Stephanie

Murder files hook you fast and drag you in slow. The crime-scene report wires shock. Read it for facts and milieu.

Don’t extrapolate. Don’t expect clear explication. Big files fill ten boxes. Logic builds and fractures. Chronologies disperse. The act creates the disorder. It leads you to the victim slow.

Summary reports, Teletypes, mug shots. Non sequitur license-plate stats. Ding-farm runaways polygraphed and shipped to Camarillo. The polygrapher’s negative stats.

FI cards. Street creeps braced and cut loose. Shredded APBs. Canvassing sheets. Wrong-case misfiles, mug-run cards, and rap sheets.

Family photos. The victim’s address book. Her scent or your wish fulfillment of it many years old. Snapshots of her smiling, posed in out-of-date clothes.

Women only. They make me read and look. Old paper as perfume. Longing as perceptive tool.

Unsolved files only. Apply your mind male and rude. Reset fractures. Reroute narrative. Make data blips cohere.

I’ve read a dozen murder files. I started with my mother’s file and moved on. I read unsolved/female/sex-murder files only. I’m not a detective. I’m not a cop wannabe. I’ve never solved a crime. I come to know the women sometimes.

I study the death pictures. I always do it first. Take me back and show me the horror. Make me feel your loss fresh and new.

DETECTIVE BUREAU/HOMICIDE DIVISION/LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT. DR# 65-538-991 [MURDER/187 PC]. VICTIM: STEPHANIE LYNN GORMAN/WHITE FEMALE/AGE 16. DOB: 6-11-49. DOD: 8-5-65. STATUS: UNSOLVED/REOPENED/LAPD UNSOLVED UNIT AT WORK.

The crime scene:

West L.A./“Beverlywood”/southeast of Beverly Hills. Upper-middle-class Jewish/all residential/crime stats down around zilch.

A corner house. Hillsboro and Sawyer. Stucco/late-’40s vintage/three bedrooms, pristine. A rear garage. Side-street access. A cement backyard. A five-foot connecting wall. A street-access wood door set in.

A backyard patio. Two chaise lounges. Sliding-glass doors that lead in. A rumpus room. A patio view. A side hallway. Go to the northeast bedroom.

It’s by the front door. Windows look out. You see the front lawn and street. You see the house next door.

A door leads to the master bedroom. A door leads to the hall. Roll 37 years back. Pop the doors and LOOK.

It’s a small room. It’s a girl’s room. It’s the older sister’s pad. A west-wall dresser. A north-wall desk by the window. Daybeds line the south and east walls. They hit perpendicular. An end table separates them. A lamp and knickknacks sit upright. There’s a cold-cream jar lid in between. There’s a matchbook on the floor. There’s a nightstand in the northeast corner. There’s a knocked-over lamp. There’s an east-wall portrait. It’s bright oil paint. It’s the older sister beaming. There’s a stuffed turtle toy on the east bed. Both bed covers are lime green.

Stephanie Lynn Gorman as seen in her Hamilton High School yearbook photo, freshman year, 1965. (Los Angeles Times Collection, Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA)

On the floor: two gray sweat socks. Close by: a lidless jar of cold cream. Gauge in. They’re beside the south bed and matchbook.

A chair by the connecting doors. Clothes under it: panties, denim shorts, one tennis shoe. Gauge in. The matching shoe is on the floor. It’s near the west-wall dresser.

There’s a cord looped to one south-bed leg. It’s white chalk line. It’s mason’s cord. The free end is frayed. There’s a shell casing on the floor. It’s between the wall and the south bed. By the east bed: three more shell casings.

Bloodstained carpet. It’s near the east bed. It’s between the outer edge and the shell casings.

The casings are small. The cord is loose-weaved and three-stranded. The bloodstain is red and bright pink.

There’s Stephanie Gorman.

She’s on the floor. She’s on her knees. She lists against the east wall. She’s by the east-bed foot.

She’s half-nude. She’s bottomless. She’s wearing a knit top and bra. They’re knife-slashed up the middle. The top hangs loose. The bra hangs off her neck and shoulders.

Drag burns on her right hip. Both wrists abraded. Cinched cord on her right wrist. Loose strands pressure-frayed.

Gunshot wounds:

Two in her chest. One in her neck. One in her forehead.

Her lower lip and left breast are bruised. Her inner lip is swollen. Her forehead sustained a contusion.

She’s in a begging pose. She’s against that wall. Bullet force bruised her back. The east wall got an indentation.

It happened in broad summer daylight.

HER FATHER and sister found her.

6:00 p.m., 8/5/65. Ed and Cheryl Gorman come home. Cheryl’s bedroom door is shut. They open it. They enter the room. They see Stephanie.

Ed Gorman goes to her and lifts her. He puts her on the east bed. He covers her with a quilt and some clothing. He calls LAPD. West L.A. Division responds.

Stephanie’s mother came home. Ed Gorman told her. The LAPD arrived.

Lieutenant Grover Armstrong. Detective Sergeants Robert Byron and William Koivu. SID men, latent print men, photo lab men, crime lab men. Ten LAPD men total.

The detectives talked to the family. The family said this:

Ed Gorman was a lawyer. He had an office downtown. Cheryl worked for him today. Julie Gorman was a housewife. She played tennis today. She came home at 3:00 p.m. She saw Cheryl’s bedroom door shut. She paid no attention.

She went back out. She went to the beauty shop. She came home to this.

The tech men fanned out. The detectives studied the crime scene. The photo men took pictures. Ed Gorman said he disrupted the scene. He covered Stephanie. She’s up on the east bed. Her head’s brushing the toy turtle.

The cops walked the house. They saw no forced entry. They saw no ransacking. They found a cord strand near the front door. They walked the patio. They found two bloodstained towels. They were on a chaise lounge.

The detectives talked to the family. They rebuilt Stephanie’s day.

She went to Hamilton High summer school. It was one mile away. She carpooled with two friends: Paul Bernstein and Ilene Jackman. They always left school at 12:30.

The detectives called Ilene Jackman. They told her. They calmed her down. They learned this:

Yes, they went to school. Yes, they drove home. They dropped Paul off first. She dropped Stephanie at 12:45. Stephanie walked through the back gate.

She’s in the house now. She’s there alone.

An ambulance arrived. Attendants took Stephanie to the L.A. County Morgue.

They scheduled an autopsy. Print men dusted the crime scene.

They turned up latent prints. They elimination-printed the Gormans and all the cops. The Gormans slept under sedation. The investigation kicked in: Friday, 8/6/65.

Cops canvassed the neighborhood. The next-door lady said this:

She heard screams yesterday. It was 3:30 to 4:30. They came from the Gorman house. They came from the northeast corner. She thought it was the Gorman girls playing. The lady lived one house north. The property lines were tight in. Her gardener was cutting the lawn yesterday. He worked 1:30 to 2:30.

Neighbors reported a candy-selling crew. They were Negro kids. They were door-to-door knocking. There was a whole slew.

A kid called West L.A. station. His name was Dave S. He said he parked outside the Gorman pad yesterday. He was looking for this guy Bob Gelff. Gelff lived there maybe two years ago.

Stephanie Gorman’s body is removed from her home and taken to the morgue. (Los Angeles Times Collection, Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA)

The tip got shined on. The tip got misplaced. The Gorman job made the papers and TV. They had tips up the wazoo.

A neighbor woman called in. She found the Gormans’ pet loose. It was 4:00 p.m. yesterday. She put the dog in the Gormans’ yard. She called out to Stephanie. She got no answer.

A neighbor kid called in. He was a Hami Hi student. He saw two Negroes cruise the Gorman house. It was yesterday. It was 12:50 p.m. They drove a ’55 Ford.

A neighbor woman called in. She saw a ’53 or ’54 Olds parked at Durango and Sawyer. It was this morning. A man got out. He walked to a trashcan. He removed a pink blouse.

More tips came in. Neighbors called in. They snitched off the Negro candy crew. They snitched off a Negro church-solicitation crew. A parole officer called in. He snitched off two local rape-os. A neighbor man called in. He saw two male Negroes in a ’55 Ford. They were distributing handbills.

Neighbors snitched off Negro workmen. Said Negroes bugged off work yesterday. Said Negroes aroused suspicion. A neighbor woman called in. A male Negro stood on her porch yesterday. It was 11:30 to noon. She lived on Hillsboro. She lived near the Gormans.

The canvassing cops braced local parolees. The geeks ran the gamut: GTA, weapons beefs, burglary, escape. They all checked out alibi-clean.

A bartender called in. He reported weird shit at the Red Rouge Bar. The Red Rouge was way east on Melrose. The bartender said this: A guy came in last night. He stayed from 10:00 to midnight. He was white/50/6′/200. He wore “old-type” clothes. He said, “They don’t know what’s happening. It will be headlines. They’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow. It’s tough to be a clown.”

August 5, 1965: Friends and neighbors gather outside the Gorman home the day of Stephanie’s murder. (Los Angeles Times Collection, Department of Special Collections, Charles E. Young Research Library, UCLA)

More canvassers came on. Metro Division supplied them. They house-to-housed. They questioned residents. They worked fifteen car-plan sectors. They worked north to the L.A. Country Club. They worked south to the Santa Monica Freeway. They worked east to La Cienega. They worked west to Hillcrest Country Club. They logged nontips and nonsense tips. They logged suspicious Negro sightings.

Byron and Koivu interviewed the neighbor’s gardener. His name was George Iwasaki. He told them this:

He worked 8/5/65. He worked between 1:00 and 2:00. He parked near the Gorman house. He saw a man peeping the house. The peeper stood between the house and the neighbor’s house. The peeper peeped the northeast bedroom window.

Iwasaki described him:

White male, Latin type, 43–45 years old. 5′7″, 140 pounds. Sallow cheeks, unshaved, unkempt hair.

Attire: cotton twill shirt and pants. Matching “uniform type.” Fresh-starched, light blue.

The man looked suspicious. Ditto his standing place. Iwasaki knew judo. The man gave him a bad look. Iwasaki smelled scuffle. He prepared to go.

Their eyeball duel ended. Iwasaki did yard work. He did not see the peeper again.

Dr. Harold Kade performed the autopsy. Stephanie Lynn Gorman/Coroner’s File #19597.

She was 5′3″/100 pounds/brown hair, brown eyes. She was healthy. Gunshot wound #1 perforated her heart and left lung. The result: Massive hemorrhage. Gunshot wound #2 perforated her right lung. The result: massive hemorrhage. Gunshot wound #3 penetrated her trachea, esophagus, and vertebral column. The result: massive hemorrhage. Gunshot wound #4 fractured her skull and penetrated her brain. The result: massive hemorrhage.

Kade checked her reproductive system. The uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries: Grossly normal. No lacerations of the vagina, rectum, or perineum.

The Gorman job continued. Homicide Division jumped in. Sergeants J. R. Buckles and W. R. Munkres clocked on.

They found the Negro candy sellers. They cleared them. They questioned the Gorman family. They learned this:

Stephanie was a good girl. She did not flirt or provoke boys. She got top grades. She held class office. She excelled at Palms Junior High and Hami. She had no enemies. She did not truck with bad kids.

SID kicked back ballistics. The weapon: a .25-caliber auto. The millimeter equivalent: .635. Right-hand twist/six lands and grooves/Colt brand autos excluded. In evidence: 4 “Western” brand shell casings, 4 .25-caliber bullets. In progress: crime report cross-checks for the same type gun and MO.

The detectives worked. They debunked hysterical tips. They cleared suspicious Negroes. They read recent crime reports. Two nuts-at-large stood out.

Nut #1: “The Shoe-Tree Rapist.” At large since 2/4/62. A West Valley habitué. A unique MO.

He cruises residential blocks. He spots housewives outside. He enters their pads through rear doors. He finds neckties or electric cords. He finds vaginal jellies or cold cream. The ties and cords act as restraints. The jellies and creams lubricate.

He wears gloves and masks. He grabs the women and binds them. He stuck a shoe-tree in his first victim’s vagina. His next five victims fought him off. He ran out their back doors. He never speaks. He may be a mute. He may drive a ’48 or ’52 Chevy. He’s good for 13 burglaries and 7 attempt rapes. Witness descriptions vary. He is a white male. He may be 19 to 23. He may be 30 to 40. Sometimes he appears unshaven.

Nut #2: “The Remorseful Rapist.”

He’s a white male “Latin type.” He’s about 26. He’s 5′11″/185. He’s got a crew cut and a neat appearance. He hits apartment pads in Wilshire and Central Division. He hits pads near bus lines.

He targets lone women. He cons his way in. He shows a small revolver and subdues them. He tapes their eyes and mouth. He rapes them. He apologizes post-rape. He shows them the gun is a toy.

The detectives worked. They found the Negro church crew. They cleared them. They checked out three local meter men. They cleared them. They went to Stephanie’s funeral. The crowd ran 1,000 strong.

Hillside Memorial Park. Rabbi Michael Albagli presiding. Relatives, friends, and neighbors. Ed Gorman’s clients and Hami Hi kids. Tears and soliloquy. Ed and Julie Gorman distraught.

The detectives worked. They skimmed old crime reports. They read ballistics reports. They read FI cards. They checked out loiterers detained and released. They fielded crank calls. A kid called in. He said Stephanie was a hooker. She nixed a Hami football player. He shot her for it. A crank note came in. It snitched off actor Richard Burton. More neighbors called in. They snitched off suspicious Negroes. A Hami girl called in. She said Stephanie dated Paul Bernstein and Steve Spiegelman.

SID retained the slugs and shells. Techs ran comparison tests. The slugs and shells matched no slugs and shells from prior confiscations. The print men studied the elimination prints. They found four prints remaining. They photographed them. The photo lab made blow-ups.

A sketch artist worked with George Iwasaki. They created a peeper sketch. The detectives talked to Dr. Kade. He offered this opinion: Stephanie Gorman was not a virgin at her time of death.

The detectives talked to Ed and Julie Gorman. They questioned them per Stephanie and sex. The Gormans deemed her a virgin. She had a checkup on 4/3/65. Talk to Dr. Fred Pobirs.

Buckles and Munkres saw Dr. Pobirs. He confirmed the checkup. He consulted his records. He saw no pelvic exam notes. He said she was 15 then. If she wasn’t a virgin, I would have told the family.

The detectives questioned Stephanie’s friends and classmates. They confirmed Stephanie’s good-girl status. They talked to boys she dated. They had 8/5 alibis. They denied sex with Stephanie. They were credible. They vouched Stephanie’s chastity. The detectives figured this:

Doc Kade might be right. Doc Kade might be wrong. Natural function or accidents cause vaginal rupture.

The detectives braced registered sex offenders. They ran RSO mug shots by George Iwasaki. He nixed them all. They were not the northeast-bedroom peeper.

It was 8/11/65. L.A. was wicked hot. The Watts Riot broke out. LAPD responded. A manpower call blared. LAPD men answered en masse. The riot featured arson, sniping, and looting. It was Suspicious Negro Armageddon. The National Guard arrived. A curfew was imposed. L.A. shut down. L.A. stayed indoors. L.A. watched the riot on TV. LAPD got swamped. The riot impeded travel. The riot fucked up communications. Normal LAPD service got suspended. Hot investigations lost time.

The riot de-conflagrated. Order got restored. South L.A. got singed to Cinder City. LAPD service resumed slooooow.

The Gorman job: stymied, quicksand, sludge.

Buckles and Munkres wrote a progress report. Lieutenant Pierce Brooks approved it. The report ran hypothetical reconstructions.

12:45. Stephanie gets home. She goes to her bedroom. She drops her schoolbooks and purse. She goes to the kitchen. She has a snack.

Stephanie has dry-skin problems. She goes to the master bathroom. It adjoins Cheryl’s room. She creams her rough skin. Maybe the suspect grabs her there. He’s already in the house. The skin-cream bottle—found in the bathtub—not normal there.

But:

No forced entry. That cord by the front door. Maybe he knocks. Stephanie answers. Maybe he just barges in.

He hits her. He subdues her. It explains her torn lip. The bruise on her forehead—call it blow two. Maybe it’s a fall-down bump from blow one.

He carries Stephanie. He drags Stephanie. Her right-hip brush burns suggest this. Cheryl’s bedroom is close. Stephanie is helpless or unconscious. He pulls the south bed out. He throws her on it. He binds her wrists to the east-bed legs. He spread-eagles her. He strips her lower body. He throws her clothes on the floor. He cuts her top and bra up the middle. He goes to the master bedroom. He finds a Jergens jar. He returns to the bedroom. He lubricates Stephanie’s rectum and vagina. He tosses the jar and lid. Remember—the jar on the floor/the lid on the nightstand.

Doc Kade’s opinion: sodomy and rape. Tests for residues or foreign fluids inside the body not yet conducted.

The killer assaults Stephanie. Stephanie regains consciousness. Say she struggles then. Say it’s like this. Say she struggles throughout the whole thing.

Her wrists break free. Remember—the right-wrist cord still on her arm/the cord strands loose on the bed leg.

She gets off the bed. The killer corners her. He blocks the doors. Stephanie stumbles. She hits the east wall. She kneels— horror/shock/exhaustion. He shoots her four times. His gun’s an automatic. The spent shells eject left to right. He’s bloody now. He goes to the master bedroom. He grabs two towels. He wipes himself off. He goes out the back door. He hits the patio. He drops the towels on a chaise lounge. He goes out the back gate. He’s on Sawyer Street. He’s gone.

And—feature this:

Stephanie dies in Cheryl’s bedroom. A sibling resemblance exists. Was she the intended vic?

The Gorman job faded out newswise. Postriot shit upstaged it. Stephanie got brief coverage. It played up her good-girl status. She was young, bright, lovely. She got straight A’s. She was Hami Hi “in” crowd. She was movie-mad. She got extra gigs in Pollyanna and Bye Bye Birdie.

The detectives slogged. They issued a bulletin. It featured a crime summary and the peeper sketch. It went out 8/24/65. It went to the Feds and PDs nationwide. LAPD got kickbacks: similar MOs/divergent MOs/MOs off the beam. Rape-os, rape-o killers, bondage rape-os. Burglar rape-os, knife rape-os, gun rape-os, child rape-os, girl rape-os, woman rape-os, old lady rape-os.

Some freaks resembled the sketch. Most freaks didn’t. George Iwasaki viewed nationwide mug shots and nixed them. They got no print matches. They got no ballistic matches. They got more phone tips and more letters. They cleared three hundred suspects. They issued bulletin #2. They sent slug and shell samples to the FBI and CII. Bulletin #2 begged for comparison slugs and shells. It featured the four-print blow-up. It begged for kickbacks: All suspects known or in stir.

No matches. Straight kickback zeros.

The Feds had a slug and shell. Ditto CII. LAPD retained two. The bulletin hit Canada and Mexico. Shit: no matches, more zeros.

The detectives slogged. They reinterviewed Stephanie’s classmates. They reconfirmed her good-girl status. They interviewed Cheryl’s male friends. They cleared them. They checked West L.A. FI cards. They braced Beverlywood freaks. They torqued wienie waggers, jailbait johnnies, glue sniffers, hopheads, and public jackoff freaks. They cleared them. They cleared local delivery-men. They cleared Ed Gorman’s Negro ex-gardener. They cleared suspicious Negroes. They cleared rape-jacket Negroes citywide.

The Gormans were fine people. Ed was a fine lawyer. He had no enemies. His reputation gleamed. He served his synagogue selflessly. Julie’s rep gleamed. The “good-girl” Gorman sisters were unassailably thus. They did not provoke or dick-tease. They did not backyard-sunbathe provocatively. Stephanie frequented the Standard Club. She wore demure outfits. She never wore revealing bikinis.

The Shoe-Tree Rapist—still at large. The Remorseful Rapist— likewise. Likewise très many sick humps.

THE GORMAN JOB slogged on. The Gorman job slogged on full-speed.

It was proactive. It was reactive. It ran tangential. It ran straight ahead. It was footwork and filework and gruntwork. It was a full-fledged freak symphony.

They got call-ins. A local girl ratted off a local “wino type.” She said he resembled the sketch. George Iwasaki saw him and nixed him. No print match/no viable gun stats. The Green Bay, Wisconsin, PD called. They had a local freak. He resembled the sketch. Iwasaki nixed a mug shot. No print match—adieu.

Doc Kade called. He had late test results. The vaginal and rectal semen tests: inconclusive. Plus: no other foreign fluids present/no sperm isolate.

They cleared a Crest Drive wienie wagger. He flashed his shvantz from his balcony. Crest Drive adjoined Hillsboro and Sawyer. They cleared a freak nicknamed “Wino.” He forged prescriptions. He popped goofballs. He habituated the Mar Vista Bowl. He pushed mary jane to kids. They checked out a 6/4/64 case. A freak kidnapped a Hami Hi girl. It was bold and streetside.

He flashed a knife. He made her get in his car. He made her disrobe. He kissed her breasts. He let her go.

That one went nowhere. One still-at-large freak.

They checked out a 3/12/65 gig. It was a parked-car caper. It featured a Hami girl and a boy. The girl was topless. Her name was in Stephanie’s address book. The caper was Mickey Mouse. They cleared the boy.

“Harvey the Confessor” confessed. Harvey was habitual. He showed up at West L.A. Station. He copped to the Gorman job. The cops heard his jive confession. The cops cut him loose.

Fall ’65 dragged on. They checked out the Standard Club. It was in Cheviot Hills. It was mid-upscale Jewish. The Gormans partied there. Maybe some freak saw Stephanie there. Maybe his hard-on commenced there. Maybe Stephanie flipped his freak switch.

They did 122 interviews. They ran gun checks concurrent. They checked 8/5/65 time cards. They logged rumors. They logged more good-girl rebop. They found some freak employees. They found some ex-cons. They looked at them close.

They read rap sheets. They charted work histories. They charted work absences on 8/5/65. They leaned on the freaks.

One Negro had two DUIs. Fuck him—he’s a lush. One Negro had multiple busts: burglary/ADW/check-bounce tsuris. One Negro had a stat rape bust.

They leaned on them. They gun-checked them. They print-checked them. They cleared them both.

They checked out snack-bar guys, pool guys, lifeguards, tennis pros. They braced a potential rape-o. He picked a girl up at the club. He invited her to a movie. He drove her to the Hollywood Hills. He tried to promote a fuck. She said no fuck. He drove her home then.

The Standard Club washed out. They ran gun checks, print checks, and show-ups with George Iwasaki. They got bupkes. They punted. They tracked obscene-phone-call reports.

They waded in. They slid through slime. They tracked back four years. They tracked freaks who called young girls and freaks who bugged women about their daughters.

It was ugly. Bondage themes and straight fuck themes ran equal. The callers: all male. The victim-complainants: all female.

“Baby, let’s fuck.” “I want to eat your pussy.” “I heard your sister works at Kentucky Fried Chicken on Pico. Do you and your sister fuck?”

“If you don’t come across, I’ll hurt your children.” “I know you got a 19-year-old daughter. Meet me on Ventura. Wear a skirt, blouse, and no nylons, or something will happen to her.”

This freak was typical. He calls a young girl. He says he’s a school official. He asks embarrassing questions. He tells her to take her measurements. Ditto this freak. He calls a Valley woman. He tells her to wear high heels and eschew underwear. He tells her to meet him at the Akron store on Sunset. The cops show. He doesn’t.

The detectives tracked reports. They grilled known phone freaks. They cleared them. Phone freaks were tough to catch. More freaks at large.

They dumped the phone shit—12/29/65. Cheryl Gorman got a late Christmas card. It mentioned a meeting in 7/65. The family had gone down to Coronado. Ed and Julie played bridge. Stephanie and Cheryl hit the beach.

They met two boys. Cheryl said she was reading The Collector. It’s about a freak. He kidnaps a woman. He holds her hostage. She dies in captivity.

The kids played a game. The boys tied up and untied the girls. It was brief chuckles. That was all of it.

That was July. Cut to late December. One boy sends a Christmas card. It mentions the rope trick.

The detectives studied the card. The detectives drove to San Diego. They found the boys. They grilled them. They polygraphed them. They cleared them.

Adios, 1965—1966 struts in.

1/5/66: The lab tests the south and east bedspreads for semen. The east bed hits positive. There’s no sperm isolate. There’s a blood-type A reaction. The result: inconclusive. The stain is near the foot of the bed. It’s near Stephanie’s death pose. The rest of the bedspread tests positive: A-type blood reaction. That marks the specific stain inconclusive. That means the semen could match A or O blood. Stephanie was type O. There were no foreign fluid types in her rectum or vagina.

1/7/66: The lab tests the bloody towels. They get a type-O reaction. It’s probably Stephanie’s blood. Stephanie might have wounded the killer.

The detectives worked. The lab confiscated new crime-scene guns. They examined them. They test-fired them. They got nil results.

2/22/66: SID tests the Gorman hair samples. Most test out to Stephanie and Cheryl. One doesn’t. This hair is coarser. It’s not a Negro, Mexican, or Oriental hair. It’s assuredly Caucasian.

2/22/66: The lab tests Stephanie’s fingernail clippings. They find no scraped flesh. They find blood traces. They’re too small to type. They can’t tell if she scratched her assailant.

2/28/66: LAPD pops the Remorseful Rapist.

It’s a traffic stop—2nd and Serrano. It’s a male Mexican. His name: Edward David Apodaca.

He’s packing tape and a toy gun. He stands in a show-up. Thirty-eight victims ID him. The Gorman cops grill him. He’s gun-checked, print-checked, poly’d, and cleared.

3/8/66: A neighbor lady rats off a loiterer. He’s standing at Pico and Roxbury. He matches the police sketch. Patrolmen haul him in. The detectives grill him.

His name is Mr. K. He’s an alien. He hails from Gyula, Hungary. He’s a schizo and a nut-bin habitué. He’s got a nationwide rap sheet: vag/disorderly conduct/wienie wagger beefs.

He won’t cooperate. He won’t take a poly. They book him for Murder One. They put him in a show-up. George Iwasaki views him. He says maybe, maybe not.

Mr. K. talked a little. He said he escaped Patton State Hospital. The detectives called Patton. They learned: Mr. K. escaped 8/5/65—the Gorman snuff date.

But:

Mr. K. split late in the day. The time glitch cleared him.

Mr. K. got unbooked. Murder One—nyet. Patton sent a crew down to shag him.

3/24/66–3/31/66: Two Metro cops hit Georgia Street Juvenile.

They run record checks. They check current and recent Hami kids. They check the boys for juvie beefs. They check the girls as sex-beef complainants. The girls shoplift clothes and cosmetics. The girls run from titty pinchers and whip-out men. The boys run the fucking alphabet.

Lots of sex shit. 288PC—forced oral cop. 288—voluntary. 288—mutual suck. Voyeur busts, malicious mischief. Some kid molests a prepubescent girl. The cops pop him. Said kid gets popped at a fruit bar later. A 14-year-old boy attacks two 11-year-old girls. He slides on it. He gets popped for Peeping Tom later. Lots of GTA, some grand-theft merch, some parked-car sodomy. Wienie waggers galore. Glue sniffers, grasshoppers, juiceheads galore. Fruit rollers, fruit teasers, high-school fruitettes. Firebugs, chronic runaways. A doozie right after the Gorman job—8/13/65. Venice Boulevard and Ocean Front Walk. There’s a public rest-room. There’s a Mex kid pulling his pud. The kid states: “I was thinking of a Hami Hi girl.”

They went through 5000-plus names. They turned up 201 rap sheets. They weeded out unlikelies. They grilled the pure freaks. They print-checked them and gun-checked them. They got diddly-shit.

4/4/66: The L.A. Police Commission gets a mailed note and poem. Said note and poem read thus:

Did they ever find who snuffed out Stephanie Gorman? Was he of Lago Vista Dr., Beverly Hills? Used to frequent the pool hall in Westwood?

And her name was Stephanie.
She came from Hills Beverly.
A quick roach was he around the house.
I declare, look here, you may find out
(An idea to a mystery)

The detectives worked it. Lago Vista Drive/men named “Roach”/Westwood poolhalls. It wasted man hours. It went nowhere. A cryptographer read the poem. She said it was gobbledygook.

6/20/66: LAPD gets hip to Dave S. Remember—he called West L.A. Station. It was 8/6/65. He said he went by the Gorman pad on 8/5. He looked for Bob Gelff. Bob used to live there.

Dave S. was 21. Dave S. went to Hami. Dave S. got popped for 288 once. Dave S. had a bad-check warrant: extant in Orange County.

6/21/66: Metro cops grill Dave S. He tells his Bob Gelff story. He parked in the Gormans’ driveway. He thought he saw someone peek out a window. No one came out. He split.

The story made no sense. Gelff didn’t live there. Dave S. nixed a polygraph. Dave S. split the interview. Dave S. called back. He said he’d take the poly now.

They set up the test: 7:00 p.m., 6/21/66. Dave S. called up and cancelled. The detectives talked to Bob Gelff.

Shit, we sold the house. The Gormans bought it in ’61. The Gormans had it in ’65. Shit, Dave knew where I lived.

The cops rebraced Dave S. They requested a formal statement. He refused. They arrested him.

They got him a public defender. He refused to talk. They booked him for Murder One.

He spent two days in the shitter. He agreed to a poly. He took the test. He came up clean.

His prints didn’t match. He owned no guns. George Iwasaki viewed him. George Iwasaki said nix.

They released Dave S. Orange County grabbed him. Bam— bad-check warrant extant.

The Gorman job was 11 months old. It was dead-stalled and fucked.

RICK JACKSON TOLD me about Stephanie. My neck hairs stood up.

Rick works LAPD Homicide. He’s a superb detective and one of my best friends. We talk long-distance. We prowl crime-historical L.A. We talk CRIME. We dig the horror. We transmit chills. We rap logic and moral perspective. We dig crime as social barometer and buffoonish diversion. My wife says we cackle like schoolgirls.

Stephanie Lynn Gorman. DR 65-538-991. DOD: 8/5/65.

Rick gave me a synopsis. Details nudged me. A pinprick memory blipped.

It’s summer ’65. I’m 17. There’s a Hollywood newsstand. There’s a girl’s picture. It straddles a newspaper fold.

Blip—no more, no less.

Rick said the case went active. It was a fluke. It happened like this:

It’s 2000 now. The older sister’s middle-aged. She attends a party. She meets an LAPD man. She mentions her sister’s case. She wonders. She requests a status update.

The man calls Robbery-Homicide. Detective Dave Lambkin picks up. He works the Rape Special Section. He’s a 20-year officer. He doesn’t know the Gorman case.

The man shoots the sister’s request. Lambkin responds. He reads the Gorman file. He notes the unknown prints. He sends them to the FBI.

The Feds run them through the CODUS computer. They get a single-print match.

The kickback supplies a name. The man was young then and old now. He’s now a suspect.

That blip. That picture. A slight expansion—her pageboy hairdo.

Rick’s synopsis. The horror. The Watts Riot bit. My L.A. ’65 summer. Stone’s throw to her.

Show me the file. I need to see.

I FLEW OUT. It was December 2000. I booked a room in Beverly Hills. Beverlywood adjoined it. Stone’s throw to Hillsboro and Sawyer.

It was cool. L.A. smelled like fresh rain. I ignored it. I conjured up the hot summer of 1965.

I rented a car. I drove to Parker Center. Rick introduced me to Dave Lambkin. He was mid-40s, bald, and fucking bug-eyed intense. He talked fast and articulate. His thoughts scattergunned and coalesced precisely. He said the file ran fourteen boxes. He gave me the suspect update.

Call him Mr. X. Mr. X is sixty-nine now. Mr. X was thirty-four then. He had a minor rap sheet. Très that—one receiving stolen goods bounce, à la ’71.

Hence: prints on file. Hence: the CODUS match. Hence: major suspect status.

No Gorman link. That’s good. It jukes the random-sex factor. Ed Gorman’s dead now. The mother and sister don’t know X-Man. They’ve wracked their memories.

So:

We’re running background checks. We’re feeling positive. We’ve placed him in West L.A. then. We’ve surveilled him. We’ve got his prints on a coffee cup. We snatched it at a diner.

We need more facts. They’re armament. They’ll fuel the search warrant. They’ll define the approach.

Show me the file. Show me the pictures first.

We walked to the Rape Special cubicle. I saw the boxes and binders. I saw a taped-on wall tableau. That memory blip blew out full.

The L.A. Times. The pic on the fold. The pageboy girl.

Lambkin passed me the pictures. They were faded Kodachrome. The colors looked sun-bleached. Shades beamed surreal.

There’s the patio. There’s the bloody towels. The south bed’s askew. There’s one spent shell.

I clenched up. I knew she’d be next. I wanted to see it. I trusted my motive. I know my eyes would violate.

There—

I couldn’t peel her beauty back from the horror. I felt immodest and clinically focused. Her softness merged with the blood.

I CALLED IT quits early. The file boded vast and too detailed. The pictures held me for now.

Dead women own you. Call it blunt and simple. She’s Geneva Hilliker Ellroy redux.

I went back to the hotel. I time-traveled. I placed myself in context with that blip.

It was “Freedom Summer.” I was seventeen. I was a year and three months older than Stephanie. I lived five miles northeast. I attended Fairfax High School up to mid-March. Fairfax was largely Jewish. I was gentile and fucked up. I craved attention, love, and sex. I did nothing constructive to earn it. I lusted for Jewish girls. I stalked them by bicycle. I pulled anti-Semitic stunts in school. I got my ass kicked. Fairfax kicked me out.

My dad was old and frail. He let me join the army. I hated the army. It scared me shitless. My dad had a second stroke. I faked a nervous breakdown. An army shrink bought it. My dad died 6/4/65. The army kicked me loose.

I bopped back to L.A. I was seventeen and draft-exempt. The army gave me go-home pay. I forged my dad’s last three Social Security checks. I had a roll. I got a cheap pad. I got a handbillpassing job. I shoplifted food and booze. I popped pills and smoked weed. I ran 6′3″ and 140. Everything frightened me. I read crime books, fantasized, and jacked off. I was a teenage-misanthrope/hybrid-scaredy cat.

I stalked girls. My mode was the all-unilateral monogamous crush. My anti-Jewish stance was a shuck. It was kid iconoclasm. It was a love scrounger’s yelp for help. Fairfax High was snotty and rigidly stratified. The Fairfax district bordered Hami Hi’s. Hami was equally Jewish. Hami was allegedly more snotty and more stratified. Hami kids were hip, Hami kids disdained geeks, Hami kids rode the cool zeitgeist.

Proximity.

Stephanie was lovely. I did not doubt her good-girl status or sound character. She would have beckoned. I would have stalked her. I would have harbored tender thoughts. Booze might fuel a real approach—T-Bird chased by Clorets. She might reject me flat. She might reject me gently. She might hear me out. I was tall, I had my own pad, I had a murder-vic mom—sometimes the desperate impress.

Not likely. Lovely girls scare desperate boys. Ed Gorman would nab my shit quicksville. He’d kick my goy ass off his porch.

Yeah, I would have stalked her. No, I’d never harm a hair on her head.

THE HOUSE WAS INNOCUOUS. The northeast bedroom light was on. Rick and I staked it out.

Daytime crime, nighttime surveillance. We both loved crime locations. They spoke to us. They inspired time travel. They juked our talk.

We sat in Rick’s car. Holiday lights beamed—Christmas sprays and menorahs. I mentioned a book. I read it circa ’65. It was a thriller called Warrant for X.

Rick said X-Man looked good. He was at the crime scene. They didn’t know when. They did know he did not know the Gormans. He matched the peeper sketch. He was a Latin-type Caucasian. I speculated. Stephanie fought him. He panicked and shot her. Rick quoted Dave Lambkin. Dave was a sex-crime expert. Dave had this factors-in-place riff.

Would-be killers harbor fantasies. They rarely act them out. Most would-bes never kill. Sometimes factors converge. The right victim appears. The opportunity hits. Stress factors goose the would-be. Family grief, sex abstinence, booze or dope impairment. His switch flips. He acts.

I said that might apply to my mother’s case. It’s the victim-killer nexus. Specific men kill specific women and kill no more. They bring fantasies to the act. They juxtapose their rage and lust against a female image. Maybe my mother vibed loose prowess. Maybe Stephanie vibed kindness to plunder. The killer killed my mother. He probably hit her and raped her unconscious. Stephanie screamed and fought. She got off the south bed. She disrupted her killer’s fantasy.

He killed her. The act traumatized him. He never killed again.

Rick said maybe, maybe not. It didn’t vibe intentional snuff. It vibed rape panic and rape escalation. The fuck brought the cord and gun. The gun for threat, the cord for suppression. Most rapes went unreported. Rape as social stigma—1965. Stephanie might be vic 16 or 60. The nexus, the alchemy—something made him kill her. I said her beauty and softness. Bam—his switch drops. He sees outtakes from his shitty life. His stress context implodes. A happy kid dies.

Women as one-way mirrors. Women as Etch-a-Sketch boards. The killer snags one real image and starts to revise. His revisions tap signals. It’s sex semaphore. Details get distorted and magnified. It’s a funhouse mirror now. It’s all in his head. The woman loses proportion. She gains bizarre shapes. She gets dehumanized.

We shitcanned the analysis. We rapped rude and wrathful. We ran a righteous right-wing reverie. The Gorman job was individual forfeit. The Gorman job was moral default. Nothing justified it. The killer had to pay. His childhood trauma and attendant justifications bought him no mercy chits. Fuck the cocksucker dead—

I DUG INTO the file. I met Dave Lambkin’s partner, Tim Marcia. He complemented Lambkin. He was big and athletic. He walked with a roll. He talked less than Lambkin. He weighed his words and zoomed to the point.

We dug binders out. I read the autopsy report and first summary report. I rechecked the crime-scene shots. I theorized. I indulged possible wishful thinking.

No vaginal or rectal hurt. No foreign fluid types. Virgin and nonvirgin assessments. No semen or Jergens cream inside her. Vaginal rupture by natural cause.

Doc Kade was dead. Koivu was dead. Ditto Munkres and Buckles. Byron was in a rest home. He was senescent. There was no one to clarify.

My sense: no penetration. The killer didn’t rape Stephanie.

Tim Marcia agreed. She was young and tight internally. She was struggling. Her legs were unbound. There’s no Jergens on bedspreads/no Jergens floor drip. There’s the east-bed semen stain. Maybe it’s a forced oral cop. Maybe the killer jerked off.

I asked about vault evidence. I mentioned bedspread DNA. Marcia said a cop tossed it. It was an outrage. Some cop on a spring-cleaning kick.

I read reports. I skimmed mug shots. I checked the peeper sketch. Dave Lambkin did a cutout trick. He took a side-view mug shot of Mr. X. He placed it against the side-view sketch. They dovetailed exact.

Mr. X looked good for it. They couldn’t brace him yet. They ached for it. Vengeance beckoned. Knock, knock—come here, motherfucker.

I read the file. I hobnobbed with the Shoe-Tree and Remorseful Rapists. I read the obscene-phone-call log. I remembered my calls to strange girls. I tried to come off as a kool kat. The girls laughed and made me hang up.

September 2002: Detectives Dave Lambkin, Tim Marcia, and Rick Jackson stand in front of the old Gorman home. (Todd Hido/Edge)

I found the San Diego notes. I found the boy’s Christmas card. I read The Collector that summer. It turned me on. The captive woman was a redhead. My mother was a redhead. Samantha Eggar was a redhead. She played the captive in the film. I saw it during the Watts Riot. It played in Beverly Hills—stone’s throw to Hillsboro and Sawyer.

Tim Marcia and I discussed a wild card. The Gorman job— consensual sex goes blooey.

Pros and cons. Coronado/the rope trick/the Collector connection. A secret boyfriend unnamed. The gun and rope as book-movie props. The boy’s shaky psyche. Chaste kicks and Stephanie’s imposed limits.

It flew for ten seconds. It flew apart then.

Why use the sister’s bedroom? Stephanie’s room was out back. Mom and Dad parked in the rear. They’re home—oops—let’s split.

And:

The torn lip/the punch there/the head bump/the drag burns/ the cord by the front door.

Dave ran the file by a Fed profiler. He posited a front-door approach. The killer knocks. Stephanie answers. It’s her last look at daylight.

I skimmed the file. I read the Georgia Street Juvie reports. I spent a night at Georgia Street. It was August ’65. I shoplifted some ice cream. LAPD popped me.

It was scary. Tough kids made fun of me. A friend’s dad got me out. He took me to County Probation. I was too old to adopt. Somebody signed a paper. It made me an “emancipated juvenile.”

The reports detailed a world wild and wimpy. It’s all middle-class Jewish freaks. Two names jumped out. I knew one guy at John Burroughs Junior High School. I smoked weed with another guy. He knew my pal Craig Minear. Craig crashed his 2-seater plane. He died November ’70.

I read the file backwards and forwards. I became friends with Dave and Tim. We yukked at phone-call outtakes and picaresque sex freaks. We discussed the rape and no-rape angles. We lauded and mourned Stephanie.

Tim and I drove to Hami. We checked old yearbooks and found Stephanie. She’s sleek in her Phi Delt sweater. Her pageboy’s down and swept by barrettes. Her expression shifts picture to picture. She’s a pensive kid. She tries to show happiness. She doesn’t always succeed.

I told Tim that I loved her to death. He said he did, too.

THE INVESTIGATION BUILT. Dave and Tim built that warrant for X.

They had his CII#, FBI#, LAPD arrest stats. The Auto-Track computer system shot them ten prior addresses. They had his wife’s and ex-wife’s stats. He married the ex in ’62. He lived in West L.A. in ’65. They had stats on his kids and kid brother. The “Family Index” ran 100 pages. It tallied prior addresses and driving records. It listed other people living at old addresses. Mr. X had a son and a daughter. The son was clean. The daughter had busts: dope/theft/prostitution.

The case hinged on the print. The case would build off X-MAN’S denial. No, I wasn’t in that house. Bullshit, you were.

LAPD print-solved a ’63 case. It went to court four years back. Hollywood Division/fall ’63. Male killer/female vic.

They ran unknown prints. They utilized CODUS. They got a match. The man lived in Minnesota. He denied his presence in the pad. He claimed navy duty then. Navy records disproved it. A jury convicted him.

The print was it. The confrontation would goose a reaction. We’ll make sure his wife is gone. We’ll brace him alone. We’ll hook him in slow. We’ll bring a search warrant.

Dave was writing the warrant now. It was detailed and legalistic. They were looking for this:

Personal records. Vehicle records—late ’50s to late ’60s. Firearms and ammo. Docs describing X-Man’s size on 8/5/65. Photos of X-Man in a blue uniform. Mason cord or photos of X-Man with same. Docs establishing X-Man’s whereabouts on 8/5/65. Docs establishing connections to the Gorman family. Photos, film, or video depicting violence against women. Pornography depicting women posed in restraints.

The approach ran tripartite. The print/the warrant search/ X-Man’s reaction and/or denial. George Iwasaki was dead. Age would alter X-Man’s looks. Eyeball wits were out.

Dave and Tim were swamped. Breaking jobs swarmed their Gorman commitment. Dave worked the warrant part-time. Other work diverted him. He buzzed through Rape Special. He passed the wall tableau. He always said, “Sorry, Stephanie.”

I STUCK AROUND L. A . I cruised the Gorman house a.m. and p.m. I read the file. I explored Dave S.’s jive story and exemption. I thought about Stephanie. I brought flowers to her grave. I pondered the “Laura” syndrome.

The book and movie define it. Homicide cops dig the gestalt. The title woman is lovely and perplexing. She’s a murder vic. A cop works her case. Laura’s portrait seduces him. She turns up alive. The vic is someone else. Laura and the cop fall in love.

It’s ridiculous wish fulfillment. It negates the hold of the dead. They inhabit your blank spaces. They work magic there. They freeze time. They render our short time spans boldly precious. They build alternative memory. Their public history becomes your private reserve. They induce a mix of vindictiveness and compassion. They enforce moral resolve. They teach you to love with a softer touch and fear and revere your obsessions.

My obsessions were born in 1958. “Son, your mother’s been killed” and the upshot. She was my first untouchable crush. Stephanie was a daughter or a prom date. She’s dancing out of a shroud. I don’t know her. I can feel her. She’s twirling. She’s showing off her prom gown. I can smell her corsage.

DAVE AND TIM built the warrant. They planned their questions and signals. They brought Orange County cops in. Two agencies conferred. A judge signed the warrant. X-Man’s ex lived in Riverside County. They planned a dual approach. Dave and Tim would brace X-Man. Two cops would brace the ex. She was with X-Man in ’65. She might know some stuff.

The date was set: 1/23/01.

I went home. My wife and I talked about Stephanie and digressed ourselves hoarse. I reveled in Helen’s brilliance and flesh-and-blood life.

We rented Bye Bye Birdie. We scanned the crowd scenes. We couldn’t spot Stephanie. Rick and I talked long-distance. Rick was happy. LAPD was forming a Cold Case Squad. It was all oldies/24-7. Rick, Dave, and Tim were set to start.

Fuck happy. Rick was thrilled. Time travel unlimited.

I rented Pollyanna. I saw Stephanie.

She was ten or eleven. She stood on a bandstand stage right. Hayley Mills sang “America the Beautiful.” A line of girls flanked her. They all wore the Stars and Stripes.

There’s Stephanie—alive and in color. She’s a child on the safe side of sex. Her eyes dart. The moment flusters her. Her hair was lighter then. She’s got hazel-brown eyes like me.

I hit Rewind and Fast Forward. I did it x-dozen times. I watched her. I caught every breath. I filled some blank spaces up.

THE BRACE WENT DOWN. It clicked like clockwork.

Two units in place. Bam—X-Man’s wife leaves early. Dave and Tim walk up.

They’re nervous. They’ve got butterflies like Godzilla. They’ve got badges and IDs out. They knock on the door. X-Man opens up.

He’s friendly. He’s not flustered. They mention an old murder. He doesn’t clench up.

He invites them in. They all sit down. He appears befuddled— old murder, huh?

Dave and Tim start to explain. X-Man cuts them off.

That 16-year-old girl, right? I remember that. I was across the street. I was at a friend’s house.

The sister ran over. My friend was a doctor. He wasn’t in then. I ran over to help. I saw the body. The cops came. The cops shooed me out.

Oh, fuck—

He came off credible. He came off true. He smiled. He betrayed no nerves. The boom didn’t drop.

Dave quizzed him. X-Man responded. The doc and wife— alive and well. Yeah, we’re still in touch.

There’s the boom. It fell on you. Oh shit, we’re fuck—

They schmoozed up X-Man. His credibility held. They said good-bye and walked out.

They found the doctor. They braced him. They braced his wife concurrent. They backed X-Man up.

Heartbreaker/square one again/fluke fingerprint/months trashed and fucked.

Dave called and told me. He described “the worst day of my life.” I reran Pollyanna. I cued Stephanie up.

It’s over. It’s not over. It’s been a year plus. Closure is nonsense. Nothing this bad ever ends. The killer is crucial and irrelevant. He knew Stephanie for ten minutes. He never loved her. His memories are brutal and suspect.

Baby, who were you? How would you grow and who would you love? Did you know you’d touch driven men and teach them?

You’ve got torchbearers. Three detectives and one chronicler. We want to know you. It’s a pursuit. It’s a likelier outcome than justice.

We’re spinning our wheels. It doesn’t matter. We get glimpses. You’re twirling in your prom gown. Color us devoted. Color you gone.