The Black Dahlia Avenger: The True Story

by Steve Hodel

  "Hodel," he said, "I am going to certify you to the academy. I shouldn't, and I know I shouldn't, but I am. I say again, it's a waste of time and money. You will start the academy three weeks from today. Now get the fuck out of my office!" Thus began my career with LAPD.

  Now, with a steady and secure civil service job and a hundred-dollar-a-month increase in her purse, Kiyo decided we should buy a new home, and almost immediately one came our way. A good friend of hers, who was married to the old-time cowboy-in-black hero Lash LaRue (whose black whip was as fast as his gun), had recently put her Laurel Canyon home up for sale. At the top of a hundred concrete steps, it was more like an estate and it had a Hansel-and-Gretel roof.

  Veteran movie director Tay Garnett, it was rumored, had built the home for a beautiful young actress he had fallen in love with, at a cost of more than $100,000, several fortunes in the days of the early studios. Then, just as the final bricks were being put into place, the fairy tale ended when the young starlet ran off to Malibu with a handsome young actor. Heartbroken, Garnett sold the house and ultimately Lash and his wife bought the place.

  I especially liked Laurel Canyon, a community of homes high in the Hollywood Hills. The area was filled with actors, writers, artists, bohemians about to be reborn as hippies, lots of right-brain people. And I liked their energy. Kiyo offered Lash and his wife $37,500, which was the amount of money they had paid for the home fifteen years earlier. They happily accepted, figuring they did well to get their money back, and Kiyo and I moved in a few months later. I didn't know how we would ever pay the mortgage, but Kiyo simply told me to hand over my paycheck every two weeks and she'd take care of the rest.

  After a year I'd completed my probation both on the LAPD and in my marriage. I'd followed all of Kiyo's rules, my training officer's rules, and the rules of any patrol sergeant who happened to be sitting at a desk in the divisions where I worked. I had kept my promise to Kiyo: neither my brothers nor my mother knew we were living together, much less married. As far as my family was concerned, I had ceased to exist. However, I did write a short message to my father in Manila simply telling him I had married "a Japanese woman" but provided no additional information. I don't remember if he answered my note.

  If I had any doubts about my marriage with Kiyo or the growing differences between us, they were obliterated by the Watts riots that took over all our lives in the summer of 1965. Overnight the city became a third-world capital, aflame with massive rioting and running gun battles. I and five or six other uniformed officers were assigned to ride around the streets of South Central, jammed tightly into a single black-and-white, each of us armed with a shotgun. That was our sole function — a "show of force" — moving targets driving around in circles for twelve hours a day, never firing a shot, never making an arrest, and never getting out of the car except to grab a coffee or take a leak. We just drove in circles as a "perimeter control," more afraid of ourselves and the loaded shotguns we carried than of any rioters. The city would require full armored military occupation before order could be restored, and the myth of LAPD's invincibility vanished.

  The riots had barely ended when, in October, my father sent a message that he would be in town for two days and asked me to call him at the Biltmore Hotel so he could meet with me and my "new bride." Upon hearing the news, Kiyo seemed oddly excited and urged me to call him immediately and schedule it. We arranged to meet the following afternoon in the lobby of the Biltmore at 6:00 p.m. and have dinner together.

  That whole afternoon Kiyo acted rather bizarre. She had bought a new red dress for the occasion and had spent three hours on her hair and makeup, as if she were going to audition for a leading role. She was stunning, and all heads followed her as we walked through the Olive Street entrance into the lobby at 5:50 p.m. We waited in the lobby bar, she with her chardonnay and me with my double scotch, for Dad to make his appearance on the double stairway leading from the elevators to the main lobby. Father, as was his custom, was fifteen minutes late as he approached us with the beautiful Diana on his arm. I blinked as I looked up at them because Diana and Kiyo seemed to resemble each other. They didn't actually look alike, but they carried themselves in the same way. I could almost see sparks flying between them.

  As Dad and Diana came within four feet of us, Kiyo looked directly at him, smiled broadly, and said with more intimacy than any stranger would have dared, "Hello, George!" Father looked at my wife, at first blankly, then, as he remembered, his eyes slowly changed from surprise to shock. Uncharacteristically, his speech faltered, and his voice broke as he replied, "Hello, Kiyo."

  Diana and I looked at each other, both aware that something very strange had just occurred between the two of them. I said, "Hello, Diana, it's been five years, good to see you. This is my wife, Kiyo." Diana extended her hand, but Kiyo ignored her and kept staring at my father and smiling. I said, trying to paint over the awkwardness of the moment with some small talk, "Dad, I understand you two knew each other when Kiyo was quite young." He had recovered his composure now, and there was fire in his eyes as he replied, "Yes, we did. She was quite young, quite young indeed. Steven, I tried calling you before you left your home to inform you that, unfortunately, we won't be able to have dinner after all. Some very urgent business matters have come up unexpectedly, and we are on our way now to try and put out some fires and deal with them. We're off tomorrow for New York, so perhaps the next time through town we can have more time."

  He reached for Diana's arm, and began walking back to the steps that led to the elevators. In a tone that carried finality and total dismissal, without turning around, he said, "Goodbye, Kiyo." I turned toward Kiyo, confused, trying to comprehend what had just occurred in the past ninety seconds. She had tears in her eyes. I walked her over to a bar table, sat her down, ordered us each another drink, and, trying to be compassionate but failing utterly, said, "What the fuck was that all about? What the hell is going on, Kiyo?" I could detect both disgust and defeat in her reply: "Not here. Not now. Let's go home first."

  I had never seen my father out of control and at a loss for words. That was a first. He had clearly been shaken just seeing Kiyo. After we got back to Laurel Canyon, I demanded some answers.

  "You are still such a child, Steven," she began. "You know nothing of life or love or feelings. Yes, I knew your mother and father when I was young. I met your father for the first time at a bus bench in Hollywood. I was sitting there alone and he stopped his car, got out, and walked up to me. He was immaculately dressed in a brown suit, with a cashmere overcoat, the handsomest man I had ever seen. He handed me his business card and said, 'Excuse me, miss, but I am a physician and I am also a professional photographer. You are the most beautiful young lady I have ever seen. I would like to photograph you, and will of course pay you for your time.' His charm was irresistible. He gave me a ride home and we became friends. I was very young and impressionable and quickly developed a crush on your father back then. That's all."

  Somehow, I didn't think that was all. I was determined to find out the truth. I was taking courses at Los Angeles City College three nights a week at that time, and the following night as usual left home, headed for my sociology class. But I didn't feel like going to class; I felt like having a drink. I pulled my car into the local tavern at the bottom of the canyon near Sunset Boulevard where I'd decided I'd drink instead of think that night. It took four double scotches before

  I had the courage to drive back up the hill and get the rest of the story from Kiyo. I parked the car and took the hundred steps that led to our oversized front door three steps at a time. As I approached the door, I could see through the window that she had lit a fire in the fireplace.

  My second glance froze me in place. I saw two figures lying in front of the fire. Kiyo was naked; her companion had his shirt off and was lying prone against her body, kissing her. I slipped my key into the door lock and entered as Kiyo grabbed for her robe on the couch. The young man grabbed for his shirt on the hearth. Kiyo s
tood up defiantly as she tied her robe. "It's not what you think. Tom is an actor. He has a love scene in a film. We were ..." Tom paled at the sight of the gun holstered on my left hip, clearly visible under my open sport coat. He stumbled for words: "It's true. I have this part. I have the script at home.... I can show you."

  The young man standing in front of me with trembling hands as he tried to button his shirt was almost a mirror of myself in stature and age. I moved my hand toward my gun and I actually weighed the options in front of me. I wanted to draw and fire. I wanted to take every bit of the hatred that was coursing through me at that moment and force it through the nozzle of my off-duty revolver. Just the sight of his bare chest was compelling me to blow huge holes in it. But even filled with liquor, I knew he wasn't worth prison, and neither was she. I fought the urge.

  "If you're not out of my house in five seconds," I said in a low growl that I'd never heard myself make before, "I will blow your fucking head off. And if you ever call or see my wife again, as God is my witness, I will kill you."

  The young man bolted for the door and took the hundred steps down six at a time. My hatred now turned back full force to Kiyo. "You fucking bitch! How many others have you fucked behind my back? How many other cocks have you sucked while I was sitting in class at night? Tell me! Answer me!" Kiyo turned and walked toward the dining room. "You're so immature, Steven," she said. "You're not my husband — you're my child."

  My hands were shaking as I fought to control the anger and hatred I felt for this woman. I knew I had to get out of the house and away before I lost control. My job had shown me what happened when men and women lost control, and I was now part of the job. I kept my weapon in its holster and walked out of the house.

  The following afternoon, I had my partner return with me to the house and we parked the black-and-white in front of the steps. Moving day. I knew she was gone to teach piano. All I wanted from the house were a few personal papers and my clothes. Within an hour we had all of my personal effects loaded into the back of the car. I went to the study to look for my passport, birth certificate, and other personal papers. I riffled through her desk, but they were nowhere to be found, but there was a bank savings account with her name on it, "Kiyo Hodel."

  I opened the passbook and stared at the balance: $4,500. Jesus Christ! Where did that money come from? I was proud of our joint savings account, into which we'd managed to stash $400, but this was like finding another set of business books. What was going on? The next folder I saw in her desk was labeled "Astrological Charts." I thought to myself, "Screw her, she's not keeping mine in here." I opened the folder and my chart was on top. I pulled it from the stack and looked at the second horoscope with its circle and symbols and read the name "Amilda Kiyoko Tachibana, born in Boston, Massachusetts, August 2, 1920." I stared at the year: "1920." That meant she wasn't thirty-three, as I believed, but forty-five! Could it be?

  I dropped my partner off at Van Nuys police station, where I was then assigned, took the rest of the afternoon off, and drove to my mother's apartment in North Hollywood. I told her everything. After Mother got over the shock of seeing me, she sat in horror as I told her of my elopement and secret marriage to Kiyo, and of Kiyo's insistence and my sworn oath not to tell anyone, especially my family, of our marriage. I told Mother of our recent meeting with Father, and his strange reaction, and then my returning home unexpectedly two nights ago and finding Kiyo in the embrace of another man. Finally, I related the discovery of the chart showing her birth date was 1920. Was it true? Was she really forty-five? What did she know about Kiyo?

  Mother sat in silence for several minutes, and then she cried as she told me the true story of Kiyo and my father. "I had no idea when

  I said, 'Let's go to a party at Kiyo's house' that any of this could have happened. I can't believe it has." She lit a cigarette while she searched for the right words to continue her story:

  "Yes, Kiyo is forty-five," she continued. "Your father brought her home one night after seeing her standing waiting for a bus or taxi, something like that. I'm not sure exactly how they met; it's been so long. She was a student at the Chouinard Art Institute, and the war was on. They were arresting all the Japanese off the streets and in their houses, and she lived with us on Valentine Street. She was very young and very beautiful, and he felt sorry for her, and was afraid she'd be interned like the others. Then she moved out and away and we lost track of her. After the war, we heard she had married, and she and her husband Brook used to come to the Franklin House to our parties. They later divorced, and she married again. Before that party I took you to, I hadn't seen her in years."

  I called a lawyer and filed for divorce that same week. It became final a year later. Kiyo and I never spoke again, and I heard from Rumor Central that she had remarried, or was living with a man even younger than me. She continued to teach astrology classes and found her fifteen minutes of fame, which included her picture and a small article in Time magazine as a recognized "astrologer to the Hollywood stars." She died from cancer while she was still in her mid-fifties, about ten years after our divorce.

  My only explanation for Kiyo's interest in me was her private moment of truth in those brief minutes in the lobby at the Biltmore Hotel when I introduced her to my father as my wife. To her, it was all worth it for the "Hello, George."

  In that single moment, Kiyo had exacted her revenge for the grudge she held against him. Twenty years earlier, in her youth and innocence, she had loved him and succumbed to his seduction. His conquest complete, Father had cast her aside and quickly moved on to other women and other loves. It was a slow road for her to travel, but she would be avenged. Her moment came in the lobby of the Biltmore, as she was introduced as Kiyo Hodel, his son's wife. Standing there, ignorant of the drama, I was hoping and praying that Dad would be impressed with my choice of a wife. He wasn't the only Hodel who knew how to pick beautiful and sophisticated women!

  In the following days, after the discovery of Kiyo's infidelity, her lies about her age, and Mother's explanations about her true relationship with Father during the war years, I was shaken to my core, tilled with the rage and hatred that only youth can know. However, it would not be for another thirty-four years, until I saw Kiyo's picture in my father's album after his death, that the full impact of Dad and Kiyo would begin to dawn on me. Then only gradually did I come to know the truth. His love for her was no weekend romance. Her picture was there, hidden with the rest. Carried for fifty years in his sanctum sanctorum. He had loved her!

  11

  The Dahlia Witnesses

  Mid-July, 1999. Bellingham, Washington

  I HAD ALREADY REVIEWED ENOUGH MATERIAL on the Condition of Elizabeth Short's body to recognize that what her killer did to her was no mere butcher job. The only person who could have performed a bisection so perfectly had to be a doctor, a skilled doctor. I was also impressed by the indications that the killer had performed a postmortem hysterectomy. Not only did he know the female anatomy, but he clearly possessed a level of surgical skill far beyond that of the average medical student or, as some had speculated at the time, mortician or nurse. The killer or killers were also brutally sadistic: they had tortured and humiliated Elizabeth before putting her to death.

  Assuming for the moment that there was only one killer, the amount of time he had and the rage he felt toward his victim indicated to me that he doubtless knew her intimately. Everything about the crime pointed to an act of rage-driven revenge. What, specifically, was the relationship between victim and killer that would result in an explosion of such violence and brutality that even the police at the crime scene could not remember ever having seen anything so degrading and horrifying?

  The answers lie in the dynamic of their relationship, and in their lives before they crossed each other's path. The records of those lives are still with us, because neither the victim nor the crime could simply disappear. Considering this, I was convinced that, somewhere buried within the official case records, the in
terviews with witnesses, and the newspaper coverage, or the memories of people associated with Elizabeth Short, there had to be some answers. That's where I would begin my search: to try and build a composite of Elizabeth Short from scratch — something, I believed, the police had not adequately done back in 1947. I began my search for clues to the real nature of the victim, starting with a complete and thorough review of all known witnesses.

  The first group of witnesses would be those people who knew her when she was alive, who could help me reconstruct a chronology of her movements until the day of her murder. They would cover the period from 1943 until January 9, 1947. These people included her family, those who knew her before she came to Los Angeles, and those whom she met during her years in Los Angeles looking for work and a place to live.

  Phoebe May Short

  Phoebe Short, the victim's mother, learned that her daughter was found dead and mutilated in a vacant lot when two reporters from the L.A. Examiner called her in Medford, Massachusetts, after the paper had learned, from its Soundex transmission of fingerprints to the FBI, that the victim's name was Elizabeth Short. It was a gruesome phone call, because the reporters, in their effort to gain as much information as possible, initially told Mrs. Short that her daughter had won a beauty contest and they needed background information on her for a story. Excited and jubilant, Phoebe began to gush about her daughter, talking about her beauty, her hopes, her dreams, until the reporter finally revealed the awful truth. Crushed and distraught, Phoebe nonetheless answered the rest of their questions, and the reporters had their exclusive.