And I said, "I wanted to go there too." And that was the end of this little girl's conversation with myself.
I called that number, as I am repeating myself. There was no such number. It was an obsolete number.
I go down to the—I drive by—I leave the delicatessen—the clerk helped me with the sandwiches out to my car, and I thanked him. I told him, "These were going to KLIF, and I want you to make them real good."
He helped me with the sandwiches in the car. I got in the car and drove down toward town. I imagine it is about 4 or 5 miles to the downtown section from this delicatessen.
But prior to going into the station, I drove up McKinney Avenue to look over a couple of clubs to see if they were activating. I knew the club across from the Phil's Delicatessen and I knew the B. & B. Restaurant was open. That is a restaurant and I know the necessity for food, but I can't understand some of the clubs remaining open. It struck me funny at such a tragic time as that happening.
I drove down to Commerce and Harwood and parked my car with my dog—incidentally, I always have my dog with me—on the lot there, left the sandwiches in the car, went into the building of the police station, took the elevator up to the second floor, and there was a police officer there.
This is the first time I ever entered the building, gentlemen. The first time of that Friday. This time it must have been about—I mean the time, the time of my entering the building, I guess, was approximately 11:15 p.m.
The officer was there, and I said, "Where is Joe Long?"
I said, "Can I go and look for him?"
Evidently I took a little domineering part about me, and I was able to be admitted. I asked different reporters and various personalities there, "Are you Joe Long?," and I couldn't locate him.