Black Dahlia, Red Rose
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BLACK DAHLIA,
RED ROSE
The Crime, Corruption,
and Cover-Up of America’s Greatest
Unsolved Murder
PIU EATWELL
This book is dedicated to Donald and Patty Freed
CONTENTS
Preface
Key Dramatis Personae
PART 1 • FALLEN ANGEL
1 Farewell My Lovely
2 A Double Life
3 The Capture
4 Gilda
5 Dial M for Murder
6 House of Strangers
7 The Big Sleep
PART 2 • DARK PASSAGE
8 The Letter
9 The Suspect
10 Behind Locked Doors
11 Deadline at Dawn
12 Breaking Point
13 The Lodger
14 Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye
15 Panic in the Streets
PART 3 • RAW DEAL
16 Key Witness
17 The Glass Alibi
18 The Verdict
19 Detour
20 Fall Guy
21 Voice in the Wind
PART 4 • OUT OF THE PAST
22 The Name of the Rose
23 Specter of the Rose
24 The Woman in the Window
Postscript
Acknowledgments
Full Dramatis Personae
Notes
Bibliography
Index
PREFACE
This is the story of one of the most notorious unsolved murders in California history—probably in American history. The story of the murder of a twenty-two-year-old girl, whose bisected body was found in the grass beside a sidewalk in a Los Angeles suburb in January 1947. Perhaps, if the newspapers had not come up with the name, the case would have languished in obscurity along with the hundreds of others marked “unsolved” in the basement of the Los Angeles Police Department. But the moniker “Black Dahlia”—evocative of an exotic flower, of desire both toxic and intoxicating—has ensured that the case remains forever imprinted in the public consciousness, a potent symbol of the dark side of Hollywood, and, by extension, of the American dream.
This book is part detective story and part history. Partly, it is also a snapshot of a great American city and its police department as they stood at a specific moment in time. This era is commonly visualized through the movies, as the era of film noir: a time of corrupt cops and gun-toting gangsters, cynical heroes, and bottle blondes doling out deadpan one-liners. But the slick film noir repartee belied the brutal inequalities of reality. In truth, it was a tough time after a tough war in a tough world. The Black Dahlia case tapped into both the imagery and the issues. As such, it became a real-life noir story, acquiring its own mythic dimensions as fact and fiction became hard to disentangle.
In the following pages I tell the story of this extraordinary case. However, despite its narrative form, this is not a work of fiction. Anything between quotation marks comes from a letter, memoir, or other written document. If I describe the weather on a particular day, it is because I checked the contemporary weather reports. The action takes place almost exclusively in Los Angeles, but I must beg forgiveness for a wide sweep across the decades from postwar to the present. Such a range is necessary to present the story in its entirety. I hope the reader will also allow for a change of narrative voice at the end of the story. This is necessary to broaden the scope of the account, from a historical retelling of the tale to the context of a modern-day investigation. Readers who find the chapter headings evocative of film noir movie titles of the 1940s and ’50s would be absolutely correct.
An especially challenging aspect of investigating this particular case is that the Los Angeles Police Department has consistently refused to release the crime scene photographs and the full autopsy report. In addition, various key items of evidence—in particular, physical evidence such as the victim’s purse, shoes, and letters—are no longer available or have disappeared. The main source of contemporary evidence remains the important cache of papers related to the case collated for a grand jury investigation in 1949, and recently released by the Los Angeles district attorney. While it is highly probable that some items of contemporary evidence were suppressed by certain members of the police department at the time, it should be emphasized that police practices in general and the conduct of the LAPD as described in this book are limited to the period of the historical events discussed. There is no evidence whatsoever that today’s LAPD was involved in any “cover-up,” or indeed has any idea whether these items of evidence actually exist, or, if they exist, where they are.
In the end, this is a story about truth: the search for truth and its suppression. The sixteenth-century English philosopher Francis Bacon has said that truth is the child of time. If this is the case, then I offer this book as the offspring of the years, which, like Moses in the cradle, has finally come to rest in the bulrushes of the Nile (or, in this case, the Mississippi).
Piu Eatwell, 2017
KEY DRAMATIS PERSONAE
(A full list of dramatis personae begins on pp 275.)
THE COPS
Chief of the LAPD
Clemence B. Horrall (until summer 1949)
William A. Worton (after summer 1949)
Assistant Chief of the LAPD
Joe Reed (until summer 1949)
LAPD Chief of Detectives
Thaddeus Franklin “Thad” Brown (from summer 1949); elder brother of Finis Brown
LAPD Homicide Division
Head of Homicide:
Captain Jack Donahoe (until September 1947)
Captain Francis Kearney (after September 1947)
Homicide Detectives Assigned to the Dahlia Case:
Lieutenant Harry “the Hat” Hansen
Sergeant Finis Albania Brown; younger brother of Thad Brown
LAPD Gangster Squad
Head of Gangster Squad:
William “Willie” Burns (until late 1949)
Gangster Squad Detectives Assigned to the Dahlia Case:
John J. “JJ” O’Mara
Archie Case
James Ahern
Loren K. Waggoner
Con Keller
LAPD psychiatrist
Dr. Paul De River—police psychiatrist to LAPD from 1937 to 1950
Fred Witman—private investigator and close friend of Dr. De River
THE JOURNALISTS
James Hugh “Jimmy” Richardson—city editor for the Los Angeles Examiner, Hearst newspaper
Agness “Aggie” Underwood—city editor for the Los Angeles Evening Herald & Express, another Hearst newspaper and rival of the Examiner
THE VICTIM
Elizabeth Short—the “Black Dahlia,” victim of a gruesome murder in January 1947
Phoebe Mae Short—mother of the victim
Mark Hansen—Danish nightclub owner and Hollywood businessman, close friend of Short; no relation to Harry “the Hat” Hansen of the LAPD
Ann Toth—Hollywood bit player, close friend of Short
Marjorie Graham—girlfriend of Short
Lynn Martin—nightclub singer, girlfriend of Short
Dorothy and Elvera French—cinema assistant and her mother who housed Short briefly in San Diego in December/January 1947–48
THE SUSPECTS
George Hodel—celebrity Hollywood doctor
Leslie Duane Dillon—twenty-seven-year-old drifter and hotel bellhop
Corporal Joseph Dumais—one of over five hundred “confessing Sams” who claimed to have committed the murder
PART 1
FALLEN ANGEL
“This is a rotten town with a lot of rotten people in it.”
—A MAN ALONE (1955)
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FAREWELL MY LOVELY
Sunrise was at 6:58 a.m. in Los Angeles on the morning of Wednesday, January 15, 1947. The month had been an unusually bleak one for Southern California. Dense fog had descended on the coastal towns of Long Beach and Redondo. The sea fog was accompanied by a razor-edged wind that whipped up the Pacific rollers and sent raw blasts through the boulevards of a city more accustomed to the hot, dry, dusty winter gusts of the Santa Ana winds.
The previous night had been a rare one in Los Angeles because there had been a hard frost on the ground. Black smoke trailed across the sky from the smudge pots lit to protect the orange groves that, in those days, still carpeted the slopes of the San Fernando Valley. A slice of waning moon hung over the orange trees, their pale blossoms and fragile perfume already in the process of being obliterated by rows of white concrete grid housing. Farther south from San Fernando, in Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles, trolley cars shuttled their late-night cargo of drunks, streetwalkers, and transients around the city, seemingly oblivious to their impending annihilation even as they rattled along in the shadow of the construction work on the latest phase of the Hollywood Freeway. In just a few years, the freeway would become the major road linking northern suburbia with Tinseltown. The old central tramway would be demolished as part of a lofty plan to transform the City of Angels into, in actor Bob Hope’s words, “the biggest parking lot in the world.”*
Like much of Los Angeles, Leimert Park in the south of the city was the planned master community of an ambitious property developer. When Walter H. Leimert† began his dream project in 1927, he envisaged a model community of homes in the newly fashionable Spanish Colonial Revival style, which would give white middle-income families their piece of the American dream. Sandwiched between Jefferson Park to the north, Hyde Park to the south, and Baldwin Hills to the west, the residential district boasted its own town square, movie theater, and shopping malls. Even more impressive, it was designed by the firm Olmsted and Olmsted, sons of Frederick Law Olmsted, the man who landscaped New York’s Central Park.
In the 1940s, Leimert Park was the perfect place for young, white married couples to start a family. So it was for John and Betty Bersinger, who in 1945 had purchased a bungalow with a neat garden and wrought-iron grilles in the 3700 block of Norton Avenue—one of a series of narrow ribbon-roads to the north of Leimert. As elsewhere, the war had stopped housing development on their block, and the lots one block south were covered with weeds: stiff horseweed, yellow mustard, and stinging nettles in the spring and summer; clumps of wiry grass, ranging Mexican oleander, and hard, black earth in the winter. Nothing stood on the vacant scrub other than a row of electricity pylons, a line of black masts linked with skimming wires that leaped and ducked to the horizon.
Despite the unfinished housing developments, sidewalks had been put in along the vacant lots, and this part of the park was a popular recreation area for mothers and children. It was also where Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey sometimes had their circus. So it was that, at 10:00 a.m. on the clear, cold morning of Wednesday, January 15, 1947, Betty Bersinger packed her three-year-old daughter, Anne, into her stroller and headed out south across the vacant lots, making for a repair shop to pick up her husband’s shoes. The crunch of broken glass underfoot at the 3800 block of Norton caught the young housewife’s attention as she tried to steer the stroller clear of the shards scattered on the sidewalk.
Then, glancing up, Betty saw the flies. There was a big black cloud of them buzzing low over something. Squinting, the young mother could just about make out what appeared to be a white shop mannequin sprawled on the rough grass by the sidewalk. Bizarrely, it appeared to have been cut in half. “My goodness, it was so white,” said Betty, many years later. “It didn’t look like anything more than perhaps an artificial model. It was so white, and separated in the middle. I noticed the dark hair and this white, white form.” The presence of the palely glinting object, in a place where children played, was troubling. “It just didn’t seem right to me,” said Betty. “I could see these kids on their bicycles, and I thought, maybe it will scare those kids if they ride to school and see this, so I’d better call somebody to come along at least and have a look, and see what it is.” The thought that what she had seen was anything other than a broken store dummy barely entered Betty’s head.
Hurrying past the vacant lots, Betty tried the doorbell of the first house on the next block. There was nobody home. At the second house, however, a woman opened the door. Betty explained that she had seen something strange a block back. She asked to use the telephone. When the call was answered at the police station, she briefly outlined what she had seen and told them someone should come check it out. Then—having triggered what was to become one of the biggest manhunts in the history of modern America—Mrs. Bersinger trundled on her way with her buggy and her child to the shopping mall.
The call came through to the police complaint board at 10:55 a.m. A shrill-voiced female—who hung up abruptly without identifying herself—complained that there was an unsightly object off the sidewalk in the vacant lot on Norton Avenue between Thirty-ninth Street and Coliseum, in the middle of the block on the west side, and could someone please take care of it. At 11:07 a.m. a radio car was dispatched to the scene, with uniformed patrolmen Frank Perkins and Will Fitzgerald of the University Division. Accustomed, as regular flatfeet, to booking the streetwalkers, dope peddlers, and drunks who were the usual detritus of Skid Row, Perkins and Fitzgerald were ill-prepared for the sight that awaited them. They immediately radioed in to the Homicide Division.
By 11:30 a.m., word of there being a “man down” on Norton between Thirty-ninth Street and Coliseum had spread through town. A throng of newspapermen with heavy camera equipment and phosphorescent flashbulbs gathered to join Sergeant Finis A. Brown and Lieutenant Harry L. Hansen, the Homicide Division detectives who had been dispatched to the scene. “ ‘A 390W–415 down’ meant a female drunk passed out sans clothes,” recalled Los Angeles journalist Will Fowler, twenty-four years old at the time. Fowler had never had his picture taken with a dead body before, so he cut a deal with news photographer Felix Paegel to split a bottle of bourbon if Paegel took a photograph of him kneeling beside the corpse. A circle of fedoras, jabbing fingers, and smoking flashbulbs soon surrounded the form with its cluster of buzzing flies.
One of the first to arrive on the scene was Agness Underwood, veteran crime reporter of the Los Angeles Evening Herald-Express. Agness, known to all as “Aggie,” had been born in San Francisco in 1902. Her mother had died when she was six years old. She had subsequently been dumped by her itinerant, glass-blower father into a series of charity homes and foster families around the country. Finally, abandoned as a teenager in Los Angeles by a relative who had tried unsuccessfully to get her into the movies as a child actress, Aggie had managed to find her way to a Salvation Army hostel downtown. She had worked as a waitress and married a young soda jerk, Harry Underwood, for fear of being turned over to the authorities for living on her own underage. The pair had settled in Ocean Park in 1920, running a soda fountain lunch counter. Aggie was a housewife in Los Angeles when she applied for her first newspaper job, working vacation relief on a metropolitan switchboard. She later claimed she only wanted the job to buy new silk stockings, which her husband told her they couldn’t afford.‡
By January 1947, Aggie had worked her way up from switchboard operator to the Herald-Express’s premier crime beat reporter. She was forty-four years old, a short, sturdy woman with a square jaw, pugnacious appearance, and a ready grin. “She should have been a man,” said the Herald-Express managing editor, J. B. T. Campbell. She was “a rip-snorting, gogettum reporter that goes through fire lines, trails killers, weeps with divorcees and rides anything from airplanes to mules to reach the spot that in newspapers is usually marked with an arrow or an x.” Aggie took great pains to distance herself from the sob-sister line of reporting that was the traditional beat for female journalists.
“To hell with that. I’d rather have a fistful—an armload—of good, solid facts,” she said. Underwood wrote like a man, cussed like a man, and joined in her male colleagues’ pranks. Once, she slapped the city editor in the face with a fish that had been brought to the office in a tank. She dressed in the shabby, slapdash fashion of the male journalists: rumpled and unremarkable dresses, no makeup, low-heeled shoes. Colleagues recalled that her hair often looked as if it had been combed by an electric mixer. “She was a raggedy-looking woman,” said Jack Smith, a high-profile columnist who worked with Aggie. But Aggie could also work her gender to advantage, when it suited her. She sewed back the wayward buttons of her male colleagues’ shirts, invited them home for spaghetti dinners, and brought her kids into the office to hand out gifts at Christmas. From the very beginning, she saw the big picture: skillfully mapping out a strategy where she would be seen as an exceptional journalist who just happened to be a woman. Within two years, she was to become the city editor of the Herald-Express, one of the first women to be appointed to the position on a U.S. national newspaper.
It was a matter of great pride to Aggie that she was tougher than any man when it came to covering gruesome crime stories. “I was no sissy in my control of my reaction to blood and guts,” she said. Once, when police discovered two rotting corpses on a living room sofa, male officers and newspapermen waited outside for the room to air. Aggie marched straight in, climbed over the corpses, retrieved their IDs, and phoned in her story. Afterward, she sent her brown dress to the cleaners, but complained that “the odor persisted.”
But even Aggie was shocked at what she saw on Norton Avenue the morning of January 15, 1947.
The body—wreathed in smoke from dozens of flashbulbs—was unquestionably female. It lay amid sparse weeds a couple of feet from the sidewalk. The arms were bent in right angles at the elbows and raised above the shoulders: in supplication, it seemed in death, in reality, the consequence of having been strung up by the wrists when alive. The legs were spread apart. There were bruises and cuts on the forehead. The face had been severely beaten. The hair was blood-matted. The eyes, which were closed, seemed strangely peaceful in contrast to the mouth, which had been slashed from ear to ear in a satanic smile. Most shockingly of all, the body had been cut in half through the abdomen, under the ribs. The two sections were ten or twelve inches apart. The liver hung out of the torso. A deep, gaping slit had been cut from the pubic area to just under the navel. It was, as one eyewitness was later to recall, as though “two hunks of human flesh had been laid down like two sides of beef.”