A City Owned E-Book

OJ Modjeska

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

One after another, they appear by the sides of suburban roads and freeways - the naked, strangled bodies of women who have been raped, tortured and left for dead.

Police begin to suspect that their target is a rogue operator who has emerged from their own ranks. And then, all hell breaks loose in Los Angeles.

An arrest in the strangling murders of two co-eds across state lines finally leads to a break in the case, but the suspect is someone the investigators could have ever expected.

None of them are prepared for the dark journey through the mazes of the human mind it will take to unlock the door to justice.

From the author of the bestselling "Gone: Catastrophe in Paradise", "A City Owned" is the true story of the worst case of serial sex homicide in American history.

Leseprobe

A City Owned

Murder By Increments Book 1

O.J. Modjeska

Copyright (C) 2019 O.J. Modjeska

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

In these caves I've dwelled for long

The lust for blood keeps me strong

Fly at dusk, land at dawn

Evil and darkness I bring upon

It makes no difference in my eyes

If I slay for right or wrong

Self-inflicted are their cries

In the graveyards they belong

—The Circle of Evil by Atahan Tolunay

Foreword

The criminal case dating from the late seventies which is the subject of this text is well-known, arguably even notorious. The perpetrators are familiar faces from the serial killer hall of fame. Nonetheless, I have deliberately omitted direct mention of them, or the popular name of the landmark case with which they are associated, until well into the narrative.

The reason for this will become clear to the reader in time. The celebrity of the murderers concerned should not detract from the fact that many significant details of the case are unknown, or have been forgotten—and recalling those facts from the vantage point of the present casts our understanding of the events in a rather new light. Indeed, journeying through this tale without any assumptions may deliver an experience far more contemporary and familiar than one otherwise might be expecting.

I wrote Murder by Increments after coming across some of the more obscure details of the case during studies for my criminology accreditation. At the time, I was stunned by the fact that—despite thinking I already knew what the case was about—I actually knew very little, and the facts I was learning brought to mind many of the horrors and sufferings that seem to be occurring with greater frequency in our present world.

As vile as the actions of the perpetrators were, almost as shocking were many of the responses of the police, the courts, and the psychiatrists to whom justice was entrusted. The criminal figures at the center of the story, in my view, are not its most arresting feature; instead, they were catalysts that through their actions revealed the frailties of human nature, and the outlines of a society tormented by itself. The suffering continues.

PART ONE: PANIC

Chapter 1

This story begins in a vast and pulsing metropolis, the central districts of which are today noted for cleanliness, even blandness. It is a world of high-rise glass and steel, of functional if dull design. With its collection of music stores, the Rock Walk featuring concrete handprints of rock 'n' roll luminaries, and the historic Sunset Grill made famous by the Don Henley song of the same name, it presents a thoroughly digestible version of hip to the many tourists who flock to the city every year. The principle attractions are dining, shopping and scanning the surrounds for a celebrity or a dog in a tote bag. Nobody worries about visiting at night. It does not have time for crime, or squalor. This is no stomping ground for the marginal and deviant. Those folk have mostly moved on—to somewhere, anywhere, some other place; it doesn't matter.

Twenty odd years ago, Hugh Grant was very publicly arrested after receiving a blowjob from streetwalker Divine Brown in the front of his BMW. That was just before the big clean-up: large swathes of Hollywood were commercialized and purged of “undesirables”. But native Los Angelenos who have lived in the city their whole lives will tell you the late seventies and eighties gave us Hollywood at its grotty worst.

Back then, the entire stretch of Sunset between Gardner and Western Avenue was a teeming sexual marketplace. Hollywood's east side thronged with pushers, panderers, bums and runaways. A porn cinema stood on the site of every old theatre. The detritus of the failed counterculture, drug casualties in bandannas and flared denim, migrated south from Haight Ashbury, their ideals dying gracelessly in the salty marinade of sex and drugs for profit. It was an interstitial time and place; the glamor and the production houses had gone elsewhere, the future and its juggernaut of cleansing commercial interests had not yet arrived, and in the empty space garbage collected in a steamy pile.

Hollywood circa 1977, when this story begins, was home of the desperate and damned. Any night or day of the week, cars would cruise the Boulevard, just slow enough for their occupants to size up the human wares lining the grubby pavements. The war between the cops and prostitutes simmered night after night, occasionally boiling over, then cooling off again. Right next to the Rocky and Bullwinkle statue on Sunset the city line dividing West Hollywood from the City of Los Angeles runs right through the strip. If a Hollywood cop car passed through, the women would move over to the West Hollywood side; if it was a sheriff's car they saw, they would move to the LA side. Most women preferred that side. The sheriffs were known to line the girls up against their vehicles and have them place their hands on the hood, then rap them over the knuckles with their metal flashlights.

Hollywood girls made dodging the cops into an art form. Most knew, for instance, that vice officers had Sunday and Monday off, so those were good nights to work. Some were known to call in at the station and if there was no answer, out they went on the job.

Sometimes though, no matter how clever you were, what precautions you took, you were going to get got.

The cops could go undercover, and pretend to be johns offering a job. Then, to make matters more confusing, civilian men posing as undercover police officers was oddly not an unusual situation.

Maybe it was just a sign of the times, the perversity of the modern world, but there was another kind of craze in town apart from disco dancing. In its basic form it appeared as guys screeching down Sunset, fake sirens attached to their vehicles, screaming abuse at the hussies. Scratching the surface there was something larger and more complex going on; something approximating a subculture. The visibility of trade in fake police paraphernalia and the numbers of men who drove cars made deliberately to look like cop vehicles pointed to the existence of a class of police buffs of various shades. Markets and swap meets sold fake badges, sirens, handcuffs, cop-style ID wallets and batons. There was also a black trade in the “real” things that had been misappropriated from the force, which could be acquired for a much higher price.

Some of these “buffs” were just young guys who liked to acquire an old police vehicle for its speed and good handling. Others took things more seriously. These were men who liked to stalk crime scenes and pretend they had some legitimate business being there. They would install scanners in their cars and listen in on police calls. They might enjoy stopping motorists and hassling them about their inappropriate driving. Or they enjoyed harassing and intimidating prostitutes, pretending to offer a job and then flipping a badge just to see the look on the lady's face.

Their motivations varied. Some just did it for a laugh. Some were embittered police rejects. Some felt somehow impotent in their lives and enjoyed the feeling of authority that passing themselves off as a cop gave them.

The problem was you couldn't tell who was who. Many were perfectly harmless; some were dangerous beyond a woman's darkest imagining.

* * *

Tall, black and leggy, Yolanda took in as much as three-hundred dollars a night—in seventies money, a small fortune. After dropping out of high school she had spent a while waiting tables and washing dishes, doing what she was supposed to, respectable work for those with limited prospects. She barely made enough money to feed herself and her kid. Some of Yolanda's friends were hooking. She tried it, and handed in her notice at the restaurant shortly after. Fuck that.

Yolanda loved the money she was making on the game. She was a young woman in the prime of life, who enjoyed fashion and took pride in the way she dressed. She liked the things the good money she was making on the streets bought her: fine, sexy clothes. Nice jewelry, like her turquoise ring, set in a silver leaf clasp. She was no slob. She looked high end, more like an escort than a streetwalker.

It was just a job. She didn't plan to stay in it forever—a temporary situation, she told herself. It felt good to have enough money coming in to buy what she wanted for herself and her kid. But the job had a major downside—and there were a few, like the fact that she had already been booked for soliciting and had a criminal record at twenty-two. Gradually her whole lifestyle changed, she started using and moved in with a local pusher, and then the kid went to live with her grandmother. So she had become separated from her daughter, who had been the reason for going on the game in the first place.

On the night of 17 October 1977 these things were playing on her mind as she stepped out and headed to her beat. She wasn't feeling it and she missed her kid. In no kind of mood, she just wanted to get out there, do it, get her money and go home again.

She met her pimp along Sunset and he must have picked up her lack of enthusiasm, because he told her to haul ass and get out there before he got mad. He watched her walk off eastbound towards the intersection of Sunset and Detroit.

Ronald LaMieux ran an organ retailer in the music district of Sunset, near that same intersection. On the evening of 17 October, he and a colleague stayed late working to deadline on some auditing. At some point he was distracted by the sounds of shouting outside. He looked out the windows and saw what appeared to be a vice arrest of a tall, black prostitute happening on the street right out the front of his store. A man with dark hair and a mustache was waving a badge at the young lady and yelling.

LaMieux saw the man handcuff the woman and put her in the back of the vehicle. There was another man sitting in front in the driver's seat. Vice arrests of streetwalkers were common in that area of Sunset, and LaMieux didn't think much of it, except that the arresting officer seemed to have an unnecessarily aggressive manner.

Yolanda, sitting in handcuffs in the back of the car, was cursing her luck. Getting written up again was the last thing she needed. The cop who had arrested her, a young guy with a mustache and acne scars on his neck, told her they were going to take her down to the station, and then he had gotten into the backseat and was sitting next to her, which she thought was a bit odd. But it wasn't until she stared a little harder at the man driving the vehicle that she first sensed that something weird was going on.

She realized she knew the driver, or at least, she had met him before. He was older than the other one, with a big, hooked nose and bushy black hair, streaked with grey. Rather ugly, really. But there was something about him, Yolanda thought. She had thought so that day she first saw him. She couldn't make out his whole face, only his profile, but she was positive this was the same guy.

A few weeks earlier she had gone with her friend Deborah on an errand to see this man at his shop on Colorado Street in Glendale. He was an auto upholsterer. The place was full of foam and reels of thread and there was a sewing machine at a workbench. There were some very flash cars parked in the garage, a Merc and a Cadillac limo. The man had boasted that Frank Sinatra was one of his clients.

A face kind of like oily old leather, and that big nose—and yet Yolanda had felt strangely drawn to him. He had spoken with a soft voice, smiled in a barely-there way that just crinkled the corners of his eyes, and exuded an aura of unforced confidence. During their conversation she found herself mentioning that she could usually be found on Sunset around Highland.

Yolanda couldn't get the full details out of her friend, but she thought Deborah was selling the guy a trick list, a dossier of warm leads on johns. So he was an auto upholsterer and maybe a part-time pimp. And now here he was, a cop. This was when Yolanda started to think something was wrong.

—What's going on? You guys aren't cops are you?

The younger guy, next to her in the back seat, gave her a sharp look.

She kicked the back of the driver's seat with her high-heel.

—Hey! I know you. I've seen you before. You ain't a cop. Where are you taking me?

The driver turned briefly, and Yolanda saw his eyes. It was definitely the same guy; but his eyes were so different to the day she had spoken to him at his shop. The irises black, floating in the whites. Wordlessly they chastised her; for kicking the back of the seat, maybe just for existing. He looked angry as shit.

Shut up, the younger guy said.

And then it happened, so quickly that Yolanda didn't even see it coming; his fist landing hard on the side of her face.

And then she knew that something was really, really wrong.

These guys weren't officers, she didn't know who or what they were, but this was some game, some kind of bad trip, and she was going to hurt, she was going to get messed up real bad.

Chapter 2

On the morning of 18 October 1977 a group of LAPD officers stood near the entrance to the Forest Lawn Memorial Park cemetery in Glendale, where Hollywood greats rest in themed divisions called Inspiration Slope, Slumberland, Sweet Memories and Dawn of Tomorrow, surrounded by replica Michelangelo statues. Its founder, San Francisco businessman Dr. Hubert Eaton, thought normal cemeteries were ugly and depressing, and wanted to create one with a more optimistic vibe, something more in line with the needs of Hollywood. Tacky or not, Humphrey Bogart, Walt Disney, Errol Flynn and more recently Michael Jackson have all paid vast sums to be buried there.

The cause of this gathering of officers of the law was the naked, lifeless body of a young woman laying on a grass strip by the side of Forest Lawn Memorial Drive.

Someone floated the theory that the killer was making some kind of ironic statement by leaving her there. Certainly her resting place, and the apparent manner of her passing, could not be more in contrast with the grandiose vision of death behind the gates. Completely bare, face-down, the rough splay of her legs and the way her arms jutted out at sharp, unnatural angles, seemed to suggest she had been—quite literally—dumped on the ground.

Above them the drone of cars whizzing by on the Ventura Freeway bled into the gentle hum of insects. A few feet from the body, a “no loitering” sign rose up out of the dirt.

After examining the ground around, the detectives came to a different conclusion. They stood at the top of the slope and followed it down to where she lay with their eyes. Disturbance to the grass and shrubs seemed to suggest the body had been thrown from a vehicle up on the freeway. It had rolled down the slope, coming to rest near the side of the road. The location wasn't important; it was simply where she had landed after being thrown from a car, like the wrapper of a McDonald's cheeseburger.

There was only one thing left on the body: a torn rag around her neck, possibly from her own clothing, the same that she had obviously been strangled with. Turning her over, the officers immediately saw the deep indented rings around her throat: clear, sharp lines telling of a killer who had used great force, and a death of extreme suffering. The eyes were florid with petechiae, broken blood vessels.

Who was she? Where had she come from? They had so little go on. Any clothing, jewelry, or possessions that might help identify her, that may gather fragments to connect her to her killer, had been stripped away. She was like a baby exposed on a hill. She could have been anyone, from anywhere. And if she had been dumped from the freeway, they noted, she might not have even been from Los Angeles, let alone the neighborhood in which they were standing.

A tossed body always presents difficulties. A body left at the crime scene almost always has something on it or near it to connect it to the killer. In this situation there was nothing.

The coroner's investigator checked for the approximate time of death by taking the ground temperature, then inserting a probe into the body in order to gauge the temperature of the liver. After death, the body temperature falls towards the temperature of the surroundings at a rate of about one-and-a-half degrees per hour. The detectives estimated that this young woman had died late the evening before, probably between ten o'clock and midnight.

They followed the usual procedure, dividing the area into a grid that was painstakingly swept for evidence. But the officers' gut instincts had told them this search would be fruitless, and they were right. Everything that was found had been there before the body was dumped. A door-to-door in the immediate area to find out if anyone knew the victim, or had seen anything suspicious, yielded no information.

If it was her job that killed her, it was also the only thing that permitted Yolanda to be identified at all. She had a prior record of arrest for soliciting, so her fingerprints matched records held in the county's files.

Later, the autopsy would find semen traces that came from two different men inside the body. Obviously it could not be determined that even one of these deposits had come from the same individual that killed her. According to analysis of the samples however, one of the men was what is known as a “non-secretor”, that is, a person whose blood type cannot be determined from seminal fluid.

The officers didn't put much thought into considering the implications of these findings, or any others from the case. Once the mystery of Yolanda's identity was solved, they lost all interest.

Prostitutes turned up dead in Los Angeles all the time. As it was, there were too many homicides to solve already. The gang wars were in ascension and the decade was rolling towards an end which would see Los Angeles unofficially declared the murder capital of the world, and the morgues several days behind in processing bodies.

As for whores, murder was a collateral risk of the profession—a john gets too rough, there's a conflict over payment, and next thing you know, bam: dead. The common-sense view was that if they wanted to stay safe, they shouldn't have been doing it in the first place.

Case unofficially closed.

The wisdom of devoting little to no police resources to the murder of prostitutes of course rested on the assumption that men who killed whores probably weren't a threat to the mainstream community.

* * *

Yolanda's murder was never reported, so the first her friend Lois heard of it was when some of her girls, wide eyed and trembling, told her that Yolanda had been found strangled to death outside the cemetery next to the Ventura Freeway.

Lois considered them her girls in the sense that they were both her charges and her subjects. She was a sex trafficking researcher, and also ran CAT, the California Trollops Association, an advocacy organization that provided social programs and legal assistance for prostitutes.

She was an oddity in Hollywood, wandering around with her pen and notebook, observing the local life as if it were native fauna. At least, she began that way. In 1976 Lee enrolled in a PhD program in sociology, and she was preparing her dissertation focusing on street prostitution in Los Angeles.

When she began, her path forward seemed clear. She would submit to the requirements of her discipline, remain neutral and scientific, gather data for the benefit of various agencies, document the subculture, write up the results.

As time passed, things got murky. She was getting too close to her subjects. Lee began to ask herself if her future lay in research or advocacy.

For her, the streetwalkers of Hollywood were not just prostitutes, but flesh and blood women. She grew to know them and love them like you would a sister, a mother or a friend. And the closer she drew, and the more they let her into their world, the angrier she got on their behalf. There was no justice at all for the women when they were subjected to violence and even death at the hands of johns and pimps. That anger spilled over again when Yolanda was killed, and the police showed little to no interest in finding out who was responsible.

Lee thought Yolanda's murderer might have been a pimp. Then again, if that was the case, there was probably some other motive. What had happened to Yolanda was so savage, so very brutal. Prostitutes were certainly casualties of pimp wars in Los Angeles, but it was more likely that they would get roughed up or have a couple of bones broken to send a message that it was time to move to another beat. Killing them was excessive and didn't really make sense. The girls were product, a source of livelihood. Even if the product belonged to someone else, destroying it was kind of an egregious transgression of professional ethics, and inviting more trouble than it was worth.

Even if the police didn't care who killed Yolanda, Lee certainly did. She didn't want any more women hurt or killed by the mystery perp. Deciding to take positive action, she went to talk with a dick she knew in the LAPD.

The officer was polite but firm.

—Miss Lee, we are snowed under here! This case can't be given higher priority than all the other homicides we're dealing with.

Lois curled her lip at the officer. She knew what that meant. That was just code for “we aren't interested in investigating.”

It was always the same: the brutality and harassment the cops inflicted on the girls—tolerated without question up above—was bad enough. When crimes were perpetrated against prostitutes, they just didn't care. The prostitute was a criminal, not a victim.

Lois knew it wouldn't occur to them that these women usually started on the game when they were no older than their own daughters, that many of them had been raped and beaten by their own fathers, so it was a good deal, really—an improvement in their fortunes—to be compensated. Or, as she put it, they didn't have to lay in the bed and wait for daddy to come in anymore, they could take control of the sexual abuse and be paid for it.

She tried badgering the detective a bit longer, but he stonewalled her and she slunk away, stewing in cynicism and resentment.

The police weren't inclined to be helpful to her anyway. She had been researching thousands of police reports filed against prostitutes which were resulting in court challenges against the LAPD. The suits were for not arresting the male customers who paid the prostitutes, and focusing their efforts largely on women. The standard police approach to prostitution in the seventies—which would persist, astonishingly, for the next four decades—consisted almost solely of making street-level arrests of prostitutes, chucking them in the slammer overnight, and adding another misdemeanor to their record. The johns, even if occasionally caught and embarrassed, rarely encountered any real penalties, and pimps were barely ever caught and prosecuted.

Lee's legal challenges to the police were certainly radical for the time—but mostly, they were a nuisance. The LAPD thought she was a pain in the ass.