by Tim Ellis
‘What do you mean?’ Erik said.
‘Well, I’m sure my sister would have known, but maybe she didn’t. I mean, who do they see? Where do they go? How do they become an actress in films?’
Erik looked at Eliza. ‘You’d know better than me.’
Katie shifted on the sofa and stared at Eliza as well.
‘Before I became a crime reporter, I was a gossip columnist at the Herald-Examiner for a short time. The girls – I say girls, because most of them are girls, some as young as twelve or thirteen – get off the train, or the bus and sometimes don’t even look for a place to live before finding themselves an agent.’
‘Hildegard Zinn was on the books of Jackson Porter,’ Erik interrupted. ‘But so were a hundred other women.’
Eliza continued. ‘There are four main agencies in Hollywood: Selznick-Joyce; Collier & Flynn; Edward Small; and Philip Berge. However, there are over a hundred other agencies. Some operate with more scruples than others. Jackson Porter is way down the list of reputable agencies. The main responsibility of an agent is to find or select work for their clients, then to negotiate their contract. Unknown actors are presented to the casting director with a photograph, details of their acting experience and a list of acting credits – if they have any.’
‘And the agent and casting director are both men?’
‘They’re all men, Katie. Hollywood is a brutal business. If these girls aren’t picked out of the crowd for their good looks, then they have to pay-to-play, which means sleeping with the people who could give them a hand up. You can’t sleep your way into being a star, but it helps. A lot of actresses get their first chance that way.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Yes, it is. Unfortunately, that’s the way the system works. Even if they do make it, they’re often asked to change their names, hair, teeth, diet and so on. Abortions are illegal, but they happen regularly in Hollywood. A lot of it is down to luck. Teenager Lana Turner was noticed by a Hollywood reporter drinking from a water fountain at Schwab’s Drug Store on Sunset Strip. He introduced her to Zeppo Marx, who took her to meet Mervyn LeRoy at MGM, who cast her in 1937’s They Won’t Forget, which made her a sex symbol. Of course, the tight-fitting skirt and sweater helped. After that, she was known as the “Sweater Girl”. For every actress who makes it, there are a thousand who don’t.’
‘And men control it all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then one of those men is the killer, isn’t he?’
‘I’m getting tired,’ Erik said, leaning both hands on his stick with his shoulders slumped over.
Katie smiled. ‘Sorry, Erik. Please, go on.’
‘We went to see Porter Jackson, but he didn’t even know who we were talking about. Yes, she was on his books, but apart from agreeing to take her on and represent her, he hadn’t done a damned thing to get her noticed by casting directors. He said she was good looking, but there was nothing special about her face or her figure. She didn’t catch the eye. There were hundreds like her out there.’
‘Had he slept with her?’ Katie asked.
‘I’m sure he had, but we didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer the information. It wasn’t relevant to our investigation.’
‘You can be certain he did,’ Eliza said. ‘As I keep saying, men have the power here in Hollywood. If women don’t know what they have to do to get on when they get here, they soon find out. Doors remain closed. And even when they do make themselves available, there’s no guarantee they’ll ever get a part in a film. Some people think the movies exist to support prostitution, but they’re wrong – it’s the other way round.’
‘Why do they do it?’ Katie screwed up her face. ‘I would never do something like that.’
‘The lure of the silver screen. They see the likes of Ava Gardner, Loretta Young and Hedy Lamarr in films, and they want to be just like them. Of course, when they get here and discover the price they have to pay, some turn right round and go back home, but many stay and sacrifice themselves.’
Erik pretended to clear his throat. ‘So, as I was saying, Porter Jackson didn’t even know who Hildegard Zinn was. She had no job that we could find, so we couldn’t talk to her work colleagues. We hawked her photograph around the dozens of nightclubs on the Sunset Strip without any luck. We even went in the top clubs such as the Mocambo, the Stork Club, Coconut Grove, Ciro’s and the Café Tracadero before it closed. Nobody recognised her. If she went in any of the clubs, then she was invisible, anonymous.’
All the time that Erik was talking about Hildegard Zinn, Katie was thinking about Annie. Was Annie invisible? Anonymous?
‘A few of the other girls recognised her picture, but they didn’t know her to speak to. As far as we could tell, she had no friends. We showed her picture to the people at the studios, but nobody recognised her there either. In the end, we had nothing apart from what the killer had left us, and none of that was any help either.’
‘Not one suspect?’ Katie asked.
‘No suspects, no leads and no clues that we could make any sense of. We couldn’t even establish when she’d actually gone missing. We were making the assumption that it was the night she was murdered, but it might not have been. So, after a couple of weeks, other murders took priority. Hildegard Zinn was still there staring at us from the wall, but we had nowhere else to go, so we moved on.’
‘How sad,’ Katie said.
Erik made his way back to the sofa and sat down. ‘And that story is much the same for the other seven victims as well. They were all on the books of different small-time agents; all fairly new in town; all young and attractive, but nothing special. We had one lead, but it just didn’t lead anywhere. A work colleague of Dawn Morrison’s at the Hollywood Canteen, 1451 Cahuenga Boulevard said that Dawn had told her she was going to meet with someone that night who’d promised to make her a star. Who that someone was, she never said and we never found out.’
Katie stood up and pointed at the notes she’d made on the chalkboard. ‘Can’t we at least speculate about who the killer might be? There are clues to his identity. For instance, he’s obviously skilled in hair styling, applying a woman’s make-up, manicures and nail painting.’
Erik laughed. ‘This is Hollywood. I dread to think how many there might be.’
‘Also, he’s physically strong. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to carry the women in and out of a vehicle . . . And that’s another thing – he’ll have a vehicle, and his own home with a place he can move bodies in and out of without being seen .’
‘You’re fishing in the dark, Katie. We speculated, hypothesised and theorised until we were blue in the face – nothing. We made the same list, but it could have been a thousand guys.’
‘What about the victims? Their backgrounds, physical appearance, who they knew and had contact with . . .’
‘The same. The one thing they all had in common was that they wanted to be actresses at any cost. Well, they paid the ultimate price for getting their pictures on the front page of the Herald-Examiner.’
‘Did anybody know what items he left on the bodies meant?’
‘No. We called in a couple of so-called experts, but they didn’t know.’
‘Experts in what?’
‘Curiosities.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Showbiz curiosities. I mean, we got a dead rattlesnake, a car key, a bottle of perfume, a needle and syringe, a new red shoe, a Chinese hair stick, a black-velvet wrist bow and a red and blue striped scarf. The people we called in had no idea.’
‘So you gave up?’
‘Gave up!’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you didn’t give up.’
‘No, I didn’t give up, Katie.’
‘Maybe we need someone else to take another look at the items. All these murders are connected – we know that. They’re connected by the brutality of the rapes; the strangulation; the washing of the bodies; how he makes them look beautiful afterwards; the items left bet
ween their breasts; and the fact that he disposes of the bodies in different municipal parks. The answer is there, we just have to find it.’
‘And some of us have been doing that for two years, not two minutes.’
‘Let’s not fight, Erik.’
‘Yeah,’ Eliza said. ‘Give the girl a break. You may have been looking for an answer for two years, but you and the rest your airheads didn’t find one, did you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m thinking it’s maybe because you ain’t got no women on the police force.’
‘I was thinking about that,’ Katie said.
Erik grunted. ‘You thinking of applying to join?’
‘They should be so lucky. No, I was thinking of becoming an actress – doing what they did.’ She pointed at the pinboard with the victims’ details on it.
‘Over my dead body,’ Erik said.
Eliza grinned. ‘That would be good.’
A shadow crossed Katie’s face. ‘I don’t take kindly to men trying to tell me what to do. If I want to do it, I’ll do it.’
‘I know a man who could act as your bodyguard if you did decide to do it,’ Eliza said. ‘But to be honest, I don’t think we’re there yet. The one thing that’s obvious is that the killer could be almost anyone in Los Angeles. We’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. I think we need to narrow our suspect list down from the thousands to at least the hundreds.’
‘Yes, I expect you’re right.’
Erik pushed himself up. ‘Well, it’s been nice chatting over old cases with you, but we’re nowhere nearer than when we started.’
‘And we won’t be if you don’t lose the attitude, soldier,’ Katie said. ‘You’re still on sick leave for another two weeks, so tomorrow you could go to the library and find out if there’s been any murders of a similar nature in municipal parks.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘I’ll travel over to the County Poor Farm in Downey and speak to Doctor Levitsky.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘If you’re sure? You already have a job. Erik and me are free agents.’
‘I’m not saying I’ll get a lot done, but I should be able to squeeze something in.’
‘What about making a list of all the men who could style hair, do make-up and nails? I’m not talking about anyone, but someone with qualifications. You were both there at each crime scene, so you’d know better than me, but from the photographs it appears as if he knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘Yes, I would say that was true. What do you think, Erik?’
‘I think I know less about women’s hair and make-up than I do about women.’
Eliza smiled. ‘Yes, I’d say that was also true. All right, I can compile a list. It won’t be completed tomorrow though.’
‘We could meet here again on Friday evening at the same time – six o’clock?’
‘That’ll be fine by me,’ Eliza said.
Erik headed down the hallway. ‘I’ll have to check my rolodex before I can commit.’
Eliza followed him out and shrugged into her coat on the way. ‘I know you’re thinking it, so I’ll say it. No, I’m not going to print anything about what we’ve been up to. A deal is a deal. I’ll wait for the exclusive. Not only that, as much as I’m a reporter without any morals to speak of, I want to catch this evil bastard as much as you do.’
Katie squeezed her arm. ‘Thanks.’
After Erik and Eliza had left, she made herself a radish and cucumber salad with two slices of buttered bread on the side, and sat at her new kitchen table to eat it. Thank goodness food rationing had ended just over six months ago, she thought.
She was disappointed that Erik had decided not to move in with her, the company would have been welcome, but she could understand his reasoning. For the time being at least, he’d be better off at Ruby’s, and her reputation would remain intact.
On the positive side, she felt as though she was finally doing what she came to Los Angeles to do – to catch Annie’s killer and make the world right again for her sister and her father.
Chapter Six
Wednesday, January 21, 1948
At Hollywood Memorial Park Cemetery, off Santa Monica Boulevard, he asked the cabbie to wait for him.
Walking, or riding a streetcar, seemed like impossible tasks for the time being. Ruby was doing a fine job nursing and feeding him back to health, but he wasn’t there yet. Yes, he was feeling stronger each day, and there was a bit more meat on his bones than he’d had when Katie had found him close to death in the apartment seven days ago, but it wasn’t simply about physical strength. His mind had been sick as well, had been since 1945. The things he’d seen and done during the war had burrowed deep inside his head and left their mark. Since coming back he’d had problems concentrating and sleeping. The nightmares and flashbacks kept dragging him back there against his will. Sometimes, he struggled to get out of bed in the mornings, to put one foot in front of the other and to make it through the day.
On his way to the mausoleum he walked past the graves of Bugsy Siegel – the gangster who was shot in June of last year; Rudolph Valentino – the actor who died at the age of thirty-one and had 100,000 people line the streets to say goodbye to him; Barbara La Marr – the actress who was referred to in the media as “The Girl Who is too Beautiful” and died at the age of twenty-nine . . . The place was full of dead celebrities rubbing caskets.
He found the urn that contained the remains of his partner and friend – Jan Janik – in a niche in the circular mausoleum.
‘You seem to be in good company, Jan,’ he said. ‘Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you at the end.’ Tears rolled down his face. He touched the small wood and glass door of the niche and said, ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon. Rest in peace, my friend.’
He dried his eyes, turned and made his way back to the cab.
‘Library, please,’ he said as he shuffled into the rear seat.
‘Cahuenga Branch Library?’
‘That the nearest?’
‘Yeah. Ten minutes along Fountain Avenue.’
‘All right.’
Outside the library he paid the cabbie, stepped onto the sidewalk and staggered sideways. As he grasped his walking stick and clung onto it as if it was his only tether he had to the world, he couldn’t believe how weak he’d become.
‘You all right?’ the cabbie called to him.
‘I will be in a moment. Thanks for asking.’ Once the world had stopped spinning, he made his way into the library.
He stopped at the curved wooden desk and spoke to an attractive dark-haired woman in her early thirties who had the demeanour of a Bullmastiff. The name printed on her badge was Mrs M Rackham: Chief Librarian. He wondered if she was guarding the books.
‘I’d like to do some research, please.’
‘Library card?’
He showed her his gold shield.
‘That’s not a library card.’
‘It’s better than a library card.’
‘Not in here, it’s not. Only library cards are valid in here. No library card, no access. If I went into the police department and showed the desk sergeant my gold library card, would he let me in?’
‘No.’
‘Same applies here. Think of me as the library desk sergeant.’
‘How do I get a library card?’
‘You ask me.’
‘Can I have a library card, please?’
‘Of course you can, Detective . . .?’
‘Urban – Erik Urban.’
‘Urbanus is Latin for “city dweller”. There have been eight Popes called “Urban”. You’re not related to any of them, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I’ll need some details first.’
After answering her questions, which she recorded on a library card application form, she handed him a small brown library card and said, ‘Now you have access. And if you don’t mind m
e saying, it’s a lot more useful than that gold shield you flash around.’
‘Thank you. I’d like to look at the local newspapers, please.’
‘You can’t afford to buy one yourself?’
‘No, not today’s.’
‘When then?’
He hadn’t really given it much thought, but now he did and realised that he didn’t need to look for any crimes in municipal parks after February, 1946, which was when Hildegard Zinn’s body – the first victim – had been found in Cypress Park. ‘Before February 10, 1946.’
‘Going back how long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Very helpful.’
‘Sorry.’
‘All newspapers are kept on microfilm now. I suppose I’ll have to show you how to work the new-fangled reader, won’t I?’
‘Is it difficult?’
‘Not for me, but a policeman . . .’ She shrugged and pulled a face. ‘We’ll see, won’t we? Any particular newspapers?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Sentinel, Times, Mirror-News, Evening-Herald, Herald-Express, Examiner, Daily News . . .’
‘Yes, please.’
Her face crinkled up. ‘All of them?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘It is.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry enough to change your mind?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so. Follow me.’
He followed her to a dark out-of-the-way corner of the library where there was a bulky-looking machine with a large screen standing on four legs in an alcove.
‘Sit,’ she said, indicating the chair in front of the Rekordak Model C Library Film Reader. ‘I’ll go and find the microfilmed newspapers, and then I’ll come back and show you how to work the contraption.’
‘Thank you.’
She was gone for some time. It was so peaceful and quiet that he dozed off and didn’t wake up until he felt someone nudging his shoulder.
‘There’s no sleeping in the library.’
He wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth with the side of his index finger. ‘Sorry. I’ve not been well.’
