Crime novelist Joseph Wambaugh died February 28th. I decided to read his masterpiece, The Onion Field. The contrast with Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood inspired a few thoughts.

Richard (Dick) Hickock and Perry Smith had a typical adolescent friendship for 28 and 31 year old men. Isn’t that cute? Whatever brains they had between them belonged to Perry and he was the tacit leader. Dick had swagger, tough talk, and little else. On November 14th, 1959, they drove all night through Kansas to the Clutter farm. The Clutters, a humble family of four, were murdered in front of each other so that Perry, the older, alpha member of the pair, could impress his dimwitted sidekick. It was supposed to be a robbery, until they discovered the Clutters had no money and Perry feared Dick might think he was a loser. After all, who would go through all that effort and walk away empty handed? Perry cut Mr. Clutter’s throat then shot his son. He handed Dick the shotgun and ordered him to kill the mother and daughter, which he promptly obeyed.

Gregory Powell and Jimmy Lee Smith had a similar relationship. Gregory is the leader. On Saturday night, March 9th, 1963, Powell and Smith were pulled over by plain-clothes LAPD officers Ian Campbell and Karl Hettinger. Powell quickly moved behind Campbell and put a revolver to his back. In a moment that Hettinger would replay in his mind for the rest of his life, he surrendered his weapon to the crooks. Powell and Smith then drove them to an onion field outside Los Angeles. Powell had no plan. He was just buying time. But once they were isolated and a decision awaited, Powell shot Campbell dead. Hettinger managed to get away, with Powell desperately firing shots at him. It’s the same dynamic. How could he simply let them go? Smith might think him weak. Too late. Jimmy was screwing his girlfriend the whole time. He would laugh to himself as Gregory bragged about being her greatest love. Gracious. If Dick and Perry were cute, Gregory and Jimmy were downright adorable.

Capote’s story focused on Perry Smith. He has little time for Dick Hickock. He portrays Perry as a lonely and misunderstood man worthy of sympathy. Wambaugh’s story is not primarily about Gregory and Jimmy. Rather, the attention is on officer Hettinger, who was tormented for the remainder of his short, troubled life. The book is mostly about how unfairly Hettinger was treated by the LAPD. They sent him around California for other police to interrogate. He was used as a cautionary tale. He died from alcoholism in 1994 at the age of 59. This is the key distinction. Truman Capote mentions the Clutters passively. But Perry Smith? It’s as though he felt he hit the jackpot. A literary goldmine. I don’t see it. Perry, despite his pleas for understanding, is no more sympathetic than Powell. Wambaugh is not interested in humanizing Gregory Powell even though his life was undoubtedly difficult. Everyone around knew Powell was just a low-level street hustler and blowhard. He needed a shy, awkward sidekick like Jimmy Lee Smith to listen to his bullshit. When push came to shove, and Powell enjoyed shoving, Jimmy would do as he was told.

Wambaugh knew the tragedy of Karl Hettinger was a story worth telling. Dick and Perry? Gregory and Jimmy? These are simple men. Cruel, selfish, and mean. Despite Capote’s best efforts, criminals of this sort are not interesting. Why overanalyze sick dogs? Growling and barking, they are merely a nuisance. But once they’ve tasted blood, a civilized people should no longer service their nonsense and excuses. So Wambaugh asks an urgent question. What do a civilized and tolerant people do with Karl Hettinger?