Los Angeles, California.

August 22, 1922.

Roy Clum was watering his lawn on North Beachwood Drive when he heard two sounds he would remember for the rest of his life.

The first was a gunshot. The second was another gunshot.

They came from the bungalow next door, the Eusterich Place, and they were followed by a woman's

scream. Clum dropped the hose and ran for the front porch. He found the door locked. He pounded

on it, hollering for Mrs. Oster Reich, but all he got back was more screaming, muffled now,

coming from somewhere deep in the house. Other neighbors were spilling out onto the street.

Somebody ran for the call box on the corner of Beechwood and Franklin.

The police arrived in six minutes.

Patrolman Arthur Miller was first through the door, which he accomplished by putting his shoulder through a side window and reaching around to throw the bolt.

He found himself in a modest living room, nicely furnished, thoroughly ransacked.

D drawers had been dumped onto the floor. A jewelry box lay open and empty on the credenza.

A table lamp was overturned, its shade crushed, and in the

center of the room, flat on his back with two holes in his chest, was Fred Osterike. He was 52 years

old. He had made his fortune manufacturing aprons in Milwaukee. Half the meat markets in Wisconsin

bought their linens from Fred Osterike and company, and he had moved

to Los Angeles four years earlier to enjoy the climate and expand his business. He was a big man,

over 200 pounds, with a red face and hands like catchers' mitts. He had been dead for approximately

10 minutes. The screaming was coming from the hallway. Miller followed

the sound to a closet door. The door was locked. He called out, and the screaming resolved itself

into words. Help me. Help me. He's killed my husband. Please help me. There was no key in the lock.

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