Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

“I met Santo and Perkins in a motel in El Monte on March 7. We looked Mrs. Monohan’s home over the next day, and again on the 9th. We decided to take it that night. We met in a restaurant in Burbank that evening and drove to Parkside Avenue. That’s it.”

“Who is John True?” Lieutenant Coveney asked.

“He’s a box man, a safe cracker. He was supposed to open the safe, if there was one.”

Up to this point Shorter had not mentioned that Barbara Graham accompanied the men to the Monohan home, and his questioners failed to ask him about it, assuming that she had accompanied them. This was the big flaw in the case so far as Barbara Graham was concerned.

John True was picked up and interrogated by District Attorney Roll in presence of two assistants and Coveney. Roll needed True’s testimony to make a case. The law of corroboration.

“If your testimony is corroborative I will recommend absolute immunity. I’m offering you this because you have no previous criminal record.”

True agreed to testify if he were called on to do so. And now the police made a bad mistake. They booked True on a charge of murder, though he had made no statement other than that he would be willing to testify if called upon. True’s attorney got a writ of habeas corpus and Burbank Chief of Police Rex Andrews was forced to release him. The story broke in the papers.

Coveney was certain that Jack Santo and Emmett Perkins would know that someone had talked or John True would not have been picked up, and that someone had to be Baxter Shorter. He ordered protection for Shorter.

He was absolutely right in his assumption. Santo and Perkins tabbed Shorter as the stool pigeon. Their belief was confirmed when the April 14 editions published a resume of Shorter’s confession. It was bye, bye birdie for Shorter.

Shorter and his wife Olivia lived in an apartment house on North Flower Street, in the shadow of the city hall. They were at home watching television before having dinner. Shortly after eight o’clock there was a knock on the door. Shorter answered it. When he opened the door he stared into the barrel of a .38 pistol held by Emmett Perkins. Mrs. Shorter saw Perkins, the gun in his hand, and screamed.

“Get back or I’ll kill you too!” Perkins threatened. He aimed the gun at Mrs. Shorter and Baxter yelled at his wife to get back into the house. She ran back toward the living room and called the police.

She screamed hysterically. “Come quick! They’re going to kill my husband! Hurry!”

Police arrived minutes later but they were too late. Mrs. Shorter could give them no description of the car used to take her husband away. She did know Perkins and identified his photo in the rogues’ gallery. She told Lieutenant Coveney what her husband had revealed to her about the Monohan murder.

“He cried like a baby when he told me how they had beaten her and killed her. He didn’t think they would hurt her, just force her to tell them where the money was hidden.”

Coveney was depressed. Their case seemed to have flown out the window. Their star witness was gone, and very likely dead at this moment, there was nothing to present in court. William Upshaw’s statement covered only the conspiracy aspect. John True had said nothing and probably never would. Solly Davis had said nothing, and would adhere to the code. Coveney and the Los Angeles cops, who had been brought into the case because of Shorter’s kidnaping, fanned the underworld informers for word of the whereabouts of Jack Santo and Emmett Perkins. They also wanted Barbara Graham. The mug shots of the three were in every police station in the city and an APB was out on them.

Days of fruitless searching and talking to countless stoolies brought nothing but sore feet and severe headaches. And then the cops got a break, the big break in the case.

Barbara craved for a fix. The tensions of her life had forced her to find some form of alleviation and she had turned to heroin, the very worst thing she could have done at this stage of the game.

“I’m going into town,” she said to Santo. “I want to get something.”

“We’re hotter than hell, Babs,” Santo replied. “Every cop in town is carrying our mug shots. You’re taking an awful chance of getting busted. Or you may be followed and lead the fuzz right to our door.”

“I’ll be careful, Jack. Don’t worry about it. I know what to do.”

“I hope so.”

Barbara contacted a user and pusher, an old man dying of cancer. He needed money for his habit and to live on. When he saw Barbara he knew he had it. It was right there in his pocket, that $5,000 reward.

“I haven’t got any stuff on me,” he said. “You go to the depot in Huntington Park. A woman will meet you there and give you all you want. How much do you want?”

She named the amount.

“Okay. She’ll have it, but the price went up. The town is hot and all the fuzz is busting everybody in town. Yeah, the town is really steaming.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll be at the depot in an hour. I don’t want to wait around so be sure the contact is there.”