This is sweet! Hey, guys, you should get some masks too. We can use them all those times we violate our oaths to protect and serve.
Above: a Los Angeles Police Department detective models a mask that had been worn by mafia associate Barbara Graham, who had been involved with criminals Emmett Perkins and Jack Santo in the murder of a woman named Mabel Monahan, then snitched on by mafia underling Baxter Shorter, who knew about the crime. When Perkins and Santo found they’d been ratted out, they killed Shorter too—presumably. He disappeared and was never found. He appears below behind the question mark. In the course of investigating his disappearance, cops located and searched Graham’s El Monte home, and found the above mask. We recommend one like it be used in a new horror franchise. It’s even better than Jason Voorhees’ hockey mask.
No sadness, no pain, no moment too intimate kept mid-century photo-journalists from their appointed intrusions.
This poignant photo, made during the era when police stations gave free rein to news photographers and arrested citizens had no privacy rights, shows a couple snared during a police raid on South Coronado Street, in the MacArthur Park area of Los Angeles. Barbara Graham comforts her handcuffed boyfriend Edward Timmons in a holding room, as a Los Angeles Examiner lensman documents their tender moment. The image, while claimed by various photo media websites, actually belongs to the University of Southern California digital collection of Los Angeles Examiner negatives. It was made today in 1958.
We’ve dug deep into the archives today for a magazine we bought about ten years ago, back when we were writing a lot about historical crimes. We stopped because all the online newspapers we used for research got locked behind Newspapers.com’s pay interface, but we still have some crime magazines sitting around. Above you see a January 1950 cover of Uncensored Detective featuring lovers/killers Martha Beck and Ray Fernandez, who were convicted of murdering a lonely window and her toddler daughter, and ended up dying in the electric chair at Sing Sing Prison. Juries tend to look with particular disfavor upon child murderers, but especially when the method is to swing the kid by her feet in order to shatter her skull against a brick wall. Few mourned when Beck and Fernandez met their fate. We have about twenty-five scans from the magazine below.
Google Street View camera records man moving a carpet—er, we mean a corpse.
The surveillance state scored a major propaganda win this week in the northern Spanish village of Tajueco when a Google Street View camera recorded a man arranging a suspicious parcel in the trunk of his car. The recording led to his arrest for murder, as the parcel turned out to be the body of Jorge Luis Pérez Ochandarena, who had dropped off the radar a year ago. Police had managed no progress in what was considered a missing persons case, though suspicions of foul play had been raised back then by Ochandarena’s cousin, who said he received text messages supposedly from Ochandarena saying he was leaving Spain and would not return.
He didn’t return, right enough. At least not in whole. Allegedly, Ochandarena’s ex-wife conspired with her new lover Manuel Isla Gallardo to murder Ochandarena, dismember him, and bury him in the cemetery of an adjacent village. Our first thought was that Gallardo should have looked both ways before moving a corpse from house to car, but then we figured, well, human bodies can be awkward to move, so once you break cover with it you’re probably committed no matter what happens next. Gallardo doubtless heard a car coming and we imagine he did two things: first, crap himself copiously; and second: continue to casually load his grisly cargo.
Actually, he probably did a third thing, which was double-take at the Street View car, which we bet he’d never seen the like of before. If you haven’t seen one, they look like this:
As a pulp site we first have to see this from the murderer’s perspective. What a fucking bummer. Whether or not Gallardo had seen a Street View car before, there would be no mistaking what it was doing. He had to know he was screwed. His best hope was that whatever photos or video had been taken ended up in the digital equivalent of the artifact warehouse in Raiders of the Lost Ark, forgotten forever. Next best hope: the data is uploaded without actual human supervision, and his cadaver-loading star turn sits in Google’s Street View interface unremarked upon by users. No such luck.
In a vintage crime novel Gallardo might have been fine, but in our locked-down digital reality he was toast with jamón iberico. It took a year, but he was done the moment that car turned down the street. We could go into the usual surveillance warnings after a tale like this, but that horse bolted from the barn and disappeared over a distant hill ages ago. New York City has 124,000 surveillance cameras. London has 627,000. Shenzhen has two million. And everybody with a front stoop has a doorbell cam. They’re Orwell’s three-hundred million people all with the same face. But Tajueco, we’re willing to bet, had virtually no cameras. Yet on that day,
on that dusty backstreet, at that precise moment—boom. The driver reported nothing; the camera saw all. And to add irony to insult, Google hadn’t photographed the streets of tiny Tajueco—full time population fifty-six—since 2009.
Since surveillance is pervasive, we guess an argument could be made that it’s really no big deal to be recorded outdoors, indoors, every time you ring a doorbell, every time you go online, and even—many times—when you use your appliances. And sometimes, yes, unambiguously good things happen. Like when a killer is caught, and victims are avenged. Big Brother is here to help you. So is Big Mother, Little Sister, Casual Acquaintance, and Nosy Neighbor. Don’t do anything wrong, and you’ll be fine—usually. Just remember to keep a fully updated, officially vetted, notarized list of what qualifies as wrong, and don’t be surprised how expansive and mundane the index of violations eventually becomes.
Above: another shot from the Los Angeles Police Department Archives. There’s no info about what happened here, but if we had to speculate, because the knife has no blood on it, we bet the dead man tried to defend himself against an assailant and failed. We’re sharing the photo mainly because we think it has an interesting composition. It was made today in 1950.
Hey, buddy! You can't be dead here. We have a zero-tolerance policy toward lifelessness in this city.
This image shows the body of New York City gangster David Beadle, aka the Beetle, outside the Spot tavern in Manhattan, where he was gunned down by men who emerged from a passing taxi. Beadle took at least a few bullets in the head and died instantly. As gangsters go he wasn’t very high in the rackets, but his fame surpassed his stature posthumously because Arthur Fellig, aka Weegee, photographed his corpse. Another shot appears below, and you can see how back then the integrity of crime scenes was a malleable concept. Changes between the shots include the sheet, the position of Beadle’s hands, and the arrangement of debris in the gutter.
And in fact, the top shot shows Weegee himself, seeming to make an adjustment to the corpse, possibly to make for a more pleasingly composed shot. The first photo, therefore, was made by an unknown, though it’s often credited to Weegee. He made the second shot himself. Most of his archive, including these, reside at NYC’s International Center of Photography, to which Weegee’s longtime companion and caretaker Wilma Wilcox donated 16,000 photos and 7,000 negatives, as well as transferring all copyrights, in 1993. You can see many of them at the Center’s website here.
Everyone always said booze would be the death of him.
Above is another photo borrowed from the archives of the Los Angeles Police Museum, and which appeared in James Ellroy’s 2004 photo book Destination: Morgue! It was made in Los Angeles on Crenshaw Boulevard and Santa Monica Avenue (now Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd) today in 1953, and shows a man who died while attempting a liquor store robbery. The robber was former marine who was armed, but based on the fact that he was wearing a white Panama hat, may have decided on the heist spontaneously. Unfortunately, the store had been robbed the night before and the proprietor was on alert. He fired a gun through the door, was on target with a head shot (as the blood indicates), and the thief was dropped in his tracks, with his slick Panama at his side.
The crowd here interests us. We know it happens whevener someone dies in public, but we’ve never understand this impulse at all. Once in San Salvador PSGP happened upon a guy who’d just been shot in the head. It was an almost identical scene, except there was no hat and no sheet. While he glanced in passing—just long enough to note the blood mixed with swirls of white ooze running down the warm asphalt—he felt no urge to stand around and gawk. Another time, in Guatemala, he happened upon a man freshly beaten to death and he continued on his sweet way then too. On the other hand, maybe sharing this image on a website constitutes a form of staring. That might be worth discussion, though he says that in this context the photo is used for historical education and cultural critique. Maybe so.
This photo from the Las Vegas Review-Journal shows stripper Juanita Hardy, whose real name was Christine Marlow, and she’s in the process or has just finished the process of being charged with mayhem by the Las Vegas police. She’d gotten into a fight with another dancer named Doreen Manos at the Embassy Club, where they worked. Marlow was missing twenty dollars and blamed Manos; Manos had a damaged costume and blamed Marlow. When interviewed by the Los Angeles Times days later, Marlow explained, “[Manos] said something. I said something. She hit me in the mouth and then someone parted us.” Oh. Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. And, Marlow added, “I bit her in the ear.” Oh. That doesn’t sound so good.
Some accounts say Marlow went well beyond a bite and actually Tysoned poor Manos, costing her a chunk of flesh. Others say she chewed Manos’s ear clean off—though we have no idea how they know that. We suspect it’s internet hyperbole. Does Marlow look like someone who’d chew another person’s ear entirely off? Hmm. Well… maybe. That smile, now that we look closer, is a bit worrisome, isn’t it? It’s potentially the smile of someone who would have rival strippers buried in the back yard.
Anyway, she was supposed to appear in court after her arrest but instead up and left Vegas. Said Marlow, “My act was over and my contract was at an end, so I changed into street clothes, put my things in the car and drove back home.” Well, the Vegas cops issued an extradition order and two fellas from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department showed up at Marlow’s house, arrested her again, and booked her on fugitive charges. We can’t find out what happened after that, as this is another of those historical anecdotes that requires more newspaper scans to be uploaded for its resolution to be known, but even without an ending it was a mandatory story for our website because there’s virtually nothing more pulp than two strippers fighting.
Oh, you said a straight line? I misheard you. Let me start over.
Once again you have to marvel that it was legal for press photographers to intrude on crime scenes, criminal trials, and—now it seems—traffic stops. You see the evidence above. An unidentified woman is put through the paces of a sobriety check by a Los Angeles patrolman, and it looks to us like the shots capture a spectacular failure. Either that or she’s busting into “The Night They Invented Champagne” from the musical Gigi. She was arrested either way—for drunkenness or flippancy—and presumably had hours of idle time in a drunk tank to ponder the error of her ways. That happened today in 1958.
This photo which was made by an LAPD crime scene photographer today in 1953 seems to show a murder victim, but the subject actually committed suicide. We guess that’s self-murder, but whatever, it’s an amazingly chaotic result. While it’s from the LAPD archvies, it was included in James Ellroy’s 2015 photo retrospective LAPD ’53. We have a copy and it’s worth a look for fans of the macabre. There isn’t much information on the photos—mostly they say merely “dead body” or “crime scene.” Ellroy instead discusses his own literary output, opines about film noir, shares anecdotes and musings about various Hollywood figures, recounts episodes from his youth, and occasionally lets himself be pulled down dark time warps he describes as “magical memory.” A typical example is his imaginary story of being at L.A.’s Club Alabam.
Charlie “Yardbird” Parker is bleating, blatting, honking and hiccuping “A Night in Tunisia.” Reefer smoke hangs humid. The music is decadently discordant. It’s the sock-it-to-me sonics of interminable chord changes off a recognizable main theme. It’s music for cultured cognoscenti that Bill Parker [LAPD Chief at the time] cannot acknowledge.
It takes brains and patience to groove the gist of this shit. It’s the musical equivalent of the chaos Bill Parker deplores. Five-year-old Ellroy is there, watching the Bird take flight. Everybody’s chain-smoking unfiltered Camels. The place is one big corroded iron lung. I’ve got a spike in my arm, I’m orbiting on Big “H,” I knew I’d write the text for this book one day, so I’ve got my voyeur’s cap on.
Interesting, no? Ellroy’s writing these days resides permanently on a razor’s edge, as he ties together crime, politics, and alpha male ultraviolence. He seems to us the perfect transgressive guide for LAPD ’53‘s tour through disaster and death for two reasons. First, he isn’t just an observer—he was a one-man terror show in his own right, engaging in petty crime through his youth, joining the American Nazi Party in high school, and generally leaving chaos in his wake. He waves this period away as a cry for attention. His fame and teflon persona have facilitated this dismissal, and that’s the second reason he’s a good choice for the book: other people pay dearly for indiscretions far less severe, like the universe has played a terrible joke on them. Ellroy’s fiction has always explored such cosmic inexplicability. He makes LAPD ’53 an experience.
German film director and actor Erich von Stroheim, who as an actor was noted for his arrogant Teutonic character parts which led him to become a renowned cinematic villain with the nickname “The Man You Love to Hate”, dies in Maurepas, France at the age of 71.
1960—Adolf Eichmann Is Captured
In Buenos Aires, Argentina, four Israeli Mossad agents abduct fugitive Nazi Adolf Eichmann, who had been living under the assumed name and working for Mercedes-Benz. Eichman is taken to Israel to face trial on 15 criminal charges, including crimes against humanity and war crimes. He is found guilty and executed by hanging in 1962, and is the only person to have been executed in Israel on conviction by a civilian court.
2010—Last Ziegfeld Follies Girl Dies
Doris Eaton Travis, who was the last surviving Ziegfeld Follies chorus girl, dies at age 106. The Ziegfeld Follies were a series of elaborate theatrical productions on Broadway in New York City from 1907 through 1931. Inspired by the Folies Bergères of Paris, they enjoyed a successful run on Broadway, became a radio program in 1932 and 1936, and were adapted into a musical motion picture in 1946 starring Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Lucille Ball, and Lena Horne.
1924—Hoover Becomes FBI Director
In the U.S., J. Edgar Hoover is appointed director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, a position he retains until his death in 1972. Hoover is credited with building the FBI into a large and efficient crime-fighting agency, and with instituting a number of modern innovations to police technology, such as a centralized fingerprint file and forensic laboratories. But he also used the agency to grind a number of personal axes and far exceeded its legal mandate to amass secret files on political and civil rights leaders. Because of his abuses, FBI directors are now limited to 10-year terms.
1977—Joan Crawford Dies
American actress Joan Crawford, who began her show business career as a dancer in traveling theatrical companies, but soon became one of Hollywood’s most prominent movie stars and one of the highest paid women in the United States, dies of a heart attack at her New York City apartment while ill with pancreatic cancer.
1949—Rainier Becomes Prince of Monaco
In Monaco, upon the death of Prince Louis II, twenty-six year old Rainier Louis Henri Maxence Bertrand Grimaldi, aka Rainier III, is crowned Prince of Monaco. Rainier later becomes an international household name by marrying American cinema sweetheart Grace Kelly in 1956.
1950—Dianetics is Published
After having told a gathering of science fiction writers two years earlier that the best way to become a millionaire was to start a new religion, American author L. Ron Hubbard publishes Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health. The book is today one of the canonical texts of Scientology, referred to as “Book One”, and its publication date serves as the first day of the Scientology calendar, making today the beginning of year 52 AD (After Dianetics).
