The Black Dahlia

So I was back where I was before the fight and the bond issue, only further east and on foot. Rumors raged on my way up to Warrants; now speculation centered on my fall. One story had me shitca

Then she came back.

I never thought about her on the beat; when I studied the file, it was just detective drudge work, facts and theorizing on a common DOA. When my lovemaking with Kay got too involved in affection, she came to help, served her purpose and was banished as soon as we finished. It was when I was asleep and helpless that she lived.

It was always the same dream. I was at the warehouse with Fritz Vogel, beating Cecil Durkin to death. She watched, screaming that none of the drool cases killed her, promising to love me if I made Fritzie quit hitting Charlie Issler. I stopped, wanting the sex. Fritzie continued his carnage, and Betty wept for Charlie while I had her.

I always woke up grateful for daylight, especially when Kay was beside me.

On April 4, almost two and a half months after Lee’s disappearance, Kay got a letter on official LAPD stationery:

4/3/47

Dear Miss Lake—

This is to inform you that Leland C. Blanchard has been formally dismissed from the Los Angeles Police Department on grounds of moral turpitude, effective/15/47. You were the beneficiary of his Los Angeles City Credit Union account, and since Mr. Blanchard remains out of touch, we feel it is only fair to send you the existing balance.

A check for $14.11 was included. It made me killing mad, and I attacked the master file so I wouldn’t attack my new enemy—the bureaucracy that owned me.

Chapter 23

Two days later the co

It was my own FI report, filed on 1/17/47. Under “Marjorie Graham,” I had written: “M.G. stated E. Short used nickname variations of ‘Elizabeth’ according to the company she was with.”

Bingo.

I had heard Elizabeth Short called “Betty,” “Beth,” and once or twice “Betsy,” but only Charles Michael Issler, a pimp, referred to her as “Liz.” At the warehouse he had denied knowing her. I recalled that he didn’t impress me as a killer, but that I still found him hinky. When I’d thought about the warehouse before, it was Durkin and the stiff that came on strong; now I replayed it strictly for facts:

Fritzie had beat Issler half to death, ignoring the other three loonies;

He had stressed side issues, shouting: “Tell me what you know about the Dahlia’s missing days,” “Tell me what you know,” “Tell me what your girls told you.”

Issler had answered back, “I knew you at Ad Vice.”

I thought of Fritzie’s hands shaking earlier that night; I remembered him shouting at Lorna Martilkova: “You whored with the Dahlia, didn’t you, girlie? Tell me where you were during her lost days.” Then the finale hit: Fritzie and Joh

“I proved I’m not no nancy boy. Homos couldn’t do what I did.”

“Be still, damn you!”

I ran out to the hall, fed the pay phone a nickel and dialed Russ Millard’s number at the Bureau.

“Central Homicide, Lieutenant Millard.”

“Russ, it’s Bucky.”

“Something wrong, bright pe

“Russ, I think I’ve got something. I can’t tell you now, but I need two favors.”

“This is about Elizabeth?”

“Yes. Goddamnit, Russ—”

“Hush, and tell me.”

“I need you to get me the Ad Vice file for Charles Michael Issler. He’s got three pimping priors, so I know he’ll have one.”

“And?”

I dry swallowed. “I want you to check on Fritz Vogel’s and John Vogel’s whereabouts January tenth through fifteenth.”

“Are you telling me—”

“I’m telling you maybe. I’m telling you maybe real strong.”

There was a long silence, then: “Where are you?”

“The El Nido.”

“Stay there. I’ll call you back inside of half an hour.”

I hung up and waited, thinking of a sweet package of glory and revenge. Seventeen minutes later the phone rang; I pounced on it. “Russ, what—”

“The file’s missing. I checked the ‘I’s’ myself. They were all put back unevenly, so my guess is that it was snatched recently. On the other, Fritzie was on duty at the Bureau straight through those days, racking up overtime on old cases, and Joh

I got an idea. “Not now. Meet me here tonight. Late. If I’m not here, wait for me.”

“Bucky—”

“Later, padre.”

I called in sick that afternoon; that night I committed two felony B & E’s.

My first victim was working swingwatch; I called Perso

It was a stucco four flat on Mentone near the LA—Culver City border, a salmon-pink structure flanked by identical buildings painted light green and tan. There was a pay phone at the corner; I used it to dial Bad Breath Joh

Inside, I held my breath, half expecting a killer dog to leap at me. I checked the luminous dial on my watch, decided ten minutes was tops and squinted for a light to turn on.

My eyes caught a floor lamp. I moved to it and pulled the cord, lighting up a tidy living room. There was a tidy bargain basement sofa with matching chairs, an imitation fireplace, cheesecake glossies of Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable and A

I checked every page. There was no Betty Short or Charles Issler, and none of the names listed were repeats from the master file or the names in Betty’s “little black book.” Five minutes down, five to go.

A kitchen, dinette and bedroom adjoined the living room. I turned off the lamp, moved in darkness to the half-open bedroom doorway and patted the inside wall for a light switch. Finding one, I flipped it on.

An unmade bed, four walls festooned with Jap flags and a big, scuffed chest of drawers were revealed. I opened the top drawer, saw three German Lugers, spare clips and a scattering of loose shells—and laughed at the taste of Axis Joh

Black leather harnesses, chains, whips, studded dog collars, Tijuana condoms that gave you a bludgeon-headed extra six inches. Smut books with pictures of naked women getting whipped by other women while they sucked harness-clad guys with big dicks. Close-up photos that captured fat, needle marks, chipped nail polish and dope-glazed eyes. No Betty Short, no Lorna Martilkova, no Slave Girls from Hell Egyptian backdrop or tie-in to Duke Wellington, but a parlay—whips to the coroner’s “light lash marks”—that was enough to nail Joh