The Case of the Battered Bungalow
Liz McGuffey
Good evening, folks and welcome to True Crime Stories. I’m Dan Banter, your host for tonight’s show. Our investigators will reveal to you the facts and the mystery that still surround this fascinating crime that we call “The Case of the Battered Bungalow.”
On May 25, 2015, Mr. Victor Zuckerman, a ninety-four-year-old Los Angeles native, rammed his 1976 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight repeatedly into the house at 2309 Flagmoor Place in the Hollywood Hills, right here in Los Angeles. It seemed as if he had calculated the space between the middle stone pillars of the house to make sure his tank of a car could pass through. His aim was perfect. The front wall withstood the impact for the first few hits, but eventually it collapsed. Once the facade was breached, Mr. Zuckerman continued to attack the interior until the house was destroyed. A neighbor, drawn to the loud commotion, heard him scream, “Bleep you, Falstaff” with the final strike. Who is Zuckerman? And who is Falstaff? How are they related? When we return, we’ll tell you more about this strange and tragic event in Hollywoodland.
Architect Vic Zuckerman first met talent agent Michael Falstaff in 1961 at the Intermission Café, a coffee shop convenient for a quick lunch or snack on the grounds of MGM Studios. Vic was sitting at a small café table with his back to the room staring at an unopened copy of the Architectural Record when Michael approached him, “I hear you’re an architect.”
“Yes. So?”
“I need an architect.”
“I stay busy here at work and have no extra time for a project outside of work.”
“You sure, friend?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, buddy. See you around.”
After that Vic and Michael spoke cordially when they ran into each other, but they were a contrast in appearance and personality. Vic kept to himself. He was a slight man, with piercing blue eyes and dull, wispy, dishwater-colored hair that seemed to gray daily. Unless he was doing close work, his pewter-rimmed eyeglasses were pushed up on his forehead. He wore battleship-gray gabardine pants and matching shirt with charcoal leather sneakers. He spent most of his days on the set and wore a suit and tie only for special meetings. He drove a tan Volkswagen Beetle. At forty, he was content living his life as background rather than foreground. He was so nondescript that his colleagues at work called him “Base Coat.”
Vic’s life outside of work centered on his daughter, Ronni, whom he had raised alone since her mother left them years earlier.
Michael, on the other hand, was a gregarious sort in his late twenties who sought conversation. An upstart in Hollywood with ambition to make it big, he was handsome but could stand to lose a pound or two. His signature uniform was loose-fitting flax-colored linen pants, a bold-colored silk shirt that was never intended to be tucked in, and Gucci loafers with ecru silk socks. His thick brown collar-length hair swept back in a gentle natural wave and his eyes were like faceted tourmaline stones appearing green, yellow, brown or a combination of all three depending on how light hit them. No one knew his natural skin color because he maintained an even tan year-round on his unblemished skin. His snow-white teeth were extraordinarily straight and seemed to gleam when he smiled.
If Vic’s life was domestic and quiet, Michael’s was the exact opposite. He was a freelance talent agent without an MGM entry pass, so he had to bribe the guard almost daily to get into the MGM lot. He knew every young woman who wanted to get into the movies. Known around town as an aggressive talent scout, this partier liked to drink and regularly frequented popular night spots late into the night. He drove a used but shiny 1955 Thunderbird convertible. Appearance was more important to him than substance. He thought he could hire Vic much cheaper than a private practice architect and once he had made up his mind, it was done deal.
About a year later Michael approached Vic again. “I’m renting a modernist house in Malibu now but I want to design and build a unique house in Hollywoodland. I want a home that combines bungalow and modernist styles, custom designed by an architect.”
“Hmmpf,” Vic replied.
“You’re an architect. Want some extra work? Real work as an architect?”
“I don’t think so, Michael. I have all I can handle here designing sets.”
“I already own the lot in Hollywoodland. I have the idea for the house. I just need an architect to help me with the final details.”
“I’m busy. Find someone else.”
“Let’s talk later, Vic.”
Vic knew men like Michael, men whose salesmanship never faltered. Vic knew he’d be back. Men like him never gave up.
For some background here, viewers, the house that Mr. Zuckerman trashed was one of the last bungalows remaining in Hollywoodland. Most had been demolished and replaced by sleek modernist houses. The one at 2309 Flagmoor Place could more accurately be called a bungaloid, retaining the exterior appearance of a classic bungalow, but with open interior spaces like a modernist design. The neighbors hated it, considered the folksy exterior hopelessly out of date, although it was so unique that L.A. Today ran an article about it.
The front porch ran the full width of the house, supported by stone pillars topped with square wooden columns tapering to the coffered ceiling. The front door, made of heavy wide-planked wood with a single pane of glass in the upper half, opened directly into a great room with the living area to the left and the dining space to the right. The galley kitchen, located behind the dining area, opened to a hallway leading to a half bath and a patio shielded from the sun by a pergola covered with wisteria vines. A spiral staircase on the back wall of the great room led to an open loft beside the enclosed master bath and the only bedroom in the house. The nine-hundred-square-foot house was a perfect size for a single occupant, and an anomaly in Hollywoodland. It was a quirky house, no doubt.
But why did Zuckerman trash the Flagmoor house? Did Falstaff have a history with this house? If he did, what was it? After a station break, we’ll take you back to the origins of Vic Zuckerman’s obsession with destroying Michael Falstaff. Please stay tuned.
Vic was attracted to Sybil the moment he saw her in 1942. In fact, one look was enough to cause his heart to race and his breathing to become labored. The asthma that had plagued him since his youth and the fact that he was a junior in UCLA’s School of Applied Art kept him out of the war. He went to the office where she worked as an administrative assistant, their eyes met, and something inside of Vic sparked. The next day he returned on the false pretense of inquiring about registration for the next semester, and asked, “Would you like to see a movie sometime? This Gun for Hire with Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd is playing at the student union Friday night. I’m dying to see it. We could grab a hot dog and beer before the show starts. What do you say?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Vic. Vic Zuckerman. I met you yesterday. Remember?”
“Oh yes. You needed a transcript?”
“Right. What do you say to a date Friday?”
“I guess so,” she said with a smile.
Their relationship blossomed in quick order and they were talking of marriage in just three months. At the end of the second semester, they tied the knot. They saved money by living in student housing but even on their tight budget they always allotted movie money, their favorite pastime living in the country’s movie-making capital of Los Angeles. Vic saw every new Veronica Lake movie, in fact seeing each one several times. After a while, Sybil let it be known that she was tired of Lake’s movies, but they were like an addiction to him.
Vic’s infatuation with Lake drove a wedge in their marital bliss. Sybil told him she thought a baby would bridge the abyss that was growing between them.
Vic fell in love with his daughter when he first viewed her through the window of the Beverly Hills Hospital nursery on Thursday, May 31, 1945. Vic insisted on naming her Veronica against Sybil’s wishes. Against her greater protestations, he nicknamed her Ronni. She seemed to be perfect in every way and he doted on her from the beginning.
Every day after work, he barely greeted Sybil, but swooped Ronni in his arms and headed out the back door to play with her and their schnauzer, Jiggs. Or they were off to the park as Sybil called to them, “but dinner’s ready now.” His saddest days were when he had to work late, as he often did, and missed his time with Ronni.
Sybil sashayed around the house in her short shorts trying to get his attention, but he had lost all interest in her and in sex as he became obsessed with his daughter and with protecting her from any real or unimagined danger. Ronni was small, blonde, and beautiful just like her namesake. He wanted more than anything to spare her the downward spiral that Lake was following. Lake was a has-been before she was thirty.
One day in 1954 Vic came home to an empty house to find a tear-stained note written in Sybil’s shaky handwriting, “Ronni next door at the Andersons. I can’t take it anymore.” Vic and Ronni never saw her again.
As the sole supporter of a nine-year-old, he could ill-afford the long, unpredictable hours of a commissioned architect. He needed a regular schedule and when the position designing sets and overseeing construction at MGM opened up, he went for it. He earned less money but had a predictable paycheck every month. His training in architecture and more than ten years of experience in the field sealed his hiring by MGM. Designing building facades for MGM suited him perfectly.
As Ronni grew, he barraged her with constant questions, “Did you brush your teeth? Did you eat candy after school? Did you brush after that? Are the tires on your bike inflated? Did you talk with Aunt Audrey about that, you know, becoming a woman? What about pencils, notebook paper?”
“Dad, pleeeease. The only thing I need is a bike basket so that I can take Jiggs.”
By the time she was sixteen, Vic struggled to meet Ronni’s material and emotional needs. She was beginning to assert her independence, second-guessing the thoughtful advice he doled out. Her clothes budget quadrupled and she asked for—and expected—a car for her sixteenth birthday. Her grades dropped and she fell out of advanced placement classes. She lost all interest in college, looking for acting workshops instead.
“You’re going to college, young lady,” he told her every time the subject came up. “I always expected you to go to college so that you could get a good job. I want you to be able to take care of yourself. I won’t be able to take care of you forever.”
“You want me to be a nurse and clean bed pans? A teacher babysitting bratty kids?”
“I want you to find a career that will support you financially, but one you like.”
“I just want to act. If I can make it big, I can take care of you.”
Ronni found Vic poring over an old dog-eared edition of Architectural Digest and enjoying a quick coffee at the Intermission Café. When he saw her, he took his car keys out of his pocket and held them out for her to take.
“Thanks, Dad. See you at six,” she said as she collided with a man entering the café. Their eyes met, they both apologized, and they glanced back at each other as they continued on their ways. Vic caught the moment between them and frowned.
Michael approached his table. “Do you know that pretty girl?”
“She’s my daughter. She’s sixteen, for God’s sake. Don’t even think about her.”
“All right.” Michael laughed at him. “Let’s talk business. Do you see any ideas for my house in that old magazine? You must need some extra money with the added expense of a teenager. Come on, say you’ll design my house.”
“Why don’t you hire a real architect?”
“You’re a real architect, Vic. You can cut me a deal and I’ll give you extra pocket change. What do you say?”
Vic was worried about paying for Ronni’s college education. He suddenly realized that Michael’s constant pestering him about designing a house could pay off. The fee would help defray the cost of Ronni’s college education. So he agreed.
Vic felt utter disdain for Michael Falstaff, and at first only the thought of the extra money kept him working on the house plans, but gradually Michael’s enthusiasm inspired him and he began to enjoy the process. They met often, changed and tweaked, tweaked and changed, until between them they had designed one damn quirky house. Michael signed the contract, Vic hired a contractor, and they broke ground in November 1962.
Michael’s lot nestled into the side of a hill, offered no view of the surrounding hills or of the city. It was less than half a mile to a ridge with the city spread out below, but there were no sidewalks in the Hollywood Hills and the narrow, curvy roads didn’t afford safe walking.
One Saturday near the end of construction, Vic convinced his busy daughter to drive out with him to see the new house. And he rued that day forever.
Ronni’s baby fat had long since melted away and playing on the tennis team had honed her body and given her a golden tan. Her muscles were defined and firm but not overly developed like a ballet dancer’s. She looked great that day in hot pink shorts and an old white T-shirt that revealed her tight midriff. At eighteen, she was a stunner.
As they arrived, they saw Michael with his arm around the waist of a tall redhead, peering in one of the front windows. “Vic, I’m glad you’re here. I hope you have a key. This is Eva from Kansas. She’s…” His words trailed off as he saw Ronni climb out of the car. He pushed his sunglasses to his forehead and their eyes met. Vic knew at once this meant trouble.
Vic’s life began to unravel after that day. Ronni insisted on going with him to the house every weekend on the chance that she could see Michael. But she now carefully selected her clothes and set her hair. At eighteen, she was of legal age and Vic could only appeal to her intellect.
Welcome back, viewers. Our investigation has revealed that Zuckerman’s daughter, Ronni, was a model child who adored her father as much as he adored her. Mildred Anderson, who lived next door to Vic and Ronni when Sybil left, talked to us from her assisted-living facility. “Ronni was a dear. A beautiful, obedient child. She made straight As, never had to be coaxed to do homework, helped her dad around the house, took care of the dog. She babysat kids around the neighborhood. All around good kid.”
But by her teen years, she changed. Her grades dropped, she had no interest in college, she cut tennis practice. This wannabe starlet in 1961, with long naturally blonde hair, looked eerily like her namesake, Veronica Lake. To Vic’s dismay, she was interested only in acting workshops. By the time she was eighteen, she had fallen in love with a man, talent agent Michael Falstaff. It wasn’t unusual to see this handsome couple, who loved to party, shouting and shoving each other after a drunken night on the town. Rumor had it that she was nice arm candy for Falstaff and more beneficial to him in that role than any part he could have ever found for her, given her extreme good looks and limited acting ability. And like Veronica Lake before her, Ronni Zuckerman’s life would end early and in tragedy.
Vic Zuckerman never recovered from the loss of his daughter. And he never forgave Falstaff. But why did Zuckerman wait almost fifty years to seek his revenge? When we return, we’ll explain.
Vic was powerless as he watched Michael seduce Ronni and escort her around town. The tabloids showed them at the Pink Pussy Cat, or Dino’s, or Whisky á Go Go, or wherever the beautiful people of L.A. hung out. In the photographs, by the end of the night Michael still appeared unmussed and smiling whereas Ronni’s clothes were disheveled, her hair unkempt, and her eyes glazed over in a drunken haze. Vic watched his daughter relive the life of her namesake, but with sensationalism instead of newsworthiness, with infamy instead of fame. His heart ached and ironically, he took to drink himself as he watched his daughter spiral down into alcoholism and promiscuity.
Five years later as he turned off the eleven o’clock news and savored a pleasant booze buzz, his phone rang. He picked up the receiver and before he could say anything, he heard, “Mr. Zuckerman? Are you Victor Zuckerman?”
“Yes, yes, I am. Who is this?”
“I’m Ann. I’m a nurse at Cedars-Sinai Hospital. We have your daughter here. She’s been in a car accident.”
“What? What happened? How is she?”
“We have her sedated, Mr. Zuckerman. The hospital is on Beverly Boulevard—”
“I’ll be right there.”
Vic found Michael in the ICU waiting area, sobbing, apologizing, pacing around, favoring his left ankle. It was the first time he had ever seen Michael other than perfectly ordered: His rumpled clothes were torn, grass-stained, and covered with dirt, his Gucci loafers scuffed, and his left eye was swollen shut.
“What have you done to my daughter?” Vic gave Michael a shove and realized how powerless he was against a younger, stronger man. If Michael fought back, Vic was in trouble, but Michael only turned away.
“Oh, God,” Michael says holding his head in his hands. “I swerved to miss a cat or something in the road. I lost control. The car rolled down an embankment. My car is totaled. We were both thrown out. I couldn’t revive Ronni, but she was still breathing.”
Later Vic learned that Michael had landed on soft ground, shaken and bruised, but remarkably with no broken bones. Ronni was not as lucky. She landed at an odd angle on a boulder that severed her third thoracic vertebra and the underlying spinal cord, leaving her permanently paralyzed below the waist.
When Ronni could leave the hospital, Vic took her home and cared for her, just as he had when she was a child. He wheeled her to the same park where she used to play. He bought her a schnauzer puppy, but she named him Doom. She lived for just eight years, years spent in a haze of opiates, barbiturates, alcohol, and bitterness.
One day Vic came home to find her splayed out in her wheelchair with empty vials of morphine and Seconal beside an overturned vodka bottle. She had no pulse when he called 9-1-1.
Even after she died, his neurosis convinced him that he could still take care of her. He kept her bike in the closet and inflated the tires every month or so. His walls were adorned with framed photographs of Ronni at every age through her teens. He thought she was most beautiful in her senior prom evening gown. He kept no pictures of her after she started seeing Michael, but he did keep tabloid clippings of the two of them in a desk drawer. Every year on her birthday, he placed an urn of Asiatic lilies on her grave.
Vic lost his daughter twice, once to Michael Falstaff and finally to her physical passing. Vic never sought revenge but he also never experienced any solace from the resentment and hate he harbored for Michael Falstaff. When Michael died of cirrhosis at age fifty, Vic raised a glass in celebration and as he dusted the framed photographs of Ronnie, he called out to her, “Don’t forget to feed Jiggs.”
At ninety-four, Vic was frail and feared he wouldn’t be able to take care of his daughter much longer. In the spring of 2015, he moved from his apartment at the retirement home to assisted-living. As he packed, he discovered a crumpled envelope among Ronni’s things. In it he found photos he’d never seen before of Ronni and Michael together in the bungalow. They gave Vic a shock, a realization that his nightmare started when he agreed to build that bungalow and it would end with it.
On May 25, 2015, Vic got up at seven o’clock as usual, shaved his smooth, pallid face as usual, and sat down to enjoy his oatmeal and the L. A. Times as usual. After that, nothing was usual. He pulled the yellowed architectural drawings out of the back of the coat closet and with a ruler calculated the exact distance between the two middle stone pillars fronting the bungalow. Then he precisely measured the width of his Oldsmobile. He fired up his Olds, stopped by the florist to pick up an urn of Asiatic lilies, and took them to Ronni’s grave.
He then drove to 2309 Flagmoor Place and rammed the bungalow repeatedly until both of them succumbed.
Victor Zuckerman’s life was ruled by his obsessions. The first one: Hollywood sensation Veronica Lake. He was so haunted by her beauty that he named his daughter after her and transferred his adoration to Ronni. When he wife left, he devoted his whole life to the girl’s care. He became consumed with the design and construction of Michael Falstaff’s bungalow, and blamed himself and the bungalow for bringing the two of them together. He mourned Ronni’s journey down the same tragic path that led Ms. Lake to alcoholism and debauchery. Then that horrible car wreck left Ronnie crippled for life, both mentally and physically, and dead at age thirty.
But on Ronni’s seventieth birthday, Zuckerman got his revenge. With the final lurch of the car, both Zuckerman and the bungalow collapsed leaving him buried in the rubble. As the first responders dug him out, they heard him murmuring, “Veronica, Veronica.” The ambulance sped away with sirens blaring. At Cedars-Sinai he was pronounced dead.
Good night. Please stay tuned for our next True Crime Story.