Read Online The Laughing Gorilla by Robert Graysmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Graysmith
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clothes from the Royal Second Hand Store. He changed into blue overalls, a khaki shirt, and cap, then caught a lift from Isadore Silverman, a scrap metal dealer, whose route took them around police patrols via back roads to Boissevain, Manitoba.
“If he’s heading for the border,” said Smith, “he’ll have to cross prairie country where there are few towns for him to lose himself. A lone hitchhiker should be easy to spot.”
Canadian constables and U.S. policemen closed in on him from both sides. When he bought some cheese and a drink at the Wakopa General Store the proprietor, Les Morgan, recognized him and notified Constable Wilton A. Gray, the only officer on duty at the Killarney, Manitoba, department.
Constable Gray was patrolling twelve miles north of the international border just outside the small farming community of flat land and tree-lined rivers and hills when he saw a man nonchalantly walking down the road and asked his name. With a shy smile, he said it was Wilson and that he was a stock hand who worked on a nearby farm. Gray was suspicious. No Canadian would call a spread this far west a farm. “We’re looking for a man who is responsible for the deaths of twenty six women,” Gray said, and watched for a giveaway sign.
“A mass murderer? I only do my lady-killing on Saturday nights.”
“You’d better ride back to Killarney with me, so we can check your story.”
“Fair enough. You fellows have to play it safe when there’s a killer on the loose.”
“It can’t be him,” Gray thought. “He’s too cool.”
At the ancient and tiny Killarney jail, Gray took away his shoes, socks, and belt as a precautionary measure, then double-locked him inside a cell and handcuffed him to the bars. He then walked fifteen feet away into the next room to ring Inspector Smith in Winnipeg.
“I think we’ve got the wrong man,” Gray told him. “He says that his name is Wilson.”
“That must be the strangler!” Smith said. The Gorilla Man had used the name Wilson here in Winnipeg and in San Francisco. “Don’t be taken in by his innocent demeanor. Twenty-six women are dead because they made the same mistake. For the love of God! You didn’t leave him alone, did you?”
Gray ran into the next room. The Gorilla Man was gone. He had picked his cuffs with a nail file he found under his bunk, opened the cell doors with a wire, and escaped without his shoes. As a posse was assembled, Smith sent four detectives to the isolated village by plane. He and another fifty followed by train. Meanwhile, Nelson, who had stolen new clothes, was fast asleep in William Allen’s barn, one block from the jail. The next day, he showed up at the station to wait for a southbound train and hid in some bushes by a grain elevator.
Constable William Renton spotted Nelson, jumped the fence, and intercepted him. He studied the stranger’s disheveled clothes—a moth-eaten sweater and a pair of hockey skates with the blades removed serving as shoes. “You look like you slept in the open last night, sir.”
“Where do you farm?” Nelson pointed to a building by the tracks. “That’s a slaughterhouse,” said Renton.
Nelson began running down the railway tracks as the morning express rolled into view and rushed right into Smith’s arms as he stepped from the train. Captain Matheson of the SFPD flew from San Francisco to Winnipeg to confirm Nelson’s identity. He studied the strange, blank-faced man who wore a tweed suit and cap. His wide shoulders and huge manacled hands still gave the impression of power. During his trial, Nelson showed no emotion as forty American witnesses identified him. “That’s the man,” said Matheson.
When Nelson’s aunt Lillian and estranged wife, Mary, attended, he ignored them. On November 14, 1927, the jury deliberated just forty-eight minutes before convicting him of Emily Patterson’s murder. Despite his pleas of insanity and innocence (“Murder just isn’t possible for a man of
“If he’s heading for the border,” said Smith, “he’ll have to cross prairie country where there are few towns for him to lose himself. A lone hitchhiker should be easy to spot.”
Canadian constables and U.S. policemen closed in on him from both sides. When he bought some cheese and a drink at the Wakopa General Store the proprietor, Les Morgan, recognized him and notified Constable Wilton A. Gray, the only officer on duty at the Killarney, Manitoba, department.
Constable Gray was patrolling twelve miles north of the international border just outside the small farming community of flat land and tree-lined rivers and hills when he saw a man nonchalantly walking down the road and asked his name. With a shy smile, he said it was Wilson and that he was a stock hand who worked on a nearby farm. Gray was suspicious. No Canadian would call a spread this far west a farm. “We’re looking for a man who is responsible for the deaths of twenty six women,” Gray said, and watched for a giveaway sign.
“A mass murderer? I only do my lady-killing on Saturday nights.”
“You’d better ride back to Killarney with me, so we can check your story.”
“Fair enough. You fellows have to play it safe when there’s a killer on the loose.”
“It can’t be him,” Gray thought. “He’s too cool.”
At the ancient and tiny Killarney jail, Gray took away his shoes, socks, and belt as a precautionary measure, then double-locked him inside a cell and handcuffed him to the bars. He then walked fifteen feet away into the next room to ring Inspector Smith in Winnipeg.
“I think we’ve got the wrong man,” Gray told him. “He says that his name is Wilson.”
“That must be the strangler!” Smith said. The Gorilla Man had used the name Wilson here in Winnipeg and in San Francisco. “Don’t be taken in by his innocent demeanor. Twenty-six women are dead because they made the same mistake. For the love of God! You didn’t leave him alone, did you?”
Gray ran into the next room. The Gorilla Man was gone. He had picked his cuffs with a nail file he found under his bunk, opened the cell doors with a wire, and escaped without his shoes. As a posse was assembled, Smith sent four detectives to the isolated village by plane. He and another fifty followed by train. Meanwhile, Nelson, who had stolen new clothes, was fast asleep in William Allen’s barn, one block from the jail. The next day, he showed up at the station to wait for a southbound train and hid in some bushes by a grain elevator.
Constable William Renton spotted Nelson, jumped the fence, and intercepted him. He studied the stranger’s disheveled clothes—a moth-eaten sweater and a pair of hockey skates with the blades removed serving as shoes. “You look like you slept in the open last night, sir.”
“Where do you farm?” Nelson pointed to a building by the tracks. “That’s a slaughterhouse,” said Renton.
Nelson began running down the railway tracks as the morning express rolled into view and rushed right into Smith’s arms as he stepped from the train. Captain Matheson of the SFPD flew from San Francisco to Winnipeg to confirm Nelson’s identity. He studied the strange, blank-faced man who wore a tweed suit and cap. His wide shoulders and huge manacled hands still gave the impression of power. During his trial, Nelson showed no emotion as forty American witnesses identified him. “That’s the man,” said Matheson.
When Nelson’s aunt Lillian and estranged wife, Mary, attended, he ignored them. On November 14, 1927, the jury deliberated just forty-eight minutes before convicting him of Emily Patterson’s murder. Despite his pleas of insanity and innocence (“Murder just isn’t possible for a man of
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