They circled back to the Desert Inn. Jim Bruton was there— hitting patrons up with questions. Lawton and Hallinen grabbed him and ran down Margie Trawick’s story.
They had more workable information now. They table-hopped and laid it out all over the room. They got a bite straight off.
Somebody thought the drunk sounded like a clown named Mike Whittaker. He did construction work and had a flop in South San Gabriel.
Bruton went out to his car and radio-patched a query to the California State Department of Motor Vehicles. He got a quick positive:
Michael John Whittaker, white male, DOB 1/1/34. 5? 10?, 185 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. 2759 South Gladys Street, South San Gabriel.
The address was a run-down rooming house. The owner was a Mexican woman named Inez Rodriguez.
Hallinen, Lawton and Bruton badged her at the door. They said they were looking for Mike Whittaker—as a possible homicide suspect.
The woman said Mike didn’t come home last night. He might have come and gone during the day—she didn’t know. He was quite a big drinker. Most of the time he hung out at the Melody, over on Garvey Boulevard.
Their “murder suspect” line spooked Inez Rodriguez.
Hallinen, Lawton and Bruton drove to the Melody Room. A man matching Mike Whittaker’s description was sitting at the bar.
They surrounded him and badged him. The man said he
Hallinen said they had some questions—pertaining to his whereabouts last night. Lawton and Bruton frisked him and manhandled him out to the car.
Whittaker played the roust submissive.
They drove him to the El Monte Station. They hustled him to an interview room and got up in his face.
Whittaker smelled. He was jittery and half-drunk.
He copped to being at the Desert Inn last night. He said he was looking for cooze. He was pretty blitzed last night, so he might not remember things too good.
Tell us what you
He remembered going to the bar. He remembered asking a girl to dance and getting brushed off. He remembered crashing a table party. The party consisted of a redhead, another girl and an Italian-type guy. He didn’t know their names and he’d never seen them before.
Lawton told him the redhead got murdered. Whittaker seemed genuinely shocked.
He said he danced with the redhead and the other girl. He hit the redhead up for a Sunday-night date. She nixed it and said something about her kid coming back from a weekend with his father. The Italian-type guy was dancing with the red-head, too. He was a good dancer. He
Tell us what you
Michael remembered that he fell off his chair. Michael remembered that he outstayed his welcome at the table. Michael remembered the three people bugging out of the joint together to be rid of him.
He stayed at the bar and got more blitzed. He walked to Stan’s Drive-in for a late-night snack. A Sheriff’s prowl team rousted him a few blocks up Valley Boulevard. They popped him for plain drunk and drove him to the Temple City Station.
The drunk tank there was packed. The cops drove him to the Hall of Justice Jail and booked him in. Some beaners stole his shoes and socks while he was sleeping.
The tank deputy kicked him loose in the morning. He walked back to South San Gabriel barefoot—maybe 12 miles. The day was a scorcher. The pavement chewed up his feet and gave him big red blisters. He went by his room and grabbed some money and a pair of shoes and socks. He walked to the Melody and hunkered down to drink.
Bruton left the room and called the Temple City Sheriff’s Office. A deputy confirmed Whittaker’s story: the man was in custody from 12:30 a.m. on. He was alibied up for the victim’s probable time of death.
Bruton walked back to the interview room and laid out the news. Whittaker was thrilled. He said, Can I go home now?
Bruton told him he’d have to submit a formal statement within 48 hours. Whittaker agreed. Jack Lawton apologized for the heavy treatment and offered him a lift to his rooming house.
Whittaker accepted. Lawton drove him to his place and dropped him off at the curb.
His landlady had dumped his belongings out on the front lawn. The front door was latched and bolted.
She didn’t want no fucking murder suspects under her roof.
It was 2:30 a.m., Monday, June 23, 1958. The Jean Ellroy job—Sheriffs Homicide File #Z-483-362—was now 16 hours old.
2
The San Gabriel Valley was the rat’s ass of Los Angeles County—a 30-mile stretch of contiguous hick towns due east of L.A. proper.
