me off to Johnson.

Doc and I worked until ten that night, then went to sleep on the cots jammed into the upper floor of the precinct house. More men were being assigned to the case and it gave me a charge to realize I was about the youngest detective there. The evening papers were full of sob stories about the little girl, how the Wyckoff's had taken her from an agency when she was six months old, how she had been found abandoned in an ash can when she was two days old. The agency denied they knew who the real mother was, or that mama could possibly know who had adopted the girl, but a number of young women came forward claiming “baby Joanie” was their child.

Wyckoff had placed half-page ads in the evening papers assuring the kidnappers he would follow any instructions, that his only concern was the return of his girl unharmed.

The following morning I noticed several elderly women cleaning up and making beds on our floor. Doc said they were the widows of cops, earning an extra buck. Over coffee and rolls we read editorials criticizing Wyckoff for placing his family above the law, and others criticizing the police for being indifferent to the life of a child. Doc shook his head as he said, “This is becoming a Roman holiday.”

Smith put us on checking rooming houses, deserted buildings. At noon, when Doc wanted to go to the zoo and eat, I told him, “No. No fluffing off on this. I want to find Joanie.”

“So do I. But let's face it—we have a fat chance of lucking up on this guy. We haven't enough to go on—yet. Must be thousands of men who fit the description we have.”

“We know he's holed up. He had to rent a room, has to go out for food.”

“Kid, stop the simple talk. Smith immediately checked the bus, train, and air terminals, but that doesn't mean a thing. They could have put the girl in a car and be a hundred miles from here. They may have rented an apartment months ago, have it stacked with a freezer full of food. This is a well-organized snatch. Don't you think they thought of little things like a room and food?”

“Maybe they didn't. I want to keep trying.”

Doc sighed. “All right, but these bar hamburgers are ruining my stomach.”

I was bushed and on edge by evening. The papers were going full blast rehashing every big time kidnapping, starting with the Lindbergh baby. The Commissioner and the head of the F.B.I. assured the public they would do all they could to see that baby Joanie was returned unharmed. The widows were working in shifts in our dormitory. It annoyed me that they seemed happy at their work, didn't resent the fact a cop's pension wasn't enough to live on.

At 6 a.m. we were briefed by Smith again. He looked in bad shape, his eyes two hot holes in his bony face. He puffed on his pipe as he said, “Wyckoff was contacted last night. And we're dealing with a hell of a smart gang. At 11 p.m. they phoned his house and told Wyckoff to be at the corner of the Fifty-second Street library in fifteen minutes. Naturally we have a tap on all his phones, and by the time he got there we had the corner covered. Wyckoff hung around for a few minutes and then the public phone in the booth nearest the corner rang. We were caught with our hands down; we had no chance to put a tap on the public phone. We don't know what they told Wyckoff. He's flatly refused to tell us. He was incensed that we were tailing him. However, it's easy to guess what the message was—they're arranging the pay-off. Wyckoff held a press conference at 1 a.m. in which he begged us to let him alone, call off our men. Undoubtedly the Commissioner and Washington will give out with some double-talk this morning, but we're still on the case. What we have to do is dig deeper and harder. Don't pass up a thing, no matter how unimportant it may look. We have snaps of his maids, former maids, his factory help. Pass them around.”