Black Dahlia and White Rose: Unofficial Investigation

BLACK DAHLIA & WHITE ROSE: Unofficial Investigation into the (Unsolved) Kidnapping-Torture-Rape-Murder-Dissection of Elizabeth Short, 24, Caucasian Female, Los Angeles, CA, January 1947

Material assembled by Joyce Carol Oates

K. KEINHARDT—PHOTOGRAPHER:

They were lost girls looking for their fathers.

So I knew they’d come crawling back to me.

NORMA JEANE BAKER:

It is true that I was lost—but I knew that no one would find me except myself—if I became a Star in the sky of Hollywood where I could not be hurt.

He was the one—“K.K.” we called him—who took pictures for the girlie mags & calendars—the one I begged Please don’t make me into a joke. Oh please that is all I ask of you.

ELIZABETH—“BETTY”—SHORT:

Nasty lies told about me post mortem but none nastier than that I did not have an actual father—only just a pretend-father like Norma Jeane whose crazy mother would show her studio publicity photos of Clark Gable—whispering in the child’s ear Here is your father, Norma Jeane! But no one must know—yet.

Poor Norma Jeane! Some part of her believed this craziness, why she was always looking for Daddy. Why Norma Jeane made bad mistakes seeking men like she did but that was not why I made my bad mistake winding up post mortem in a weedy vacant lot in a dingy neighborhood of Los Angeles so mutilated the hardened LAPD detectives shrank from seeing me & quickly covered my “remains” with a coat for I had an actual father named Cleo Marcus Short who favored me above my four sisters Kathryn & Lucinda & Agnes & Harriet & wrote to me solely, in 1940, when I was sixteen, to invite me to live with him in California—which Daddy would not have done if he had not truly loved me.

Post mortem—is the Latin term. Post mortem is this state I am in, now. That you do not know exists when you are “alive” & you cannot guess how vast & infinite post mortem is for it is all of the time—forever & ever—after you have died.

Later, Daddy would deny me. Daddy would be so shocked & disgusted by the newspaper headlines & photos—(which were not the coroner’s photos or the LAPD crime scene photos which could not be published of course—too ugly & “obscene”)—but photos of Elizabeth Short a.k.a. THE BLACK DAHLIA—(for since the age of eighteen when I came to L.A., I wore tight-fitting black dresses with dipping necklines & often black silk trimmed in lace & undergarments as well in black & my hair glossy-black & my skin pearly-white & my mouth flame-red with lipstick)—which were glamour photos striking as any stills from the studios—Daddy refused to identify me still less “claim” me—the (mutilated, dissected) remains of me in the L.A. coroner’s morgue.

Or maybe Daddy thought he would have to pay some fee. He would have to pay for a burial, Daddy would fear.

Oh, that was mean of Daddy! To tell the L.A. authorities he would not drive to the morgue to make the “I.D.” (For there is no law to compel a citizen in such circumstances, it seems.) If Daddy had not already broke my heart this sad news post mortem would do it.

But that was later. That was January 1947. When you were all reading of THE BLACK DAHLIA shaking your hypocrite heads in revulsion & chastisement A girl like that. Dressing in all black and promiscuous, it is what she deserves.

When Daddy wrote to me, to summon me to him, it was seven years before. I had dropt out of South Medford High School to work (waitress, movie-house cashier) to help Momma with the household for we were five daughters & just Momma and no father to provide an income for we had thought that Daddy was dead & what a shock—Daddy was not dead but alive.

Cleo Short had been a quite-successful businessman selling miniature golf courses! All of us brought up swinging miniature golf clubs & hitting teeny golf balls & our photos taken—FIVE SHORT DAUGHTERS OF MEDFORD BUSINESSMAN CLEO SHORT TAKE TO THE “MINIATURE LINKS”—& published widely in Medford & vicinity for we were all pretty girls especially (this is a fact everyone acknowledged, this is not my opinion) “Betty” who was the middle sister of the five and the most beautiful by far.

& then the Depression which hit poor Daddy hard & soon collapsed into bankruptcy & utterly shamed so Daddy drove to the Mystic River bridge & what happened next was never made clear but Daddy’s 1932 Nash sedan was discovered on the river bank & not Daddy, anywhere—so it was believed that Cleo Marcus Short was a tragic suicide of the Depression as others had been, & declared dead two years later, & Momma collected $3,000 insurance & was now officially a widow & we were bereaved for our beloved Daddy, for years.

Oh but then one day a letter came postmarked Vallejo, CA! & the shocking news like in a fairy tale that Cleo Short was not dead in the Mystic River as we had believed but “alive and well” in Vallejo, California!

Momma would not reply to this letter, Momma had too much pride. Momma’s heart had turned to stone in the aftermath of such deception, as she called it.

& bitterness, for Momma had to pay back the $3,000 insurance which had been spent years before. In doing so Momma had to borrow from relatives & wherever else she could & out of our salaries we helped Momma pay & everyone in Momma’s family was hateful toward Daddy for this trick as they called it of a callow heart.

Of the five daughters of Cleo Short only one would forgive him. Only one would write back to him & soon travel to live with him in far-away California in a new life that beckoned.

For the old life was used-up & of no promise, in Medford, MA. And the golden California life beckoned—Los Angeles & Hollywood.

Betty you’re a terrific gal. & sure the beauty of the Short females. Look at you!

It did not seem a far-fetched idea to Betty Short as to Cleo Short or anyone who knew them, that daughter Betty was pretty enough & “sexy” enough to be a movie star one day.

That was a happy time, those months then.

They did not last long but Norma Jeane said to me when we were new & shy to each other sharing a room in Mr. Hansen’s “mansion” on Buena Vista Avenue Oh Betty you are so lucky! for Norma Jeane said she had not ever glimpsed her father even from a distance but now that she’d been on the covers of Swank & Stars & Stripes maybe he would see her & recognize her as his. & if ever she was an actress on screen he would see & recognize her—she was sure of this.

(Poor Norma Jeane had faith, if she worked hard & made the right connections among the Hollywood men, like all of us, she would become a star like Betty Grable, Lana Turner, & earlier Jean Harlow who was Norma Jeane’s model & idol. It was so: Norma Jeane was very beautiful in a simpering-baby way with a white-rose-petal skin that was softer than my skin even & did not show fatigue in her face as I did, sometimes. We were not jealous of Norma Jeane for she was so young-seeming though at this time nineteen years old which is not so young in Hollywood. We laughed at Norma Jeane, she was so trusting & innocent & you had to think, hearing her weak whispery voice, Norma Jeane Baker was just not smart & mature enough to make her way in the shark-waters where her white limbs would be torn off in the predators’ teeth.)

It was the New Year of 1947 when this terrible act was perpetrated upon me. That was a later time.

We did not crawl back to that bastard K.K.! Except he owed us money, he’d kept promising to pay. & he knew “gentlemen”—he said—of a “dependable quality” & not the kind waiting like sharks in the surf for some trusting person to wade out.

Anyway—I didn’t crawl to K.K. like he boasted. Betty Short did not crawl for any man not ever.

So it was the Bone Doctor inflicted such hurt upon me: that I would not submit to him in the disgusting way he wished. For not even $$$ can be enough, in such a case.

Of course—I did not know what would befall me. I did not know what my little cries No! No-no-NO! would unleash in the man, who had seemed till then a sane & reasonable man, a man who might be handled by any shrewd girl like Betty Short!

Port mortem you would not guess that I had had dignity and poise in life as well as milky-skinned brunette beauty though it is true that I had not (yet) a film career—even a “starlet” contract like many girls of our acquaintance at the Hollywood Canteen. (Norma Jeane Baker had not a real contract yet, either—though she led people to think she did.) Post mortem seeing me naked & white-skinned (for my body had totally bled out) & covered in stab wounds & lacerations—my legs spread open in the most ugly & cruel way in mockery—& my torso separated from my lower body & twisted slightly from it as if in revulsion for the horror perpetrated upon me—post mortem you would not guess that I had been a vivacious young woman whom many men admired in Hollywood & L.A. & a favorite at parties & very popular with well-to-do older men & Hollywood producers & Mr. Mark Hansen who owned the Top Hat Club & Mesa Grande movie house & invited me to live in his “mansion” on Buena Vista Blvd. with other girls—(some were “starlets” & others aspiring to that status)—to “entertain” guests.

Dr. M. was not one of these. Dr. M. was known by no one except K.K.—& Betty Short.

It was such cruelty—to ask if he might kiss me & when I shut my eyes, to press the chloroform cloth against my nose & mouth!

For in the romance movies always the kiss is with shut eyes—the camera is close-up to the woman’s beautiful smooth face & long-lashed shut eyes.

And the romance music.

Except in actual life—there is no music. Only the sound of the man’s grunting & the girl trying to draw breath to scream, to scream, to scream—in silence.

& such cruelty, to slash the corners of my mouth smiling in terror & hope to “charm”—slashing my mouth to my ears so that my face that had been a beautiful face would become a hideous clown-face that can never cease grinning.

& my breasts that were milky-pale & beautiful—so stabbed & mutilated, the hardened coroner could barely examine.

& the autopsy revealed contents of my stomach too filthy & shameful to be stated—the man would subordinate the girl utterly in all ways, & why could not be imagined…

What I am hoping you will comprehend—if you would listen to my words & not stare in horror & disgust at the “remains” of me—(the morgue photos have been published & posted everywhere—there is no escape from shame & ignominy, in death—the two halves of me “separated” with a butcher knife the Bone Doctor wielded laying my lifeless body on two planks across a bathtub—in the house on Norfolk, that I had never seen before in all of my life—with this knife the cruel maniac tore & sawed at my midriff—my pearly-pale skin that was so beautiful & desirable—that my blood would fall & drain into the tub—& these halves of my body he would wrap in dirty plastic curtains to carry away to dispose of like trash in a public place to create a spectacle for all to stare at in revulsion & titillation enduring for years)—if you would listen to my words post mortem, I am trying to explain that though Norma Jeane has become famous throughout the world, as MARILYN MONROE, it was a chance thing at the time in January 1947, it was a wisp of a chance, fragile as those feathery spiraling seeds of trees in the spring blown in the wind & catching in your hair & eyelashes—it was not a decreed thing but mere chance that Norma Jeane would become MARILYN MONROE & Elizabeth Short would become THE BLACK DAHLIA pitied & scorned in death & not ever understood, & the cruelest lies spread about me. What I am saying is that if you’d known us, Betty Short & Norma Jeane Baker, in those days, when we were roommates & close as sisters you would not have guessed which one of us would ascend to stellar heights & which would be flung into the pits of Hell, I swear you would not.

K.K. had photographed Norma Jeane when she was working in a factory in Burbank—but she’d never do a nude for him, she said.

A “nude” is all the calendar men want—if you don’t strip, forget it. No matter how gorgeous your face is—nobody gives a damn.

When K.K. saw us in the Canteen, & invited us to his studio to be photographed, it was Betty Short he stared at most, & not Norma Jeane he’d already photographed and had hit a dead-end—he thought. ‘Cause she would not pose nude.

It was Betty Short who engaged K.K. in sparky repartee like Carole Lombard on the screen not Norma Jeane who bit her thumbnail smiling & blushing like a dimwit.

It was Betty Short who said yes maybe. Can’t promise but maybe, yes.

It was Norma Jeane who just giggled, and murmured something nobody could hear.

I was twenty then. I was so gorgeous, walking into the Top Hat—or the Canteen—or some drug store—every eye turned on me in the wild thought—Ohh is that Hedy Lamarr?

Norma Jeane said if she walked into some place eyes would flash on her and people would think—Ohh is that Jean Harlow?

Bullshit! Norma Jeane never was mistook for Jean Harlow, I can swear to it.

I was not jealous of Norma. In fact, Norma was like a sister to me. A true sister—she’d lend me clothes, money. Not like my bitch-sisters back in Medford, cut me out of their lives like I was dirt.

‘Cause I left home, & went to live in California. ‘Cause it was obvious to me, my destiny was in Hollywood not boring Medford.

‘Cause I wore black. Know why? Black is style.

When I was just seventeen, in Vallejo, before I’d even caught on about style—something wonderful happened to me.

You would be led to believe it was the first of many such honors culminating in an Academy Award Oscar for Best Actress…

It was the nicest surprise of my life. It was a surprise to change my life.

I had not even entered my own self in the competition but some guys I knew, at Camp Cooke, entered pictures they’d taken of me, when I was cashier at the PX there—all of the soldiers & their officers voted & when the ballots were counted of twelve girls entered it was ELIZABETH SHORT who had won the title CAMP CUTIE OF CAMP COOKE.

This was June 1941. Six & a half years yet to live. On my grave marker it would’ve been such a kindness to carve ELIZABETH SHORT 1924–1947 CAMP CUTIE OF CAMP COOKE 1941 but not a one of you selfish bastards remembered.

K. KEINHARDT:

Looking through my camera lens sometimes I thought Betty Short was the one. Other times, I thought Norma Jeane Baker.

Betty was the dark-haired beauty—THE BLACK DAHLIA. Norma Jeane was THE WHITE ROSE to me—in secret—her skin like white-rose-petals & face like a china doll’s.

Betty had the “vivacious” personality—Norma Jeane was shy and withdrawn almost—you’d have to coax her out, to meet the camera lens.

Betty was all over you—it felt like her hands were on you—like she was about to crawl onto your lap and twine her arms around your neck and suck at your mouth like one of Dracula’s sisters.

Sometimes a man wants that. Sometimes not.

Norma Jeane was all quivery and whispery and holding-back even when she finally removed the smock I’d given her—to pose “nude” on the red velvet drapery. (You wouldn’t say “naked”—“naked” is like a corpse. “Nude” is art.) Like if you reached out to position Norma Jeane, just to touch her—she’d be shocked and recoil. Ohhh! Norma Jeane’s eyes widened, if I made a move toward her.

I’d just laugh—For Christ’s sake, Norma! Nobody’s going to rape you O.K.?

Fact is, I was afraid to touch THE WHITE ROSE—

you could see the raw pleading in her blue eyes—the orphan-child pleading—no love any man could give Norma would be enough.

& I did not want to love any of them—there is a terrible weakness in love like a sickness that could kill you—but not “K. Keinhardt”!

THE BLACK DAHLIA was a different matter. I would not ever have loved Betty Short—but feared being involved with her, so anxious too for a career—& if you were close to Betty you would smell just faintly the odor of her badly rotted teeth—her breath was “stale”—so she chewed spearmint gum & smoked & learned to smile with her lips pursed & closed—a hard knowing look in her eyes.

Fact is, I discovered Norma Jeane Baker—me.

Lots of guys would claim her—seeing she’d one day be “Marilyn Monroe”—but in 1945 at the Radioplane factory in Burbank, Norma Jeane was just a girl-worker in denim coveralls—eighteen—not even the prettiest girl at the factory but Norma had something—“photogenic”—nobody else had. I took her picture for Stars & Stripes—in those factory-girl coveralls seen from the front, the rear, the side—“to boost the morale of G.I.’s overseas. And the phone rang off the hook—Who’s the girl? She’s a humdinger.

See, I made her take off her wedding band for the shoot.

All the girlie mags—Swank, Peek, Yank, Sir!—wanted Norma Jeane for their covers. But she’d never do a nude—Ohhhh! Gosh I just c-can’t…

I knew she would, though. Just a matter of time—and needing money.

Young girls needing money to live and older guys with money—in L.A.—pretty good setup, eh? Always has been & always will be—that’s human nature & the foundation of Civilization.

Norma Jeane was younger than Betty Short and a lot less experienced—so you’d think. (Actually she’d been married to some jerk at age sixteen—then divorced when he left her to join the Merchant Marines.) Smaller than Betty and dreamy-eyed where Betty was sort of hard-staring and taking everything in with those dark-glassy eyes of hers all smudged in mascara—Norma Jeane was no more than a size two and her body perfectly proportioned—exquisite like something breakable. Betty Short’s pinups were sexy in a crude eye-catching way. Kind of sly, dirty-minded—like she’s winking at you. C’mon I know what you want big boy: do it! Norma Jeane’s pinups were sexy but angelic—her first nude photo “Miss Golden Dreams” I managed to coax out of her is the pin-up photo of all recorded history.

See, the trick was getting Norma to lie on the crinkly-crimson-velvet like she was a piece of candy—to be sucked.

Getting Norma to relax & to smile—like she had not a care in the world & wasn’t desperate for money & broken-hearted, her jerk of a husband had “left her.”

& wasn’t desperate, her movie career was stalled at zero.

Guess what I paid Norma Jeane? Fifty bucks.

I made nine hundred!—a record for me, at the time.

Later Norma would come back to me begging—she had not known what she was signing, the waiver I’d pushed at her that day—& I said it was out of my hands by then, the rights to “Miss Golden Dreams” had been bought by the calendar company & beyond that sold & sold & sold—millions of dollars for strangers to this very day.

Don’t argue with me, I told Norma—this is the foundation of Civilization.

What I never told the L.A. detectives—or anyone who came around to ask about Betty Short—was that—(yes I am regretful of this, & wouldn’t want it to get out publicly)—there was this guy, this “gentleman”-like character, called himself “Dr. Mortenson”—an “orthopedic surgeon”—I think that’s what he called himself.

The Bone Doctor he came to be, to me.

Not my fault—all I did was bring them together.

In fact it was Norma Jeane Dr. M. wanted to meet—not the other girls who came through my studio at that time & definitely not Betty Short who he thought was somewhat common—vulgar.

That’s how the Bone Doctor would talk: this prissy way like there’s a bad smell in the room.

Not the black-haired one—her chin is too wide for feminine beauty & she’s got a cross-eye.

The little blond girl. That one. SHE is the feminine beauty like an angel in heaven.

(Did poor Betty Short have a “cross-eye”? Some photos you can see it, kind of—her left eye isn’t looking at you exactly the way the right eye is. So you’d think—something isn’t right about this girl, she’s witchy.)

One day in September 1946 the phone rang—Hello? Is this K. Keinhardt the pin-up photographer I am speaking to?—this prissy voice & I say Who the fuck is this? & he says Excuse me I am hoping to speak with Mr. Keinhardt on a proposition & I say What kind of a proposition? & he says I have been led to believe that you take “pin-up” photos for the calendars & I say I am a studio photographer in the tradition of Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand—“nudes” are a small part of my repertoire & he says My proposition is: in my profession I see almost exclusively injured, disfigured, or malformed human bodies—particularly the female body is a sorry sight when it is far from “perfect”—and so—I am wondering if I might make a proposition to you, Mr. Keinhardt, who photograph only “perfect” female bodies…

The deal was, Dr. M. would pay me twenty-five bucks—(which I later upped to thirty-five)—just to be a secret “observer”: looking through a peep-hole in the screen behind the camera tripod.

Sure I said. As long as you don’t take pictures of your own.

How many times did Dr. M. come to the studio on Vicente Blvd, that fall and into the winter of 1947?—maybe a dozen times—& he never caused any trouble, just paid me in cash.

Parked his shiny black 1946 Packard sedan across the street.

Sat in the back behind the screen. “Observed.”

Dr. M. had a face like a smudged charcoal drawing of Harry Truman, say. Same kind of glasses as Truman. You could not imagine this man young but only middle-aged with a prim little mouth & sagging jowls.

Starched white shirt, no necktie but a good-quality coat and pressed trousers. Graying-brown hair trimmed and with a part on the left. Kind of stubby fingers for a surgeon but Dr. M. had that quiet air of “authority”—you could imagine this character giving orders to nurses and younger doctors in that voice.

You could imagine the man giving orders to women—in that voice.

Yes he was what you’d call a “gentleman”—“good breeding”—good taste too, he preferred the White Rose to the Black Dahlia—at least, that had been his wish.

Of Betty Short whom he saw photographed on three separate occasions Dr. M. said frowning afterward:

That black-haired vixen. She’s got a dirty mind—you can see it in her eyes—that cross-eye. And always licking her lips like there’s something on her lips she can’t get enough of tasting.

Of Norma Jeane whom he saw photographed just once—(historic “Miss Golden Dreams” which was a session of just forty minutes, surprisingly)—Dr. M. did not speak at all as if tongue-tied.

Dr. M. did request the girls’ names, telephone numbers & addresses & I told him NO.

NO I cannot violate the girls’ privacy—that would be a considerable extra fee, Doctor!

Something in my manner discouraged him. The Bone Doctor mumbled sorry & did not pursue the issue, did not even ask how much the “extra fee” might be—which was unexpected.

After THE BLACK DAHLIA in all the papers the Bone Doctor vanished. He did not ever call me again & no one would ever know of his visits to my studio except me—and Betty Short.

And how much Betty Short knew, I don’t know.

Afterward I tried to find out who Dr. M. was—thinking maybe the Bone Doctor might find it worth while to pay me not to give the L.A. homicide detectives his name—but I couldn’t track him.

So I thought Could be just a coincidence.

A year or so before in L.A. there’d been another girl murdered in what was called a “sex frenzy”—in fact a girl Betty Short had known from the Top Hat—ankles and wrists tied with rope in the same way as The Black Dahlia—some of the same kind of torture-stab-wounds—and left in a bathtub naked—(but not dissected at the waist like Betty)—so you might think the same guy did both murders—but the detectives couldn’t come up with any actual “suspects”—there just wasn’t evidence & in the mean time there’s kooks confessing to the murder—not just men but some women, too!

Could be just a coincidence, I thought then, & I think now. Anyway—K.K. is not going to get involved.

NORMA JEANE BAKER:

It was just a n-nightmare.

It was the awfulest—most horrible—thing…

You could not ever imagine such a—an awful thing…

When I came back to the room that night I was kind of m-mad at Betty ‘cause she’d stood me up at the Top Hat—also Betty had not paid me back the thirty dollars she owed me—thirty dollars was a lot—also Betty was always in my things—she would “borrow” & never return what she took—like my lipsticks—that made me mad!

At 20th Century-Fox I went to auditions all the time. Betty was not on contract but got on a list to audition, too—it costs money for makeup & clothes—& hair—Betty dyed her hair that inky-black color—my hair, that was brown, about the color of Betty’s natural hair, they made me bleach at the Blue Book Agency saying they could get twice as many shoots for me as with my brown hair & this turned out to be correct though an understatement—more like three times as many shoots. Like Anita Loos says—Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—this is a fact.

But Betty Short had the wrong complexion for blond—so dyed-black hair was perfect for her. & with white makeup & powder & dark lipstick she made herself look really glamorous—“sexy.”

Always wearing black clothes—that wasn’t Betty’s idea but some agent. Trying to get Betty Short work in the studios. Not who you are but who you know—they’d tell us. To get a contract you’d have to “entertain” the producers & their friends & then to keep the contract renewed you’d be expected to live in one of their residences like Mr. Hansen’s—he liked us to lie around the pool in the sun in teeny bathing suits & sunglasses—it was just party, party, party night after night & Betty Short thrived on it—& sleeping through the day—but I needed to get to my acting class & my dance class & that was no joke—you can’t audition either, if you are hung-over & have shadows under your eyes. So—Betty Short & me—we did not always get along one hundred percent—being from different backgrounds too for Betty did actually have a “father”—she’d lived with him before coming to L.A.—she showed me pictures of him—& she said Oh my father was pretty well-to-do in Medford, MA when I was a little girl—see, this is my sisters & me on Daddy’s miniature golf course—then Daddy lost the business—people stopped buying miniature golf courses I guess—in the damn old Depression.

And I was so jealous!—I said Oh Betty at least you have a f-father—you could go to him in Vallejo even now & Betty said with this hurt angry look Like hell I would never crawl back to him or to any God-damn man, my drunk father kicked me out saying I was no good, I was not even a good housekeeper like my mother, & Daddy accused me of being a strumpet & a whore—just on the evidence that I dated some boys.

& I said But maybe your father feels differently now, you are older now & maybe he needs you & Betty looks as me like I am an idiot saying Maybe he needs me but I don’t need him, & I don’t need any man to boss me around, I will marry a rich man who adores me & wants to please ME not the other God-damn way around, see?

So I backed off. I did not say that Betty had no idea how sad it is not to have a father—even a drunk father—& not to have a mother—even a sick mother like my mother who “could not keep me” because she had “mental problems”—but still, I would live with her, if she was discharged from the hospital…I did not say any of this because I did not want Betty mad at me & screaming & swearing like she did. It was known that Betty Short had a “short” temper! We were sharing a room at the Buena Vista & already it was up to me to make her bed not just my own & hang things up she’d throw down & take away laundry & wash it if I did not want a demoralizing sight to greet me every time I opened the door. & Betty owed me money, I was anxious she would not repay.

Betty said You can get money from men—if they’re the right men not these God-damn bloodsuckers.

Betty seemed angry at most men. She’d been engaged to a major in the US Army Air Corps she had met at Camp Cooke—this was said of her by girls who’d known her longer than me—& her fiancé had died in a plane crash—& she had been pregnant at the time—(maybe)—& had lost the baby or—(maybe)—had had an abortion. & there was something more—Betty had tried to sue her fiancé’s family—for what, it wasn’t known.

& I thought—we have that in common. As my husband Jim Dougherty had left me to join the Merchant Marines because he could not love me as I needed to be loved so Betty’s fiancé had left her in a terrible accident—in death.

Later I found out Betty’s other roommates had evicted her! Coming home in the early morning & waking them & not giving a damn & worst of all stealing from them—they said.

You can’t trust Betty Short. This “Black Dahlia” bullshit—what a laugh.

Betty was nice to me, though—she laughed at me & called me Baby-face. She laughed at me not wanting to pose for nude pictures—I told her if you do nude pictures it’s like taking money from men for sex—it’s a crossing-over & you can’t go back. & she just laughed—Of course Baby-face you can “go back”—who’s to know? & I said if you have a nude photo in your past, the studios will not touch you—(for this was true & well known)—& she said Of course they will—if you are meant to be a star.

Betty had great faith in this, more than any of us—if you could be a star, all would be changed for you.

Between Betty Short & Norma Jeane Baker, it could not have been predicted who would be a “star.” Just looking at the two of us—you could not ever have guessed for sure.

Soon, the name “Marilyn Monroe” would be given me. For the studio did not like “Norma Jeane”—this was an Okie name, they said. (It was not an Okie name! No one in my family was Okie or anything near.) & the studio did not like “Baker”—this was a dull name. But even the new name—“Marilyn Monroe”—did not seem real but a concoction like meringue, that would melt in the slightest rain.

Betty was always looking at herself in a mirror. Betty would look right past your head & if you turned, you would see it was her reflection she was looking at like in a window pane! Betty believed she was beautiful as Hedy Lamarr & that she would be a star soon—all she needed was the right break, the right audition.

Well—this is true! So many of us yearning for this “break”—which will make the sadness of our lives fade, we think—like shadows on a wall when the sun comes out.

& we will think then Now the sadness of my life is forgotten. Now—there will be a new life.

When Betty was in a bitter mood she said you have only a few years if you’re a female. By twenty-five if you don’t have a man to adore you & take care of you or a studio contract—you are through.

But Betty made a joke of it saying You are kaput! Finito! Dead meat!

When she died in that terrible way, Betty was twenty-four.

The saddest thing was—oh not the saddest maybe—but it was awful!—after Betty was found dead in a vacant lot in that terrible way a reporter for the Enterprise called her mother in Medford, MA & told Mrs. Short that her daughter “Elizabeth Short” had won a major beauty contest in California & please could Mrs. Short tell her anything she could of her daughter’s background—& poor Mrs. Short talked & talked all excitedly for an hour—(Betty would have thought it ironic, her mother seemed to have “forgiven” her having heard she’d won a big beauty contest!)—& at the end, the reporter cruelly told her that the actual news was, her daughter Elizabeth Short had been murdered…

Reporters & photographers like K.K.—some cruelty enters their veins, like a parasite—they are not “human” any longer in their pursuit of prey.

What do you know of your roommate Elizabeth Short’s life? “Secret” life?

But I could tell the detectives nothing that others had not told them. & I did not know nearly so much as others did—this was a surprise!

Who it could have been who’d taken Betty into captivity—if it was someone who knew Betty & had lain in wait for her—or someone who had never seen her before that night—was not revealed.

Three days before the morning she was found in the vacant lot dumped like trash, the kidnap must have happened. Betty had been last seen at the Biltmore Hotel at about 9 PM where she had gone to meet someone—maybe?

He must have h-hated her. This one. To hurt her so.

For days he had her tied up in secret, it was revealed in the newspapers. Tied by her wrists & her ankles & (it was speculated) hung “upside-down”—“spread-eagled”—& tortured before he k-killed her…

He slashed her face—that was such a pretty face—& just a girl’s face without the makeup—He cut the corners of Betty’s mouth so it looked like she was crazy-smiling—like a mask…

& then he—did something else…

With sharp knives & it was speculated “surgical tools”…

It is too terrible for me to say. It is too terrible to think of Betty Short in this way, who was my friend & my s-sister …

Oh Betty what has happened to you! Who would do such a thing & why—why to you?

Oh Betty I am sorry—every unkind thought I had of you, & that last night when you “stood me up”—again…

Oh Betty forgive me—maybe I could have helped you s-somehow.

I was twenty-two then. I was a model & had a “starlet” contract at 20th-Century Fox—which the studio would let lapse at the end of the year.

Like Betty Short I was desperate for money & sometimes it did cross my mind—I would “do anything” for money…

Except of course—I would not.

BETTY SHORT:

Why he was so—angry!

This was such a shock to me I did not ever—

comprehend—& then it was too late.

You would say She asked for it. The Black Dahlia—a slut …

She took $$$ from men, that makes her a slut—

Well I say a married woman is a slut too then—taking $$$ from a man except it is “blessed” by the church—hypocrites I hate you & wish that I could be revenged upon you from the grave especially those of you who have PROFITED FROM THE DAHLIA’S TERRIBLE FATE.

The Bone Doctor did appear to be a “gentleman” & not like most others. He did appear to be well-groomed & thoughtful. Waiting for me in his shiny black Packard sedan outside K.K.’s studio on Vicente Blvd. & when I crossed the street in my black patent-leather high heels worn without stockings having some difficulty with the damn paving stones he called to me Excuse me miss would you like a ride?—& I knew who he was (for K.K. had mentioned to me, this “Bone Doctor” who paid to see girls photographed nude & who had a particular interest in Norma Jeane) though not his name of course—& when I saw him, the glittery glasses like some politician or public man, the smile that was strained but polite, the thought came to me This one is well-to-do & can be trusted—& maybe the thought came to me This one is well-to-do & can be handled, by Betty Short.

For always in that first instant if you are female an instinct comes to you: can this one be handled, or no. & if no you must flee.

But if yes it will be worth your while to advance to him, if he beckons.

& what happened was: Dr. M. drove me back to the Buena Vista in the beautiful black Packard car & said very few words to me—asked where I lived & was I a “starlet”—& stared straight ahead through the windshield of the car—(which I took note was sparkling clean & clear & the white sunshine of Los Angeles in January made my eyes water it was so bright)—& he said only that he was a resident of Orange County & had inherited a—(I am not certain of these fancy words, which I might mis-remember)—an “orthopedic surgical practice” from his father; but was an artiste in his heart & hoped to retire early & pursue his desires in that direction.

The starched white shirt-collar & cuffs—the stubby hands but nails manicured & very clean—the pressed trousers & shiny shoes not scuffed or battered in the slightest—the third finger of the left hand with a just-perceptible paleness & impress where—(Betty Short had a sharp eye for such clues!)—a wedding band had been removed—all this I absorbed without seeming to be staring. My hands were clasped on my knees & my nails were dark-maroon polish—to match my dark-maroon lipstick—& my face powdered very white like (as K.K. would say part-sneering & part-admiring) a geisha. & I am wearing black of course—a black satin flared skirt & a lacy black blouse & black “pearls” at my throat—each of these borrowed from friends at Buena Vista except the “pearls” a gift from Mr. Hansen—& I am smiling & mentioned to Dr. M. that the concrete in the sun glittered in my eyes reminding me of the snow of Medford MA of my childhood & Dr. M. said You are from New England, Betty?—(for I had told him my name Betty Short by this time)—you do not seem like you are from New England.

Where does it seem that I am from, then?—I asked him with a sidelong smile.

He continued to drive the Packard slow along the street as other vehicles passed us & his forehead furrowed & he said finally—I could not guess. I would think that you are born of Hollywood—you have stepped out of a movie—or of the night.

Out of the night—this struck me, it was a strange thing to say & flattering to me & so I thought He is attracted to me. He will fall in love with me—he will be in my power.

& I smiled to think how K.K. would be surprised! That bastard treating us like shit on his shoes & taking such advantage of us.

Dr. M. let me out at Mr. Hansen’s stucco “mansion” (as it would be called in the newspapers) asking did I have a roommate & I said yes & Dr. M. said with a catch in his throat Is your roommate that little blond girl—“Norma Jeane”—& I had to say yes.

What is her last name? he asked & I said stiffly I am not comfortable talking about Norma Jeane, she is so dear to me. I’m sorry.

Dr. M. asked me for my phone number—he did not ask for Norma Jeane’s phone number—(which was identical to my own in fact—the phone did not belong to either of us but was shared by girls on the second floor of the house)—& so I thought maybe he would call me; & hoped that he would, for he did seem like a “gentleman” though old & starched-stuffy as hell but clearly he had $$$ & seemed kindly disposed & not a tightwad. & the next day a call did come for “Elizabeth Short”; & he was shy at first clearing his throat & saying did I remember him?—& I said yes of course—& he said he would like to see me again & also—if it was possible—my friend Norma Jeane; he would like to take us to dinner that night to a nice restaurant he knew of, on Sunset Boulevard, if we were free—& I said Yes I believe we are both free, Norma Jeane & me—yes. & a date was made, he would come to pick us up at the Buena Vista at 7 PM.

& at 7 PM I was dressed & waiting—from our friend Phoebe who was away I borrowed a beautiful black satin dress with a “plunging” neckline—around my neck the black “pearls” Mr. Hansen gave me—& my black patent leather shoes & silk stockings—(also borrowed from Phoebe, who had more than one pair)—& there came Dr. M. exactly on time—no one saw me depart, I think—I hurried to the curb & slipped into the front passenger seat of the shiny black Packard came & hoped not to see in the man’s face a look of disappointment that Norma Jeane was not with me—(for I did not ask Norma Jeane to join us of course—& I would not have told Dr. M. that Norma Jeane was not coming for Dr. M. might have said he would not wish to see me alone)—& quickly said Norma Jeane is not free after all—& he said Oh—but where is she?—she is not coming with us?—like he was hard of hearing & I said in a louder voice smiling at him to put him at ease for he seemed stiff & unyielding—Oh Norma Jeane leads a crazy life, you see—she has a former husband very jealous of her—he is her “ex” but he is always spying on her & threatening to “beat to a pulp” her man-friends & after this, Dr. M. said nothing more of that simpering baby-face Norma; but paid attention to me.

Before the dinner we would stop by a place he knew, Dr. M. said. For he had forgot something essential—his wallet. (He said with an awkward wink.) & asked would I come inside & I said Oh—I don’t know…for I did not want the “gentleman” to think that I was not shy & fearful of being alone with a strange man; & he said he was an artiste in his heart & was learning photography too—he would like to take photographs of me he said—for I was so beautiful—But only with your consent, Betty. & we entered into this house on Norfolk St.—which did not seem like a nice enough house for Dr. M. to be staying in & also did not seem to be furnished—& a strange smell came to my nostrils, a chemical-smell like some kind of strong disinfectant—but I was thinking how Dr. M.’s hair was the color of a sparrow’s feathers & Dr. M. was not very tall so that in my high heels I was almost his height—& he was not a muscled man but lean & stringy—I was smiling thinking I could handle him if necessary; & he said, taking my elbow to help me up a step, in the most gentlemanly way as we further entered the house he said Betty, may I kiss you? Just once please may I kiss you, you are so beautiful Betty Short & his breath was quickened & his eyes moist & intense behind the glittery glasses & I leaned to him & held my breath against the starchy-stuffy smell & shut my eyes knowing how gorgeous the Black Dahlia was at this time of dusk, & in the wan light of a single lamp inside, & lifted my lips to be kissed that were dark-plum in hue & “kissable” as Hedy Lamarr’s. & I thought—Maybe he is the one. Maybe—this will be the one.

NORMA JEANE BAKER:

In the Top Hat I waited for Betty & she did not come.

Oh gosh I was getting mad at Betty!

Ohhh damn you Betty I was thinking!

& my heart hardened against her for Betty had promised she would join me—there were two guys wanting to buy me drinks—& I needed to get home because I wanted to wash out some things & dry them on the radiator & in the morning iron—my flannel skirt & my white cotton eyelet blouse—I would wear these to acting class, the others wore slacks & cheap sweaters—I had the philosophy It is always an audition, you don’t know who is observing you & so I needed to be in bed by midnight & needed at least seven hours sleep or there would be blue shadows beneath my eyes but damn Betty would come into the room later, I knew—for Betty was always coming home late & stumbling-drunk—& if you scolded her she would cry Go to hell! Screw you! like she did not even know me & did not care for me any more than she did for the other girls in the Buena Vista.

For her heart was broken Betty had said, she’d been engaged to a wonderful man she had loved so much, Major Matt Gordon of the US Army Air Corps & they were to be married several years before but Major Gordon died in a plane crash far away in India & his body never recovered & Betty confessed she’d been so broken-hearted & a little crazed she had told her fiancé’s family that they had actually been married—in secret—& had had a little baby that had died at birth; & the family refused to believe this & scorned her & kept her from them & finally pretended that “Elizabeth Short” did not exist—so she had ruined her chances with the Gordon family, & was sick to think of it—So much that I have lost, I hate God sometimes He has cursed me. & I said to Betty Don’t ever say that! Don’t give God any reason to hurt you more.

& Betty cried in my arms like a little girl as no one had ever seen her except me—for Betty did not wish anyone to know her weakness, she said—& swore me to secrecy, I would never tell; & I held her & said We can help each other, Betty. We will!

But then, you could not trust her. My new lipstick missing, & one of my good blouses—& I knew it was Betty doing what Betty did which was take advantage of a friend. & I knew a time was coming when we would split up—& Betty would have no place to stay for the girls of Buena Vista were getting sick of her & then what? Where would she go?

That January night it was cold & rainy & I came back to the Buena Vista finally in a taxi by 1 AM & climbed the stairs to the second floor & there was the door to our room shut & I thought Maybe Betty is here: maybe Betty did not feel well & did not go out at all tonight—& when I came inside I stumbled in the darkness & groped for the light switch & I could see someone in Betty’s bed sprawled & helpless-seeming—limp & not-breathing—& when I managed to switch on the light I saw that it was just bedclothes twisted in Betty’s messy bed, coiled together like a human body.

“Oh Betty! Gosh I thought it was you.”