The Black Dahlia

“We believe you, son. Now when did Liz leave you?”

“Late. Late Saturday. Maybe twelve, maybe one.”

“You mean early Sunday morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No.”

“Did she mention any men’s names? Boyfriends? Men she was going to see?”

“Uh… some flyboy she was married to.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see her again?”

“No.”

“Did your father know Liz at all?”

“No.”

“Did he force the house detective to change the name on the registration book after Liz’s body was found?”

“Uh… yes.”

“Do you know who killed Liz Short?”

“No! No!”

Joh

“Uh… yes.”

“And he told you about a guy named Charlie Issler? A guy who used to pimp Liz Short?”

“Yes.”

“And he told you Issler was in custody as a confessor?”

“Uh… yes.”

“Now you tell me what he said he was going to do about that, shitbird. You tell me damn good and slow.”

Fat Boy’s cut-rate heart rose to the challenge. “Daddy tried to get Ellis Jewboy to cut Issler loose, but he wouldn’t. Daddy knew this morgue attendant who owed him, and he got this DOA cooze and talked Jewboy into this idea. Daddy wanted Uncle Bill for it, but Jewboy said no, take you. Daddy said you’d do it ‘cause without Blanchard to tell you what to do you were jelly. Daddy said you were a sob sister, weak sister, buck tooth…”

Joh

I walked out to the fire escape, sat down and dangled my legs over the edge. I watched cars head up Wilcox to Hollywood and got it all down, the cost to myself, the whole enchilada. Then I played license plate blackjack, southbound versus northbound, out-of-state cars as wild cards. Southbound was me, the house; northbound was Lee and Kay. Southbound stood on a chickenshit seventeen; northbound got an ace and a queen for pure blackjack. Dedicating the enchilada to the three of us, I went back to the room.

Joh

Russ said, “I want to sit on this for now, and I want to talk to a legal officer.”

I said, “No, padre,” and turned to Joh

“You’re under arrest for suborning prostitution, withholding evidence, obstruction of justice and accesory to first-degree assault and battery.”

Joh

The padre sighed. “It’s the shithouse until you retire.”

“I know.”

“You’ll never get back to the Bureau.”

“I’ve already got a taste for shit, padre. I don’t think it’ll be so bad.”

I led Joh

Joh

A flashbulb went off in my eyes; there was Bevo Means with his notepad at the ready. I said, “I’m Officer Dwight Bleichert and this is Officer John Charles Vogel.” Handing the statement to the lieutenant, I winked. “Book him.”

I dawdled over a big steak lunch, then drove downtown to Central Station and my regular tour of duty. Heading into the locker room, I heard the intercom bark: “Officer Bleichert, go to the watch commander’s office immediately.”

I reversed directions and knocked on Lieutenant Jastrow’s door. He called out, “It’s open.” I walked in and saluted like an idealistic rookie. Jastrow stood up, ignored the salute and adjusted his horn-rims like he was seeing me for the first time.

“You’re on two weeks vacation leave as of now, Bleichert. When you return to duty, report to Chief Green. He’ll assign you to another division.”

Wanting to milk the moment, I asked, “Why?”

“Fritz Vogel just blew his brains out. That’s why.”

My farewell salute was twice as crisp as my first one; Jastrow ignored it again. I walked across the hall thinking of the two blind whores, wondering if they’d find out or care. The muster room was crammed with blues waiting for roll call—a last obstacle before the parking lot and home. I took it slow, standing GI straight, meeting the eyes that sought mine, making them look down. The hisses of “Traitor” and “Bolshevik” all came when my back was turned. I was almost out the door when I heard applause and turned to see Russ Millard and Thad Green clapping good-bye.

Chapter 24

Exiled to the shithouse and proud of it; two weeks to kill before I began serving my sentence at some putrid LAPD outpost. The Vogel arrest-suicide whitewashed as interdepartmental offenses and a father’s shame over the ignominy. I closed out my glory days the only way that seemed decent—I chased the gone man.

I started at the LA end of his vanishing act.

I got nothing from repeated readings of Lee’s arrest scrapbook; I questioned the lezzies at La Verne’s Hideaway, asking whether Mr. Fire showed up to abuse them a second time—and got no’s and jeers. The padre sneaked me a carbon of the complete Blanchard felony arrest file—it told me nothing. Kay, content in our monogamy, told me I was worse than a fool for what I was doing—and I knew it scared her.

Dredging up the Issler/Stinson/Vogel co

Lee disappeared when the Dahlia, Benzedrine and Bobby De Witt’s imminent parole converged on him;

He was last seen in Tijuana at a time when De Witt was heading there and the Short case was centered on the U.S.—Mexico border;

De Witt and his dope partner Felix Chasco were murdered then, and even though two Mexican nationals were nailed for the job, it could have been a railroad—the Rurales wiping an unwanted homicide off their books;

Conclusion: Lee Blanchard could have murdered De Witt and Chasco, his motive a desire to protect himself from revenge attempts and Kay from lounge lizard Bobby’s possible abuse. Conclusion within that conclusion: I didn’t care.

My next step was to study the transcript of De Witt’s trial. At the Hall of Records, more facts sunk in:

Lee named the informants who gave him the dope on De Witt as the Boulevard-Citizens “brains,” then said that they left town to avoid reprisals from Lizard’s friends. My follow-up call to R&I was unsettling—the snitches had no records at all. De Witt asserted a police frame because of his prior dope arrests, and the prosecution based its case on the marked money from the robbery found at De Witt’s house and the fact that he had no alibi for the time of the heist. Of the four-man gang, two were killed at the scene of the crime, De Witt was captured and the fourth man remained at large. De Witt claimed not to know who he was—even though stooling might have gotten him a sentence reduction.