corruption returned to levels equaling those wild and wooly days when every cop was on the take? Dullea’s flaw was that, like most honest men, it was difficult for him to perceive dishonesty in others. But with the example of Egan, his faith was shaken. He had learned how far a respected man of the public trust could fall. Unable to endure another sleepless night, he walked down the marble corridor to the chief’s office at the northwest corner of the HOJ.
The Old Girl (as they called the fortresslike HOJ) was a boxy, serviceable stone edifice with semicircular bays and tall fan windows with radiating sash bars, each like half a lemon slice. The elaborate fretwork, stone mullions, grillwork, parapets, and a long rooftop battlement failed to add a grain of cheer to the oppressive tomb. Chief Quinn’s office was something else entirely.
The big front room was opulent—fine rugs, parqueted hardwood floors, and long polished tables. A photo of the chief hung alongside Mayor “Sunny Jim” Rolph Jr. next to pictures of two early civilian-appointees, DA White of the Mooney bomb plot days and affable Dan O’Brien who tried to be “a good fellow” by day and an officer-administrator by night and failed miserably at both. Quinn’s latest photo showed him in action on the running board of his new armored police vehicle and Captain Mike Riordan aiming a machine gun through a gun port. In Dullea’s own office was exhibited only a single photo and that of his wife and three sons.
Against one wall the chief proudly displayed shining rows of police trophy cups. In his office, Dullea had a single battered trophy he hadn’t won for anything. Someone once brought him flowers in it, and he’d kept the empty cup. Next to an early lowboy radio, the chief prominently displayed the ensign of the International Association of Chiefs of Police, which he hoped to someday head. Across the room the stolid Irishman, a study in military severity, sat rigidly behind a huge mahogany desk. He was well-buffed, well-starched perfection, his superbly cut dark blue serge studded with golden epaulettes and full gold braid. A gold star, two gold stripes, and three gold buttons gleamed on each sleeve. Quinn’s gilded elegance contrasted against a triangle of colorful flags unfurled on both sides of him. “Assured, resplendent in blue and gold, almost Napoleonic in his posture,” Kevin Starr wrote of Quinn’s appearance at a Civic Center rally, “the Chief embodied the power of established authority as it struggled to contain the increasing restiveness of the populace.” That day, Quinn stood not against a background of flags but against a white sea of union placards. He was not only antiunion but antireform, especially with his own department. He routinely stifled any opposition or attempts for reform by discrediting or transferring any critic into the hinterlands.
On the same day the Whispering Gunman was convicted, Quinn had transferred, unannounced, five high-ranking officers and six policemen looking into graft within the SFPD. “The less talk about the transfers the better for all concerned,” Quinn threatened as he packed off the most aggressive to work at the city jail or Potrero Station. “When you’re at Potrero Station you can’t go any further down,” said one cop, “so if you ever get transferred from Potrero Station you must be on your way up.” In a department predominantly Irish—40 percent native-born Irish and 40 percent Irish American, such a demotion was called an “Irish promotion.”
Dullea carefully studied the ceiling line of the elegant office, looking for the twin wires it was alleged Chief Quinn used to bug his deputy chief’s office next door. Quinn, a San Francisco native, was born April 23, 1883. He attended Lincoln Grammar School; graduated from Sacred Heart College; and studied law at Saint Ignatius College, graduating in 1925. He had been walking a beat since 1906. With a sweep of his cigar—long,
The Old Girl (as they called the fortresslike HOJ) was a boxy, serviceable stone edifice with semicircular bays and tall fan windows with radiating sash bars, each like half a lemon slice. The elaborate fretwork, stone mullions, grillwork, parapets, and a long rooftop battlement failed to add a grain of cheer to the oppressive tomb. Chief Quinn’s office was something else entirely.
The big front room was opulent—fine rugs, parqueted hardwood floors, and long polished tables. A photo of the chief hung alongside Mayor “Sunny Jim” Rolph Jr. next to pictures of two early civilian-appointees, DA White of the Mooney bomb plot days and affable Dan O’Brien who tried to be “a good fellow” by day and an officer-administrator by night and failed miserably at both. Quinn’s latest photo showed him in action on the running board of his new armored police vehicle and Captain Mike Riordan aiming a machine gun through a gun port. In Dullea’s own office was exhibited only a single photo and that of his wife and three sons.
Against one wall the chief proudly displayed shining rows of police trophy cups. In his office, Dullea had a single battered trophy he hadn’t won for anything. Someone once brought him flowers in it, and he’d kept the empty cup. Next to an early lowboy radio, the chief prominently displayed the ensign of the International Association of Chiefs of Police, which he hoped to someday head. Across the room the stolid Irishman, a study in military severity, sat rigidly behind a huge mahogany desk. He was well-buffed, well-starched perfection, his superbly cut dark blue serge studded with golden epaulettes and full gold braid. A gold star, two gold stripes, and three gold buttons gleamed on each sleeve. Quinn’s gilded elegance contrasted against a triangle of colorful flags unfurled on both sides of him. “Assured, resplendent in blue and gold, almost Napoleonic in his posture,” Kevin Starr wrote of Quinn’s appearance at a Civic Center rally, “the Chief embodied the power of established authority as it struggled to contain the increasing restiveness of the populace.” That day, Quinn stood not against a background of flags but against a white sea of union placards. He was not only antiunion but antireform, especially with his own department. He routinely stifled any opposition or attempts for reform by discrediting or transferring any critic into the hinterlands.
On the same day the Whispering Gunman was convicted, Quinn had transferred, unannounced, five high-ranking officers and six policemen looking into graft within the SFPD. “The less talk about the transfers the better for all concerned,” Quinn threatened as he packed off the most aggressive to work at the city jail or Potrero Station. “When you’re at Potrero Station you can’t go any further down,” said one cop, “so if you ever get transferred from Potrero Station you must be on your way up.” In a department predominantly Irish—40 percent native-born Irish and 40 percent Irish American, such a demotion was called an “Irish promotion.”
Dullea carefully studied the ceiling line of the elegant office, looking for the twin wires it was alleged Chief Quinn used to bug his deputy chief’s office next door. Quinn, a San Francisco native, was born April 23, 1883. He attended Lincoln Grammar School; graduated from Sacred Heart College; and studied law at Saint Ignatius College, graduating in 1925. He had been walking a beat since 1906. With a sweep of his cigar—long,
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