Noonan: “Agent Milner canvassed the area. A 1956 powder-blue Pontiac coupe was seen parked by his house around the approximate time of his death.”
Shipstad: “Did you kill him?”
Noonan: “You own a blue automobile, don’t you?”
“You know I didn’t kill him. You know it’s Tommy and J.C. You know that I own a dark blue ‘55 Dodge.”
Shipstad: “The Kafesjians have an excellent alibi for the time of Voldrich’s death.”
Noonan: “They were at home, under twenty-four-hour Federal surveillance.”
“So they called out a contract.”
Shipstad: “No, their phone was tapped.”
Noonan: “And had been tapped, going back prior to the time we picked up Voldrich.”
“What else did they discuss on the phone?”
Shipstad: “Unrelated matters. Nothing pertaining to that Richie you seemed to be so interested in last night.”
Scooped—no Herrick update—clueless on the South Arden slaughter.
“Get to it. Get to ‘binding evidence.’”
Noonan: “Your appraisal of the situation first, Mr. Klein.”
“You want to take three witnesses to the grand jury. I’m one, one just died, one’s this so-called major surprise witness. You’re short a man, so you’re doubling up on me. That’s my appraisal, so let’s hear your offer.”
Noonan: “Immunity on the Johnson killing. Immunity on all potential criminal charges that you might accrue. A written guarantee that no Federal tax liens will be filed against you should it be revealed that you have unreported income earned as a direct result of criminal conspiracies that you’ve engaged in. For this, you agree to enter Federal custody and testify in open court as to your knowledge of the Kafesjian family, their LAPD history and most importantly your own history of dealings with organized crime, excluding Mickey Cohen.”
Light bulb—Major Witness Mickey.
Reflex jolt—never.
“You bluffed, I call.”
Shipstad ripped the draping off the walls. Shredded paper in piles—column graphs underneath.
I stood up. Boldface print—easy to read.
Column one: names and dates—my mob hits.
Column two: my property transactions detailed. Corresponding dates—Real Estate Board kickbacks—five thousand dollars each—my clip fee funneled.
Column three: kickback receivers listed. Detailed: slum dives offered to me lowball cheap. Corresponding dates: escrow and closing.
Column four—Meg’s tax returns ‘51—’57. Her unreported cash listed and traced: to appraisers and permit signers bribed.
Column five—witness numbers—sixty-odd bribe takers listed.
Names and numbers—pulsing.
Noonan: “Much of the data regarding you is circumstantial and subject to interpretation. We’ve listed only the men that the underworld grapevine credits you with killing, and those five-thousand-dollar windfalls that followed are circumstantially seductive and not much more. The important thing is that you and your sister are indictable on seven counts of Federal tax fraud.”
Shipstad: “I convinced Mr. Noonan to extend the immunity agreement to cover your sister. If you agree, Margaret Klein Agee will remain exempt from all Federal charges.”
Noonan: “What’s your answer?”
Shipstad: “Klein?”
Clock ticks, heartbeats—something short-circuiting inside me.
“I want four days’ grace before I enter custody, and I want a Federal bank writ to allow me access to Junior Stemmons’ safe-deposit boxes.”
Shipstad, bait grabber: “Did he owe you money?”
“That’s right.”
Noonan: “I agree, provided a Federal agent goes with you to the bank.”
A contract in my face—fine print pulsing.
I signed it.
“You sound resigned.”
“It’s all gota life of its own.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you should tell me things.”
“You don’t mention certain things. You call me from phone booths so you won’t have to.”
“I want to put it all together first.”
“You said it’s sorting itself out.”
“It is, but I’m running out of time.”
“You or we?”
“Just me.”
“Don’t start lying to me. Please.”
“I’m just trying to put things straight.”
“But you still won’t tell me what you’re doing.”
“It’s this trouble Igot you in. Let it go at that.”
“I bought that trouble myself—you told me that.”
“Now you sound resigned.”
“Those Sheriff’s men came by again.”
“And?”
“And a cameraman told them we were sleeping together in my trailer.”
“Do they know I was hired to tail you?”
“Yes.
“What did you tell them?”
“That I’m free, white and twenty-nine, and I’ll sleep with whoever! want to.
“And?”
“And Bradley Milteer told them that you and Miciak had words. I said I met Miciak through Howard, and he was easy to dislike.”
“Good, that was smart.”
“Does this mean we’re suspects?”
“It means they know my reputation.”
“What reputation?”
“You know what I mean.”
“That?”
“That.”
“... Oh shit, David.”
“Yeah, ‘oh shit.’”
“Now you sound tired.”
“I am tired. Tell me—”
“I knew that was coming.”
“And?”
“And my clutch is still on the fritz, and Mickey asked me to marry him. He said he’d ‘cut me loose’ in five years and make me a star and he’s been behaving as oblique as David Douglas Klein at his most guarded. He’s got some kind of strange acting bug, and he keeps talking about his ~ue’and his ‘curtain calL
“And?”
“How do you know there’s more?”
“I can tell.”
“Smart man.”
“And?”
“And Chick Vecchio’s been coming on to me. It’s almost like…”
“His whole attitude changed overnight.”
“Smart man.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
“But you won’t tell me what it’s about?”
“Just hold on for a few more days.”
“Because it’s all sorting itself out?”
“Because there’s still a chance I can force things our way.”
“Suppose you can’t?”
“Then at least I’ll know.”
“You sound resigned again.”
“It’s dues time. I can feel it.”
L.A. Herald-Express, 11/21/58:
The murders of wealthy chemical engineer Phillip Herrick, 52, and his daughters Laura, 24, and Christine, 21, continue to shock the Southland and confound the Los Angeles Police Department with their brazen brutality.
In the mid afternoon hours of November 19th, police surmise that a man invaded the comfortable Tudor style home where widower Phillip Herrick lived with his two daughters. Forensic experts have reconstructed that he gained access through a flimsily locked back door, fatally poisoned the family’s two dogs, then shot Phillip Herrick and employed gardening tools found on the premises to hideously mutilate both Mr. Herrick and the animals. Evidence indicates that Laura and Christine returned home at this point and surprised the killer, who similarly butchered them, showered himself free of their blood and donned clothes belonging to Mr. Herrick. He then either walked or drove away, accomplishing the bestial murders in something like near silence. Postal employee Roger Denton, attempting to deliver a special delivery package, saw blood on the inside den windows and immediately called police from a neighboring house.
“I was shocked,” Denton told Herald reporters. “Because the Herricks are nice people who had already had their fill of tragedy.”
As police began a house-to-house canvassing for possible witnesses and lab technicians sealed the premises off to search for clues, neighbors congregating outside in a state of horrified confusion told reporter Todd Walbrect of tragic recent turns in the family’s affairs.
For many years the Herricks seemed to enjoy a happy life in affluent Hancock Park. Phillip Herrick, a chemist by trade and the owner of a chemical manufacturing business that supplied industrial solvents to Southland machine shops and dry-cleaning establishments, was active in the Lions Club and Rotary; Joan (Renfrew) Herrick did charitable work and headed drives to feed indigent skid row habitués festive Thanksgiving dinners. Laura and Christine matriculated at nearby Marlborough Girls’ School and UCLA, and son Richard, now 26, attended public schools and played in their marching bands. But dark clouds were hovering: in August of 1955, “Richie” Herrick, 23, was arrested in Bakersfield: he sold marijuana and heroin-cocaine “goofballs” to an undercover police officer. Convicted of the offense, he was sentenced to four years in Chino Prison, a harsh sentence for a first offender, meted out by a judge anxious to establish a reputation for sternness.
Neighbors state that Richie’s imprisonment broke Joan Herrick’s heart. She began drinking and neglecting her charity work, and spent many hours alone listening to jazz records that Richie recommended to her in long letters from prison. In 1956 she attempted suicide; in September of 1957 Richie Herrick escaped from minimum-security Chino and remained at large, police believe, without ever contacting his mother. Joan Herrick went into what several acquaintances described as a “fugue state,” and on February 14th of this year committed suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills.
Postman Roger Denton: “What a godawful shame that so much awfulness was visited on one nice family. I remember when Mr. Herrick put those heavy leaded windows in. He hated noise, and now the police say those windows helped stifle the noise of that killer fiend doing his work. I’ll miss the Herricks and pray for them.”