Black Dahlia Avenger: The True Story

by Steve Hodel

June told me that she and George had traveled to Paris in 1986 or 1987, where Father had presented an identical work to Juliet Man Ray.

  Did George Hodel specifically commission this drawing and provide the artist with all of the details to be included, or did Modesto merely use his own creative energies and imagination, independent of his patron? The answer may be hidden in the work itself and what it appears to represent. First, the work is a form of flattery: it's an imitation of Man Ray's "lovers' lips" that extend across the horizon. However, unlike the Man Ray work, the lips in the Modesto are not full red, and the bottom lip is only partially covered. Also, the irregularity of the bottom line in the Modesto suggests dripping blood rather than lipstick. And directly above the lips are three human phalluses. To the left of the lips is a blue canal the shape of a vagina, above which a squadron of nine yellow and ten blue oval-shaped objects seems to be flying, each with its own trailing spermlike tail. Do the two different colors represent George Hodel and Fred Sexton? These were some of the questions I asked myself when I looked at this painting again in the context of what I had just discovered. I am also convinced that my father's trip to Paris was no simple visit hut a pilgrimage, a formal presentation of Modesto's Lovers to Juliet Man Ray to honor the memory of her late husband and Father's friendship with him.

  In and of itself, the Modesto painting is at best tangential to the case I'm building. But, Modesto's Lovers actually becomes an integral part of the suspect/psychiatrist's own Rorschach blot, revealing his personality and emotions in the context of Father's using lipstick at a Franklin House party, writing in lipstick on the body of Jeanne French at her crime scene, cutting Elizabeth Short's lips, and interpreting a pattern on a hotel floor as a pair of lips that need to be stomped out. In that context, the violent erotica expressed in Modesto's Lovers is a variation on a theme that ran throughout George Hodel's life and becomes important and relevant evidence in evaluating his culpability in the Elizabeth Short and Jeanne French murder cases.

  In former Los Angeles crime reporter Will Fowler's 1991 book Reporters: Memoirs of a Young Newspaperman, the author closes his chapter on the Black Dahlia by saying:

  Intense interest lingers regarding this murder mystery simply because it remains a mystery. And by this fascination, it has earned its niche in the annals of crime history as being the most notorious unsolved murder of the twentieth century.

  Elizabeth Shorts slaying might be solved in the distant future, but I sincerely hope not. It's like an unopened present. The present always remains a wondrous thing, as long as it remains unopened.

  The Black Dahlia murder still remains "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma."

  I take strong exception to Fowler's comparing the unsolved torture-murder of a young woman to "an unopened present" and "a wondrous thing." It is his statement, however, that "the Black Dahlia murder still remains 'a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma'" that has become almost a signature quote for the entire Black Dahlia murder investigation. Most people think the quote originated with Winston Churchill, who in a 1939 radio broadcast used the phrase to describe Russia. When I first read the quote in Fowler's book during my early research on the case, I knew I'd heard it before but couldn't recall where. The next time I read it, I was able to pinpoint the source and put together a pattern of thoughtprints that led me directly back to my father and Man Ray.

  The memory link for the "riddle wrapped in a mystery" quote dates back to the winter of 1980, when I became the senior field homicide detective at Hollywood Division. Only months away from turning forty, I had mellowed and I could see my father on a gray scale instead of a stark black and white. I reached out to him.

  On January 27, 1980, I mailed a highly personal letter to him in the Philippines. In it, I communicated my current thoughts and reflections in many areas of my life, and how in maturity I had come to realize, despite our physical separation, how much I loved and respected him. I enclosed an article and photographs from the Hollywood Independent that mentioned me and my then partner Rick Papke after we'd been chosen to receive the "Inspector Clouseau" Award for solving a Hollywood murder case in which veteran film actor Charles Wagenheim, age eighty-three, had been murdered at his residence.

  Roughly four months later, in June of that year, I received the following reply. This was the only time Father ever communicated with me on such a personal level.

  Dear Steve:

  It was good to get your last letter with its long perspectives. To communicate is such a mysterious process, at any level. And to truly communicate is rare. I am glad that you made the effort, and that you succeeded. That you succeeded in beginning to make a breakthrough. One of these days, if time permits, let's try together, to push through further.

  It is not easy to explain what I mean. But let me give you an example. A parable. But a true example. When you visit here in Manila again I'll show you the birds, and the glass, and the watchers (we), and we can try together to unlock the secrets of the three. Or is it four?

  Safely hidden away from harm, in the overhead roof rafters of my penthouse in the Excelsior, are a tribe of small birds. Perhaps they are sparrows, house sparrows. They build their nests there, slip between the curves of the galvanized roofing into their separate havens, mate there, and raise their young.

  Each season a generation of brave new little birds squeeze out through the curves of the roofing, and survey their cosmos. They practice hopping about, and pecking at each other, and winging along the balcony. They even discover a tiny swing which I have put up for them (birds love to play, you know) and they jump from the window frames to the metal swing, push back and forward, and hop back delightedly to their take-off place.

  And then, somewhere along the line, and usually pretty soon, they make a discovery. A discovery based on advanced technology. A discovery which is totally incomprehensible, but which fills them with joy, and hope, and high excitement.

  In Manila, as you may remember, my penthouse apartment faces out toward the west, onto Manila Bay. All through the afternoon, and until the sun sets behind the mountains of Bataan and the island of Corregidor, the sun's rays beat relentlessly on the glass west wall of my apartment. Air conditioners find it hard to compete with this heavenly barrage.

  Therefore, in self-defense, we put up synthetic plastic coating-a mirror film-on all the western windows, to reflect the sun's rays and help to cool the rooms. It works quite well, and cuts down on heat and glare. Through the glass, we look out on the bay and the mountains and the sunset with slightly bluishly tinted glasses. And they look fine; they look all the better for this bit of blueness.

  But to anyone on the outside (and we come back now to our brave young sparrows) the plastic-coated glass is a mirror. It is meant to be a mirror so as to turn away light and heat. It was not designed to deceive little birds. But they are deceived, and aroused, and delighted.

  What do they see in the tinted mirror? They see beautiful young birds, amazingly like themselves, hopping about like they do, and full of life, and curiosity. Above all else, our little sparrows yearn to join their companions, and to sport with them, fly with them, even mate with them and continue their flight through eternities of love and time.

  But there is a barrier to all these hopes. They do not know and cannot believe that the barrier, the wall of glass, can never be surmounted. There must be a way, they say, to break through somehow, into this paradise of beautiful young birds who await them, who tempt them, and who respond dancer-like to their every movement. How to enter this paradise which is right here, right at hand? How, they ask? Surely there must be a way, if they only persist. Surely they will somehow prevail, they say. Paradise will be theirs. Paradise awaits the brave, the strong, the pure in heart, they say.

  And so, for hours on end, our little birds dash against the silent glass. Foray after foray, swooping from a vantage point (the Chinese lanterns near the roof) the little birds strike against the glass. The braver and more patient ones may go on all
day, in their assault. The tinted glass is flecked with a thousand marks where little beaks have crashed against it, hour after hour after hour.

  And then there is the third partner in this mystery. Ourselves. The tireless birds, the silent glass, and we. We stand wonderingly behind the glass, and contemplate the battle. We are like the gods, watching all and knowing all, knowing that the battle is fore-ordained. But how can we communicate our knowledge to the brave battalions of the birds? How can we warn them, console them? Send them off on other more hopeful missions?

  Sadly, as we contemplate the glass and the determined little birds we must settle with the truth. And the truth is that we cannot warn them, cannot tell them, and can only feel for them, and love them for their courage.

  But are there only three of us? The birds, the glass, and we? Or is there a fourth? Who is standing behind our glass, invisible to us, incommunicable to us, gravely watching our brave attacks against the walls we cannot see? Is there a fifth presence, watching all the others? And a sixth, and others, hidden in mysteries beyond our dreams?

  When you visit in Manila, I'll show the countless marks on the glass to you. If you come at the right season, you'll see the brave little birds themselves, and their efforts to break through.

  There are other ways, too, in which life's secrets are shadowed forth. Have you ever watched the insect who flies back and forth in the jetliner, seeking a tiny crumb or wanting out? How can I inform him that he is flying from Amsterdam to Tokyo, and that his life is joined with the lives of us who see beyond the crumb. But not too far beyond. We know as little about our real voyage as the insect knows about the trans-polar flight.

  It is good to know that you love me, for this is not easy to achieve, for you, for many reasons. Some of the reasons you have stated, and it is fine that you are able to begin to understand and overcome them. Some of the other reasons, for our love, may be harder to understand, for they may be shrouded in mysteries, like those of the birds and the glass.

  I too love you, and this is easier, because you are the very by-product and testimonial of my love. There is an old Irish saying that "Ah, I knew you, me boy, when you were only a gleam in your father's eye."

  It is also easy (indeed, it is mandatory) for me to love you because I remember things that you do not. I remember the happy, well-controlled, serious, beautiful little boy whom we loved so much. And now love equally, but differently. Only a little difference.

  I am enclosing a check for Dorero, for the six-month period from July through December. Wish it could be more. Try to find ways to give to her--a bit of money, a bit of time, and love, much love. Remember--it was she who responded to the gleam. If she had not. . .

  Dorero asked me to send her another enlargement (I brought one to her before inI974) of her wonderful photo by Man Ray. I have had this copied, and will send it soon. If you want a print, I'll make one for you too. And for Mike and Kelv, if they do not have them and want them.

  Congratulations on your work in the case of Charles Wagenheim and Stephanie Boone. There must be an enigma inside a mystery there, too.

  Hope to be out your way one of these days soon. I am interested to know what you plan to do after three years. Your life may just be beginning then.

  Give my love to all!

  Always,

  Dad

  There it was. Latent in a twenty-year-old letter was hidden Father's automatic and unconscious response to my reference to the Wagenheim investigation, which involved my informing him, briefly, about a man, a woman, and a murder in Hollywood. In the letter, from within the context of my investigation, I could see how his mind unconsciously responded to its unique and individual programming after I filtered the keywords "enigma inside a mystery." "Congratulations," he'd written, "on your work in the case of Charles Wagenheim and Stephanie Boone. There must be an enigma inside a mystery there, too [my emphasis]."

  Father's response had no significance to me then, other than the obvious reference to unraveling a murder mystery, but with what I have since discovered, the "too" took on a great significance. What other case might my father have been comparing the Wagenheim murder to? I believe he was making an unconscious reference to the Black Dahlia case, not because Will Fowler would use that same quote ten years later, but because the Black Dahlia case had remained a mystery over the years and was still in my father's mind. I think he gave himself away, but I had no way to appreciate that reference. Now I do.

  In July 2001, I discovered what I believe to be the actual linkage and original source of Father's riddle-and-enigma quote, and again the path led directly back to Man Ray. The source for the quote actually predated Churchill's use by some nineteen years and related to a controversial and provocative 1929 photograph created by Man Ray entitled The Riddle, or The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse (exhibit 38).

  Exhibit 38

  The Riddle, or The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse

  The photo depicts an object or objects wrapped in a carpet and tied with rope. After photographing the unknown subjects, Man Ray left it up to the beholder to figure out what the blanket concealed. Is it a human body, or perhaps something less sinister? Some believe that Man Ray provided a clue to what was hidden inside his "riddle or enigma." Man Ray's biographer writes:

  At this time, Man Ray was developing an interest in vanguard French literature. The work that perhaps best exemplifies this new influence — and reveals his reliance on the very sources that had been an important literary precedent to dada — is

  The Riddle, or The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse,

  a photograph of an unidentified object, or objects, wrapped in the folds of a thick carpet, which in turn is tied with rope. Although the entire assemblage was discarded after the photograph was taken, Man Ray wanted the viewer to believe that two rather commonplace objects were hidden under the carpet. The only way a viewer could know what they were, though — and thus solve the riddle — was to have been familiar with the writings of the obscure, though extremely influential, French author Isidore Ducasse, whose pseudonym was the Comte de Lautréamont. . .

  By 1920, at least two statements by the French author had attained near legendary status: his observation that, "Poetry must be made by all, not by one." And his oft-quoted "Lovely as the fortuitous encounter on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella." It was of course, this bizarre, though visually provocative, exemplar of beauty that Man Ray illustrated in

  The Riddle.

  "When I read Lautreamont," he later explained, "I was fascinated by the juxtaposition of unusual objects and works." Even more important, he was drawn to the count's "world of complete freedom."

  1

  Man Ray never revealed to anyone the actual objects inside his photograph, leaving it to the viewer to judge these obscure references to a dissecting table, a sewing machine, and an umbrella. With respect to the Dahlia investigation, it is enough to understand this further linkage to Man Ray's use of the quote in the light of Father's statement to me in response to my solving the Wagenheim murder, with his "there must be an enigma inside a mystery there, too."

  Man Ray's 1920 photograph The Riddle, or The Enigma, which to many people would represent a human body, or body parts, wrapped and bound with rope, becomes the fourth compelling photograph informing the influence Man Ray had on my father and his actions in the Black Dahlia case. Along with Man Ray's other three works of art mentioned above — Les Amoureux, The Minotaur; and Juliet in SilkStocking — they reveal the vivid images that will later turn up throughout the Black Dahlia case. In fact, the Man Ray images themselves help to unwrap the mystery of the case, which has been my father's riddle-and-enigma to the world for over fifty years.

  For my purposes, one of the most telling portraits Man Ray photographed was the one of my father and a statue of the deity Yamantaka (exhibit 39), which probably sums up their relationship to each other and to their private sexual fantasies.†

  Exhibit 39

  George Hodel and Yamantaka


  Man Ray took this photograph of my father in 1946, in his UNRRA "lieutenant general" topcoat. Knowing that Father rarely took any action that did not hold a symbolic meaning, I was sure this Man Ray photograph contained some hidden intent. It is important because it represents a collaboration between Man Ray and George Hodel to create what Man Ray believed all his photos would become — works of art. Therefore, the object that my father is embracing in the photograph takes on a great significance both to him and to Man Ray.

  A Tibetan deity and one of the most complex divinities of the Lamaistic pantheon, Yamantaka is a powerful nine-headed god whose primary head is that of a bull. Yamantaka's manifestation is purportedly so terrible that he is said to have overpowered Yama, god of death, roughly equivalent to Satan or the ruler of the underworld. In this particular statue, Yamantaka is shown in what is termed the "yab-yum" position, performing sexual intercourse with his consort.

  In the photograph, Father, in what appears to be a state of worshipful reverence, looks as if he's transfixed by Yamantaka. Like Yamantaka, George Hodel believed he was omnipotent and, as a doctor, could overthrow death. He also believed he was sexually omnipotent, and inflicted this belief upon all the women he met, including his own daughter; thus the choice of Yamantaka in the act of sexual intercourse. For Man Ray, the fascination of Yamantaka is the bull-headed deity itself, the Lamaistic counterpart to Man Ray's own destroyer of maidens, the Minotaur.

  In this portrait of my father embracing Yamantaka, both Man Ray and my father juxtapose their own representations of omnipotence, sexuality, and dominance over death itself. But the portrait goes beyond juxtaposition; it is an objectification of all the elements that define their relationship to each other and to the visions they shared.

  There is, in addition, a secondary deviant psychology that I believe also explains the way Elizabeth's body was posed. The Black Dahlia crime scene was a kind of flowering in my father's mind of the kinds of scenes he had written about as a young crime reporter in the 1920s, when, I believe, the early seeds of his violent sexual visions were first sown.