by James Ellroy
“I care. And if I lean on De Witt, he’ll be lucky to talk at all.”
Kay stood up. “For a man with an up-for-grabs heart, you are such a hardcase. I’m going to bed. Good night, Dwight.”
When I heard a Schubert quartet coming from Kay’s bedroom, I took pen and paper from the stationery cupboard and wrote out my report on the questioning of Elizabeth Short’s father. I included mention of his “air tight” alibi, his account of the girl’s behavior when she lived with him in ‘43, the beating she got from a Camp Cooke soldier and her parade of nameless boyfriends. Padding the report with unnecessary details kept my mind most of the way off Kay, and when I finished I made myself two ham sandwiches, chased them with a glass of milk and fell asleep on the couch.
My dreams were mug shot flashes of recent bad guys, Ellis Loew representing the right side of the law with felony numbers stenciled across his chest. Betty Short joined him in black and white, full face and left profile views. Then all the faces dissolved into LAPD report forms rolling out endlessly as I tried to jot down information on Junior Nash’s whereabouts in the blank spaces. I woke up with a headache, knowing I was in for a very long day.
It was dawn. I walked out to the porch and picked up the morning Herald. The headline was “Hunt Boyfriends in Torture Killing,” a portrait photo of Elizabeth Short centered directly below it. It was captioned, “The Black Dahlia,” followed by, “Authorities today were searching into the love life of 22-year-old Elizabeth Short, victim of the ‘Werewolf Murder,’ whose romances had changed her, according to friends, from an innocent girl to a black-clad, man-crazy delinquent known as the Black Dahlia.”
I felt Kay beside me. She grabbed the paper, skimming the front page, giving a slight shudder. Handing it back, she asked, “Will all this be over soon?”
I flipped through the front section. Elizabeth Short took up six whole pages, most of the ink portraying her as a slinky femme fatale in a tight black dress. “No,” I said.
Nine
Reporters were surrounding University Station. The parking lot was packed and the curb was lined with radio trucks, so I double-parked, stuck “Official Police Vehicle” signs under my wiper blades and pushed through the cordon of newshounds, ducking my head to avoid being recognized. It didn’t work; I heard “Buck-kee!” and “Blei-chert,” then hands grabbed at me. My jacket pocket was ripped loose, and I shoved myself the rest of the way inside.
The entrance hall was filled with day watch blues going on duty; a connecting door opened up into a bustling squadroom. Cots lined the walls; I saw Lee passed out on one of them, sheets of newspaper covering his legs. Phones were ringing at desks all around me, and my headache came back, the pounding twice as bad. Ellis Loew was tacking slips of paper to a bulletin board; I tapped him hard on the shoulder.
He turned around. I said, “I want out of this circus. I’m a Warrants officer, not a Homicide dick, and I’ve got priority fugitives. I want to get un-detached. Now.”
Loew hissed, “No. You work for me, and I want you on the Short case. That’s final, absolute and irrevocable. And I’ll brook no prima donna demands from you, Officer. Do you understand?”
“Ellis, goddamnit!”
“You get stripes on your sleeve before you call me that, Bleichert. Until then it’s Mr. Loew. Now go read Millard’s summary report.”
I stormed over to the rear of the squadroom. Russ Millard was asleep in a chair, his legs propped up on the desk in front of him. Four typed sheets of paper were tacked to the corkboard wall a few feet away. I read:
First Summary Report
187 P.C., Vict: Short, Elizabeth Ann, W.F.
D.O.B. 7129124. Filed 1117147 0600 Hrs.
Gentlemen—
Here’s the 1st summary on E. Short, D.O.D. 1115147, 39th and Norton, Leimert Park.
1. 33 phony or probable phony confessions so far. Obviously innocent confessors have been released, incoherent and seriously imbalanced being held at City Jail awaiting alibi checks and sanity hearings. Known deviates being questioned by Dr. De River, consulting psychiatrist, with Det. Div. backup. Nothing solid yet.
2. Results of prlim. post mort. and follow-up: vict. choked to death on ear to ear knife slash thru mouth. No alcohol or narcotics in blood at time of death. (For det. see case file 14-187-47)
3. Boston P.D. doing background check on E. Short, family and old boyfriends and their whereabouts at time of murder. Father (C. Short) has valid alibi—he is eliminated as suspect.
4. Camp Cooke C.I.D. is checking out reports of beating E. Short received from soldier when she worked at P.X. in 9/43. E. Short arrested for underaged drinking in 9/43, C.I.D. says soldiers she was arrested with are all overseas, thus eliminated as suspects.
5. Sewers being dragged citywide for E. Short’s clothing. All women’s clothing found will be analyzed at Central Crime Lab. (See crime lab sum. rpts. for det.)
6. Citywide field interrogation rpts. 1/12/47— 1/15/47 collated and read. One follow-up: Hollywood woman called in complaint about shouts of “weird sounding gibberish” in H.W. Hills nights of 1/13 and 1/14. Result of follow-up: put off as party revelers making noise. Field officers: disregard this occurrence.
7. From verified phone tips: E. Short lived most of 12/46 in San Diego, at home of Mrs. Elvera French. Vict. met Mrs. French’s daughter, Dorothy, at movie theater where Dorothy worked, told (unverified) story about being abandoned by husband. Frenches took her in, and E. Short told them conflicting stories: she was widow of air corps major; pregnant by navy pilot; engaged to army flyer. Vict. had many dates with different men during her stay at French house. (See 14-187-47 interviews for det.)
XXXXX8. E. Short left French house on 1/9/47 in company of man she called “Red.” (Desc. as: W.M., 25-30, tall, “handsome”, 170-180, red hair, blue eyes.) “Red” allegedly salesman. Drives a pre-war Dodge sedan with Huntington Park tags. Vehicle cross-check initiated. A.P.B. issued on “Red”.
9. Verified info: Val Gordon (W.F) Riverside, Calif., called in, said she is sister of deceased air corps major Matt Gordon. Said: E. Short wrote to her and her parents in Fall of ‘46, shortly after Maj. Gordon died in plane crash. Lied about being Gordon’s fiancee, requested $ from them. Parents, Miss Gordon, denied request.
10. Trunk belonging to E. Short located at Railway Express office, downtown L.A. (R.E. clerk saw vict’s name and picture in papers, recalled her storing trunk in late 11/46). Trunk being gone over. Carbons of 100 ‘s of love letters to various men (mostly servicemen) found, and (many fewer) mash notes written to her. Also, many photos of E. Short with servicemen in trunk. Letters being read, names and descriptions of men being collated.
11. Verified phone info: former Air Corps Lt. J.G. Fickling called from Mobile, Ala. when he saw E. Short’s name and picture in Mobile papers. Said he and vict. had “brief affair” in Boston in late ‘43, and “she had about 10 other boyfriends on line at all times.” Fickling has verified alibi for time of murder. Eliminated as suspect, also denies ever having been engaged to E. Short.
12. Numerous tips being phoned in to all L.A.P.D. and Sheriff’s divisions. Crank-sounding dismissed, others routed to applicable area squad-rooms thru Cent. Homicide. All tips being cross-filed.
XXXXXX13. Address verified info: E. Short lived at these addresses in 1946. (Names following addresses are of caller or verified residents of same address. All but Linda Martin verified by D.M.V. records)
13-A-1611 N. Orange Dr., Hollywood. (Harold Costa, Donald Leyes, Marjorie Graham) 6024 Carlos Ave., Hollywood. 1842 N. Cherokee, Hollywood (Linda Martin, Sheryl Saddon) 53 Linden, Long Beach.
14. Results of SID findings in Leimert Park vact lots: no woman’s clothing found, numerous knives and knife blades found, all too rusted to be murder weapon. No blood found.
15. Results of Leimert Park canvasing (with mugs of E. Short): zero (all sightings obvious crank stuff.)
In conclusion: I believe all investigatory efforts should be centered around questionin
gs of E. Short’s known associates, particularly her numerous boyfriends. Sergeant Sears and I will be going to San Diego to question her K.A.’s there. Between the APB on “Red” and the L.A. KA. questionings we should get salient information.
Russell A. Millard, Lt.,
Badge 493, Central Homicide
I turned around to find Millard watching me. He said, “Off the top of your head, what do you think?”
I fingered my ripped pocket. “Is she worth it, Lieutenant?”
Millard smiled; I noticed that rumpled clothes and a razor stubble didn’t dent his aura of class. “I think so. Your partner thinks so.”
“Lee’s chasing bogeymen, Lieutenant.”
“You can call me Russ, you know.”
“Okay, Russ.”
“What did you and Blanchard get from the father?”
I handed Millard my report. “Nothing specific, just more dope on the girl as a tramp. What’s with this Black Dahlia stuff?”
Millard slapped the arms of his chair. “We can thank Bevo Means for that. He went down to Long Beach and talked to the desk clerk at the hotel where the girl stayed last summer. The clerk told him Betty Short always wore tight black dresses. Bevo thought of that movie with Alan Ladd, The Blue Dahlia, and took it from there. I figure the image is good for at least another dozen confessions a day. As Harry says when he’s had a few, ‘Hollywood will fuck you when no one else will.’ You’re a smart bad penny, Bucky. What do you think?”
“I think I want to go back to Warrants. Will you grease it with Loew?”
Millard shook his head. “No. Will you answer my question?”
I choked down the urge to smash or beg. “She said yes or no to the wrong guy, at the wrong time, at the wrong place. And since she’s had more rubber burned on her than the San Berdoo Highway, and doesn’t know how to tell the truth, I’d say that finding that wrong guy is going to be a hell of a job.”
Millard stood up and stretched. “Bright penny, you go up to Hollywood Station and meet Bill Koenig, then you two go question the tenants at the Hollywood addresses on my summary. Stress the boyfriend angle. Keep Koenig on a tight leash if you can, and you write the report, because Billy’s practically illiterate. Report back here when you’re finished.”
My headache going migraine, I obeyed. The last thing I heard before hitting the street was a group of cops chortling over Betty Short’s love letters.
I picked up Koenig at Hollywood Station and drove with him to the Carlos Avenue address. Parking in front of 6024,I said, “You’re ranking, Sarge. How do you want to play this?”
Koenig cleared his throat loudly, then swallowed the wad of phlegm he brought up. “Fritzie does the talking, but he’s home sick. How about you talk, I stand backup?” He opened his jacket to show me a leather sap stuck into the waistband. “You think it’s a muscle job?”
I said, “Talk job,” and got out of the car. There was an old lady sitting on the porch of 6024, a three-story brown clapboard house with a ROOMS FOR RENT sign staked on the lawn. She saw me walking over, closed her Bible and said, “I’m sorry, young man, but I only rent to career girls with references.”
I flashed my shield. “We’re police officers, ma’am. We came to talk to you about Betty Short.
The old woman said, “I knew her as Beth,” then shot a look at Koenig, standing on the lawn surreptitiously picking his nose.
I said, “He’s looking for clues.”
The woman snorted, “He won’t find them inside that big beak of his. Who killed Beth Short, Officer?”
I got out pen and notepad. “That’s what we’re here to find out. Could I have your name, please?”
“I’m Miss Loretta Janeway. I called the police when I heard Beth’s name on the radio.”
“Miss Janeway, when did Elizabeth Short live at this address?”
“I checked my records right after I heard that news broadcast. Beth stayed in my third-floor right-rear room from last September fourteenth to October nineteenth.”
“Was she referred to you?”
“No. I remember it very well, because Beth was such a pretty girl. She knocked on the door and said she was walking up Gower when she saw my sign. She said she was an aspiring actress and needed an inexpensive room until she got her big break. I said I’d heard that one before, and told her she’d do well to lose that awful Boston accent of hers. Well, Beth just smiled and said, ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party’ with no accent at all. Then she said, ‘See! See how I take direction!’ She was so eager to please that I rented her the room, even though my policy is not to rent to movie types.”
I wrote the pertinent info down, then asked, “Was Beth a good tenant?”
Miss Janeway shook her head. “God rest her soul, but she was an awful tenant, and she made me regret bending my policy on movie picture types. She was always late on her rent, always hocking her jewelry for food money kid trying to get me to let her pay by the day instead of the week. A dollar a day she wanted to pay! Can you imagine how much space my ledgers would take up if I let all my tenants do that?”
“Did Beth socialize with the other tenants?”
“Good lord, no. The third-floor right-rear room has got private steps, so Beth didn’t have to come in through the front door like the other girls, and she never attended any of the coffee klatches I put on for the girls after church on Sunday. Beth never went to church herself, and she told me, ‘Girls are good for chitchat once in a blue moon, but give me boys any day.’”
“Here’s my most important question, Miss Janeway. Did Beth have any boyfriends while she was living here?”
The old woman picked up the Bible and hugged it to herself. “Officer, if they’d come in the front door like the other girls’ beaus, I would have seen them. I don’t want to blaspheme the dead, so let’s just say I heard lots of footsteps on Beth’s stairs at the most ungodly hours.”
“Did Beth ever mention any enemies? Anybody she was afraid of?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Late October, the day she moved out. She said, I’ve found more simpatico digs’ in her best California girl voice.”
“Did she say where she was moving to?”
Miss Janeway said “No,” then leaned toward me confidingly and pointed to Koenig, loping back to the car tugging at his crotch. “You should talk to that man about his hygiene. Frankly, it’s disgusting.”
I said, “Thank you, Miss Janeway,” walked to the car and got in behind the wheel.
Koenig grunted, “What did the cooze say about me?”
“She said you’re cute.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What else did she say?”
“That a man like you could make her feel young again.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I told her to forget it, that you’re married.”
“I ain’t married.”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you tell her that?”
I pulled out into traffic. “You want her sending you mash notes at the Bureau?”
“Oh, I get it. What did she say about Fritzie?”
“Does she know Fritzie?”
Koenig looked at me like was mentally defective. “Lots of people talk about Fritzie behind his back.”
“What do they say?”
“Lies.”
“What kind of lies?”
“Bad lies.”
“For instance?”
“Lies like he got the syph fucking hooers when he worked Ad Vice. Like he got docked off a month from duty to take the mercury cure. Like he got bounced to Central dicks for it. Bad lies, even worse stuff than that.”
Chills were tickling my spine. I turned onto Cherokee and said, “Such as?”
Koenig slid closer to me. “You pumping me, Bleichert? You looking for bad things to say about Fritzie?”
“No. Just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the kitty cat. You remember that.”
“I will. What did you get on the Sergeant’s Exam, Bill?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Fritzie took it for me. Remember the kitty cat, Bleichert. I don’t want nobody saying nothing bad about my partner.”
1842, a big stucco apartment house, came into view. I pulled over and parked, muttered, “Talk job,” then headed straight for the lobby.
A wall directory listed S. Saddon and nine other names—but no Linda Martin—in apartment 604. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, walked down a hallway smelling faintly of marijuana and rapped on the door. Big band music died out, the door opened and a youngish woman in a sparkly Egyptian outfit was standing there, holding a papier mâché headdress. She said, “Are you the driver from RKO?”
I said, “Police.” The door shut in my face. I heard a toilet flushing; the girl returned a moment later, and I walked into the apartment uninvited. The living room was high-ceilinged and arched; sloppily made-up bunk beds lined the walls. Suitcases, valises and steamer trunks were spilling out of an open closet door, and a linoleum table was wedged diagonally against a set of bunks without mattresses. The table was covered with cosmetics and vanity mirrors; the cracked wood floor beside it was dusted with spilled rouge and face powder.
The girl said, “Is this about those jaywalking tickets I forgot to pay? Listen, I’ve got three days on Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb at RKO, and when I get paid I’ll send you a check. Is that all right?”
I said, “This is about Elizabeth Short, Miss—”
The girl put out a big stage groan. “Saddon. Sheryl with a Y-L Saddon. Listen, I talked to a policeman on the phone this morning. Sergeant something or other with a bad stutter. He asked me nine thousand questions about Betty and her nine thousand boyfriends, and I told him nine thousand times that lots of girls bunk here and date lots of guys, and most of them are fly-by-nights. I told him that Betty lived here from early November to early December, that she paid a dollar a day just like the rest of us, and I didn’t remember the names of any of her dates. So can I go now? The extra truck’s due any minute, and I need this job.”
