Black Dahlia Avenger: The True Story

by Steve Hodel

  Dad gave his physical description as "6', 168 pounds," and said he was "married, son, age 17 years, in Merchant Marines (Duncan), daughter, age 10 (Tamar), and three younger sons, ages 6 (Michael), 4 (Steven), and 2 (Kelvin)." Under "Languages," he indicated he was fluent in French and could "speak, read, and write it, and lived in Paris as a child." Further, he stated, "Am currently studying the Chinese language, but have not yet acquired any proficiency."

  My father's application was accepted and he was hired by UNRRA, effective December 3, 1945, with a position listed as chief regional medical officer for China and a home station listed as Washington, D.C. His official overseas station was the UNRRA regional headquarters office in Hankow, China, and he was granted an annual salary of $7,375.

  President Truman had said that China presented the "largest of all the relief responsibilities," and thus it was to China that my father was dispatched in early 1946 with the honorary rank of lieutenant general, complete with a United Nations quasi-military-style uniform.

  Although no records exist to establish his exact date of departure to China, I believe he left sometime in early 1946. From a memorandum he wrote that I found in his file, I can establish that he had traveled to and was in his home station of Washington, D.C., between late 1945 and early 1946, before departing for China. During his absence, Dad maintained his downtown medical office at the same address.

  As chief regional medical officer in Hankow, Father was provided with a military jeep complete with a three-star flag, a driver, his own personal cook, and two administrative aides to comprise his staff. Exhibits 9 and 10 are photographs taken of Father during his assignment in China in 1946:

  Exhibits 9 and 10

  Above: Dr. George Hodel, second from right, with Chinese military, 1946 Below: Dr. George Hodel, UNRRA China, 1946

  Exhibit 9 (top) is captioned "arbitrator," which meant that my father's diagnosis and opinion regarding a Communist prisoner's medical condition literally meant life or death. If the prisoner was confirmed as sick he passed through Nationalist lines to safety; if he was not, he remained with his captors; which was probably a death warrant. According to the UNRRA rules of engagement regarding my father's duties, UNRRA and my father were responsible for the following:

  UNRRA ARBITRATES:

  At the request of peace team #9 (Hankow), UNRRA acted as referee on eligibility for transport of sick and wounded Communist soldiers through the Nationalist lines. Following an agreement by the peace team, 618 disabled Communist soldiers, along with 120 wives and children, were moved by special train from Kuangshui in Northern Hupeh to Anyang in Northern Honan, where better hospital facilities exist.

  Nationalist medical officers challenged medical eligibility of 75. These doubtful cases were reviewed by an American physician, Dr. G. Hill Hodel, chief medical officer for UNRRA-Hankow. Dr. Hodel upheld the challenge in 26 cases, overruled it in 49.

  Father worked with both the Chinese Nationalist and Communist generals in 1946. His position in the center as "peacekeeper" (exhibit 10) between the two powers is significant and demonstrates why it was important for UNRRA to have granted him the rank of three-star general, so that he would be considered by both sides an equal rather than a subordinate in his role as medical arbitrator.

  The review of Dad's UNRRA file also contained a fourteen-page typed memorandum, dated March 20, 1946, in response to a Dr. Victor Sutter, who had obviously requested a summary analysis from Dad of the then current problem of venereal disease control in China.

  In one of his summary paragraph headings under "Prostitution and V.D.," Dad included the following observations that reveal what I believe to be his personal feelings about women, venereal disease, prostitution, and the attempts made by government to regulate moral behavior:

  For 9 years, as health officer and as administrator of an official venereal disease control program, I have observed the workings of "regulation" and of repression. It is my opinion that prostitution is an evil which cannot be caused to cease by legislative or police action, but which can only be deflected into other channels . . .

  I have learned, however, from my American experience, that for corrupt policemen to chase loose women from one end of town to another contributes neither to the peace, health, nor morals of a community.

  My father's personal "American experience" of "regulation," "repression," and "corrupt policemen," most certainly referred to what he had witnessed in Los Angeles, and especially the corruption he had seen in the LAPD.

  Dr. Hodel resigned suddenly and unexpectedly from UNRRA on September 19, 1946. His personnel record cites the reason for his termination as "personal," even though the real cause might have been medical. I have reason to believe that while in China Dad suffered a sudden — and severe — heart attack and was sent back to L.A. for hospitalization. I believe that this heart attack required him to remain hospitalized in Los Angeles for up to a month or more before being allowed to return to the Franklin House sometime in October or November 1946.

  It is clear that Dad thoroughly enjoyed the prerogatives of his rank, because once he returned to Los Angeles in 1946 he immediately purchased a military-style Willys Army jeep identical to the one in which he had been chauffeured about in China. These surplus jeeps were first offered to civilians for purchase only after the war, in late 1945 or 1946. But the jeep was only part of Dad's lingering romanticized attachment to the military.

  In 1946, Father posed for several formal photographs taken by his close friend the celebrated surrealist artist and photographer Man Ray. In these photographs, Dad chose to wear his UNRRA overcoat, complete with epaulets, which gave him the bearing of a military officer. I have reason to believe that during and after the war years — perhaps up through 1949 — George Hodel assumed the persona of an Air Force lieutenant in his romantic overtures to the many women he pursued. It is also likely that his camouflaged identity was either unnown to these women or that there was a mutual agreement that this was a cover story to conceal his real identity because of his marital status.

  Exhibit 11

  George Hodel, 1946

  Dad had become fascinated with Asia, and during his tour of duty in China had bought a large number of rare art objects, available at what amounted to liquidation prices in Shanghai if one had American cash. He invested heavily in Asian antique artworks: rare paintings, antique silk tapestries, and bronze statutes of Chinese deities.

  Shortly before he left for Asia, Father had made another investment: in 1945 he bought the Lloyd Wright Sowden House on Franklin Avenue, to which, while he was overseas, he had all of his purchases in Asia shipped. Upon his return from China, Dad also tried to reconcile with Mother, and the four of us moved into the Franklin House on his return in '46. Although my brothers and I believed we had become a family again, we were actually only there as Dad's guests, unaware of our parents' divorce and of our probationary status.

  Our old home remains today on the Los Angeles historic registrar, as one of Hollywood's most unusual architectural landmarks. We simply called it "the Franklin House" because of its Franklin Avenue address, but it is officially known as "the Sowden House."

  Named for the man who commissioned it, the Sowden House is an architectural wonder designed and built by Lloyd Wright,* who was living in the shadow of his famous father, Frank Lloyd Wright. With its brooding stone archways, long corridors, wide central courtyard and pool, and hidden rooms, it is like a Hollywood set out of a 1930s five-reeler: foreign and exotic. Cars driving by would stop and stare at it in astonishment. Passersby could not believe they were looking at what was a recreation of a 3,000-year-old Mayan temple built of giant concrete blocks. It had no visible windows. It was a high-walled fortress, private and impenetrable, right in the center of Hollywood's residential district, only fifteen minutes from Father's downtown medical clinic.

  From the busy Franklin Avenue street frontage, heavy stone steps led steeply up to our house's entrance, which was guarded by an imposing iron gate deco
rated with iron flowers. Once through the gate you turned immediately to your right and continued up a dark passageway, then made another right turn to the front door. It was like entering a cave with secret stone tunnels, within which only the initiated could feel comfortable. All others proceeded with great caution, not knowing which way to turn. Growing up in that house, my brothers and I saw it as a place of magic that we were convinced could easily have greeted the uninvited with pits of fire, poison darts, deadly snakes, or even a giant sword-bearing turbaned bodyguard at the door. Right out of The Arabian Nights.

  Exhibit 12

  The Franklin Home, Hollywood, California

  Once inside the temple, there was a blaze of light that came at you from all directions, because all the rooms opened onto a central open-air courtyard. The massive stone blocks were laid out in a giant rectangular shape from the front of the street to the alley at the back. There existed no yard exterior to the home, only the open interior atrium surrounded by the four corridors of the house. The highceilinged foyer greeted you at first entrance. Beyond and to the west was the living room, with its ornate fireplace and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that concealed a secret room, accessible only to those who knew how to open the hidden door. The west wing contained the dining room, kitchen, maid's quarters, and guest rooms.

  The east wing held the master bedroom and master bath, along with four more bedrooms laid out one after the other, until finally at the north wing there was a huge room, which Sowden had constructed as an entertainment hall or large stage for performances. From any room one could step into a central courtyard full of exotic foliage and beautiful giant cactus plants reaching straight into the sky. Once inside this remarkable house one found oneself in absolute privacy, invisible to the outside world.

  This was a storybook time for me and my brothers, who played the Three Musketeers in service to our father, who played the king. Our father was dashing and confident. At six foot one, with his dark hair, trim mustache, immaculate dress, and the formal bearing befitting a highly respected physician, he cut an exceptionally handsome figure. It seemed as if he walked with the imperial air of an aristocrat, the type of man one might meet only once but would never forget. There was a charisma and a power to his presence that commanded attention. When he spoke, his voice had a resonance and power of authority that confirmed that one was in the presence of a man of destiny. His bearing and demeanor conveyed his ability and confidence to accomplish anything. If he was the king, we, his children, were the court.

  I was four when we moved into the Franklin House, and we lived there until I was nine. My memories of that time are only fragmentary, and it was only through my rediscovery of my father later on that I was able to verily some of the truths behind those memories. But, like shadows, these shards of memory have followed me through life, and only now am I beginning to understand their import.

  I remember how much I loved Father's Army jeep, a real World War II surplus model with an engine that growled and gears that clashed. I loved sitting in the front seat when he drove it out from the rear alleyway, across the vacant dirt lot that abutted our property, then over the curb into the busy intersection of Normandie and Franklin. Kelvin and I would take turns riding with Father in the jeep as he made his house calls. Sitting in the front of the open vehicle, I would look over as Dad navigated through the Hollywood traffic, his wondrous big black medical bag on the seat between us. On several occasions when the opportunity permitted, I looked inside this bag without Dad's knowledge. At that young age, I didn't recognize the objects, nor could I pronounce the names of the things there, and only later, as a Navy corpsman, would I learn what they were, but my child's mind knew they were Father's tools and were important. Cold to the touch and mysterious to the eye, his instruments fascinated me. There were his stethoscope, a tightly wound roll of ace bandage, a hemostat, the strange-looking sphygmomanometer, and a tourniquet. There were also labeled vials with names I couldn't understand, such as penicillin, Benadryl, and morphine. But mostly, I recall how I loved the smells that came from inside that bag, the smells of all things medicinal: clean, sharp, antiseptic.

  I remember sitting in the jeep outside private homes while Father attended to his patients. After an hour, or maybe two, he would walk outside with a woman, whom I guessed had been his patient, seeing him off. It seemed as if all his patients said the same words, and those words always made me afraid. "Oh, so this is your son. He's darling. Can I keep him here with me?" I would look up as Father stood by the side of the jeep, holding my breath, not knowing what his answer would be until his slow, hesitant response would finally come: "Not this time, perhaps another, we shall see." The woman would touch his arm — they always touched his arm — and would smile at us and say, as he climbed into the jeep, "Thank you, Doctor. I feel so much better after your visit." He would smile, start the engine, and off we would go. Michael was nine, and he never went on these house calls with Dad, nor did Dad ever offer to take him. I never understood why.

  Another warm memory from the Franklin years is of Fern Dell Park. My brothers and I spent whole summers there, all day every day. Father would drive us the short distance from the Franklin House to the entrance of the park, just a half-mile from our front door. He would drop us in the mornings with a stern, "Boys, I will pick you up here at 4:00 p.m. Do not make me wait." We hiked and played and scoured the park. We knew every turn, every tree, every hidden cave. Fern Dell had a creek that ran for miles north to south, and we would search for crayfish and bullfrogs, pretend we were explorers, finding and claiming new lands.

  Michael, never without his beloved books, would read to us under the shade of a tall oak at the creek's edge. In the summer of '49, he was Robin Hood, Kelvin was Friar Tuck, and I, being larger and taller than either of my brothers, was Little John. Fern Dell became our Sherwood Forest. We laughed at the ferocity of Father's stern commands and rigid dictates: "Be at the entrance at four and do not make me wait." And in our make-believe we transformed our father into the evil Sheriff of Nottingham.

  I also remember lots of people — grown-ups, men, and women — laughing late into the night at the Franklin House. Some of the faces and people I remember, most I have forgotten. Sometimes there were angry words with Father yelling, Mother yelling, then Mother crying. But mostly I remember the laughing. I remember Duncan, tall and twenty then, in his sailor's uniform, having come down from San Francisco with his friends to see his father and his three younger half-brothers. Even now I can see him standing in the courtyard, laughing and playing with the grown-ups, having fun with Father and his friends. Duncan would stay only a day or two, then back he would go to San Francisco.

  Tamar, our half-sister, also came down from San Francisco to be with us that summer of 1949. She was fourteen, blonde with pretty blue eyes, and seemed to me almost like a grown-up. She was beautiful, and I loved it when she came to play and live with us. She was our secret and trusted friend, and she knew much more about grown-ups than we did. She was smart, and would tell us stories, most of which I no longer remember.

  But there was one incident with Tamar that I shall never forget. It was early afternoon on a hot summer day in August 1949. Tamar and I were sitting on the steps at the front of the Franklin House. I can still feel the soft breeze that came from the west and the smell of the eucalyptus trees that helped guard the entrance. Tamar and I were sitting side by side and she was smoking a cigarette like real grown-ups did. She asked me, "Do you want to try?" I did. She handed the lit Lucky Strike to me, and I held it for a moment, then put it to my mouth. And as I started to suck on it, I looked up and there was Father. He approached us with his black bag in hand, and he was not three feet away. There I was, holding the cigarette in my hand, frozen with fear. He looked down at us both, nodded his head, and simply said, "Steven, Tamar," and walked by. He had not seen me holding the cigarette. We both sat, stock-still and silent, as if making any sound would change our luck. When he was safely out of sight we looked at each
other and burst out laughing at our good fortune. I threw down the cigarette, stomped on it, and we ran off to play.

  Formal dinners were common for our family. We had a live-in maid and cook, and that night when Dad returned from his office we sat in a formal arrangement at the large table: Dad at the south end, the head of the table; Mother at the north; I to Dad's immediate right; my brothers across from me; and Tamar to my right. That night, we had just finished dessert, after the large four-course meal, when Father said, addressing us with his accustomed formality, "I have an announcement to make." He paused until all our heads were turned his way and the attention was undivided.

  "It seems that Steven, who is not quite eight, has decided he wants to smoke," he continued. I looked anxiously at Tamar, realizing Father had indeed seen me holding her cigarette. Dad reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a cigar. "So," he said, "we are all going to sit here while Steven smokes this." fie slowly and ceremoniously unwrapped the large Havana that he usually enjoyed after dinners, cut off the end, carefully lit it so that the tip was a bright orange glow, and handed it to me in a cloud of exhaled smoke. All eyes at the table were locked on me as I took it from him and held it in my hand. He continued in a firm, hard tone, "Go ahead, Steven, smoke it." I fought back the tears as I looked at him, my hands now shaking, as his voice descended into a menacing, controlled anger: "Smoke it!"