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Detective Sgt. Joe Wambaugh gets in trouble for writing a book. Nov. 18, 1970.
Part 1
Part 2 
Part 3
Here's the August 1955 article from Whisper magazine referred to in my earlier post on Ronnie Quillan (thank you, EBay). Quillan actually provided the information for this story, so we have to assume it was at least somewhat accurate. In reading this sleazy, vicious account, it's no wonder the scandal magazines got shut down.
I am not familiar with the name Patricia Hirsch, who is mentioned as a prostitute. However, a woman by that name pleaded guilty to vice charges in 1954 after being arrested in Malibu, according to The Times. And I cannot locate anything on Frank Harwyn Vanderveld II.
The saddest thing, of course, is Quillan's disintegration. A tragic Hollywood tale.
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July 6, 1957
Teenagers' magazines are a comparatively new fad. But in spite of their
recent arrival, they have already grabbed a strong position of
influence. And respect. Yesterday, I printed some letters written to
Lilly Cooper, Dig magazine's problem editor.
They were written by teenagers. But they couldn't be printed in the
periodical, even though it is published specifically for that age group.
The letters were too "hot." Too many parents would complain.
Yet, Miss Cooper asks hesitantly whether the type of adult who objects
to such letters might often be the type responsible for them.
"So many kids have turned to us--complete strangers--for answers to their most serious problems," Miss Cooper tells me.
"Why us? Why not their parents or someone else in their communities?"
The answer might be found in some of the letters.
Here's one from a 16-year-old schoolgirl:
"My rep has been marred by an 18-year-old boy whom I met in the next town.
"I dated him quite a while.
"One night he started something which I told him would have to stop even though I loved him. And he agreed.
"But it happened again and I couldn't stop him.
"Well, now I'm going to have a baby and he just won't marry me.
"He got some other guys to say that they had done it, too, so he wouldn't be responsible.
"Could you help me. Please!"
Try this one, from Judy:
"Just finished reading your article about teenage spankings.
"I envy the kids who just get spankings or simple punishment. Have them
try getting pushed up against the wall, choking around the neck and
punched in the face, stomach and chest with a fist.
"Or for simple punishment, a beating with a thick belt.
"That's what happens to me, a 16-year-old girl, by my father. Maybe I
deserve it. I don't know and care less. I've had it for so long I just
don't feel anything any more."
In the two weeks' collection of problem letters which Miss Cooper showed me, the majority were from pregnant girls.
One, however, was from a young boy suffering perverted sexual urges. He
couldn't face his father or his priest, he admitted, "because they
think too much of me."
A 15-year-old wrote that she accidentally discovered pornographic pictures and literature in her parents' bedroom.
"I felt like screaming when I read it because my father's name was
actually used in the literature. I just stood and cried and shook all
over."
The most pathetic letter, however, came from Jane:
"I have never turned to anyone before and still don't know who to go to for help.
"I'm only 16 1/2 and a junior in high school, but since I was 12 I've been falling downward.
"When I started going out with boys I looked for any kind of affection. You see, no one ever told me to be careful.
"I saw no harm in what I was doing. I knew nothing about life or sex.
My name became bad, of course, and my girlfriends and schoolmates
avoided me. I couldn't understand why!
"Now 15, I started going with servicemen, older boys, fellows out of town. I began to drink. Almost every weekend I was drunk.
"Then I began going with a 'cat' from the big city. I was accepted into a large gang AFTER I proved I could smoke dope.
"Thank God I've avoided 'H' and mainlining.
"I really live two lives--my home and school life and my outside life.
I've hurt so many boys, good clean-cut guys that happen to fall in love
with me. I would take money from them, make them take me here and there
and then bow out.
"Yes, I guess I'm just no good.
"My mother tries hard to make things nice for me by buying me records,
clothes, etc. You just can't buy love and affection, though.
"My dad is a drinker and goes a bit crazy sometimes. He's put us both in the hospital from time to time.
"I'm trying my best to be as polite as possible and write as best I can
and use the best English. I could lengthen this by all the laws I've
broken but I only want to give you enough of a picture of me to help me
out.
"Lilly, I think I'm very sick emotionally.
"If you can't help me, please, please tell me who could."
The letters I used were just average. There were dozens more like them.
Apparently the kids who wrote them knew no adult--parents, friend, neighbor--in whom they felt they could confide with trust.
The reflection is on us--and the image isn't pretty.
[Note: These teenagers are in their 60s now. I wonder what their lives were like and whether they overcame the pain of their early years. I certainly hope so. --lrh.]
July 6, 1957
Los Angeles
Oh this is a painful moment on the Mirror's comics page. I was always a big fan of Gus Arriola and "Gordo,"
which I read for many years. The strips are beautifully drawn and the Aztec motifs are wonderful. But I certainly don't recall the dialect. Ouch!
Arriola was a former MGM
animator and here's what he had to say about the strip:
The early Gordos were very stereotypical, yes, and the dialogue was very broken English. A couple of editors started complaining that it was hard to read, and salesmen said it was difficult
to sell. So little by little I began clearing up the dialogue and cleaning up the characters myself in order to appeal to a wider audience.
And then I saw this: Ack!!!!
"Gordo" is a model of sensitivity compared to "Lil' Pedro." I can't find any information about the
artist or the strip. I can only imagine the reaction of my old pal Rudy
Wagner, who became furious whenever he discussed the lawn statues of a
Mexican sleeping against a cactus.
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The stats for my blog allow me to see the search terms people use to
reach the Daily Mirror. I never realized there were so many people
interested in Mickey Cohen. There are quite a few false hits and some
interesting queries.
To the person researching Jack Webb's "-30-":
Despite what you may have read or heard, the movie was not filmed in
the Examiner Building (this was lore for many years at The Times among
former Her-Exers). Webb built an exact duplicate on a sound stage. He
did this for "Dragnet" too.
To the person researching Gamblers Anonymous: I hope you found what you needed.
And to whoever is researching "little girl lost intestines in swimming pool"--I am at a loss for words.
At right, the VHS box for "-30-" Kids! Don't Play Here!
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Photographs by the Los Angeles Times
Sgt. C.H. Specht examines damage to Jan's Restaurant, 8424 Beverly Blvd., caused by Gail Russell's convertible.
Below right, Russell fails a test for intoxication administered by Specht.
July 6, 1957
Los Angeles
You poor thing. Look at you lying there, probably for a couple days
now, sealed off from the world in a little home on the Westside.
No husband, no children and no career. Just an empty vodka bottle on
the floor and you sprawled next to it in a blouse and the pants from
your pajamas. Dead at 35. Your mother wanted you to have the career she
never had. I'm sure she didn't realize you weren't cut out to be a
movie star; so tightly wound and such a painfully shy, insecure bundle
of nerves.
Let's go back 20 years to 1941, when you were
studying to be an artist and someone started calling you "the Hedy
Lamarr of Santa Monica High." How you hated that nickname and kept
apologizing for it, so embarrassed that when you finally ran into
Lamarr volunteering one night at the Hollywood Canteen you looked the
other way.
You said: "We
lived first in Chicago, came gypsying to California. When my family
first came here it was a vacation, really. Then we put a down payment
on a house and a down payment on some furniture. My brother went into
the Army and one by one pieces of furniture went. "When I was
discovered for the movies I was sleeping on the living room floor on
newspapers. I went for my first interview with paint all over my
face--I'd been helping paint a room at the technical school. Paramount
offered me a minimum salary--$50 a week--and Mom said, 'Take it, we
need the money.' " (Below right, Russell with Richard Lyon and Nona Griffith in 1944 after their juvenile movie contracts were approved). 
"Mother practically dragged me in to see
William Meiklejohn, supervisor of talent and casting at Paramount, who
had tracked me down at University [Santa Monica] High School. I was
petrified. Mr. Meiklejohn, a kindly man, kept trying to get me to talk,
but nothing would come out. "For my first test they put me into
an evening gown. I had never even worn high heels before--or makeup of
any kind. To say I was self-conscious is understatement plus. A week
later they cast me in a Henry Aldrich picture, wearing a bathing suit
and a transparent raincoat. It had been raining and there was a large
puddle across from the studio commissary where the scene was to be
shot. Of course they had to do it just as the sets broke for lunch and
such stars as Alan Ladd, Bing Crosby and others were passing by. "There
I was trying to speak my lines while holding an umbrella which kept
slipping from my nervous fingers. To this day I refuse all bathing suit
scenes in public or private." For one audition at
Paramount, they put you in the fishbowl, a glass booth lit so that the
actor couldn't see who was outside watching.
Below right, a studio publicity shot, 1949.
"My
coach accompanied me and we read the script together. Then he excused
himself. There I stood, sat, or something, for 10 minutes waiting for
him to return. Finally they turned on the outside lights and to my
horror I saw 15 executives filing away one by one. I frantically tried
to remember what I had done those 10 minutes. What an experience! "I
started out weighing 125 pounds," you said of making "The Uninvited,"
then I was rushed to New York for the opening. When I got back I
weighed 106--all in two months. Everything was that way, rush...
rush... rush... So many pictures one after another. I tried to be a
nice guy and took on too many things and didn't take care of my health." You nerves got so bad that you spoiled one take after another.
"I
have hand trouble. Unconsciously I clasp my hands and then start
wringing them. It's getting to be a gag now on the set. Director John
Farrow ("Calcutta" and "The Night Has a Thousand Eyes") had a stock
line to deliver every time my hands wouldn't behave. It was, 'Hands,
Gail, cut.' They finally tied my hands to my sides with
handkerchiefs."
Then there was "The Angel and the Badman," the first of the movies you made with John Wayne.
A few years later when his wife, Esperanza, sued for divorce, she
testified that she nearly shot him when he broke into their home the
next morning after spending the night with you. She also said he gave
you a car, although he claimed it was only the down payment.
Russell and defense lawyer Harvey Silbert in 1953, when she pleaded not guilty to drunk driving.
You
and Wayne testified that there was no relationship between you. But
your first arrest for drunk driving was only a few weeks later, Nov.
24, 1953, about the time your marriage to Guy Madison was unraveling. By the next year, you were in such bad shape that your lawyer wanted the trial held in your hospital room.
In 1955, you drove off after rear-ending a car in North Hollywood. And then you plowed into Jan's Restaurant, 8424 Beverly Blvd., at 4 a.m. on the Fourth of July, 1957 and pinned the janitor under your new convertible.
You said: "I had a few drinks. I had two. No four. Oh, I don't know how many I had. It's nobody's business anyway."
Russell, age 31, in 1956.
In
August 1957, you ended up in General Hospital's prison ward when two
officers found you passed out after you failed to appear for a hearing
in the drunk driving case.
You tried so hard to beat the
bottle. You joined A.A. and spent a year in a clinic. "It was so lonely
in the hospital in that oxygen tent for three months with no one to
talk to except the Man Upstairs," you said. "I had long talks with
Him--that's the reason I'm here today."
Russell and an unidentified man, presumably attorney Rexford Eagan, for another court hearing in 1958. She is 32 in this photograph. Note her dilated pupils.
And then for the last eight months of your life, you sealed yourself up in your home at 1436 Bentley Ave.,
and sketched and painted and drank until the place was full of art and
empty liquor bottles. You wouldn't even open the door for the
neighbors, just talked to them through the window. Your sister-in-law
phoned every day in the week before you died. You told her you were
painting and sketching and planning to get back into acting.
Your
sister-in-law will say: "She was really, really and truly trying to
stop drinking. It was tragic because she was so talented and suffering
so much. If she had enjoyed drinking it would have been something
else--but she didn't. No matter what they say about Hollywood, the
people there were always wonderful to her through the long years she
had her problems. She always got through when she made a call and
anybody who ever worked with her always believed in her." You once told Hedda Hopper: "I've learned you can't satisfy everyone. You start and then, all of a sudden, it stops and you can't even please yourself."
You'll get a private service at Valhalla Memorial Park in North Hollywood and be buried next to your father. Some of your old co-stars will be there: Alan Ladd, Jimmy "Henry Aldrich" Lydon, Diana Lynn and Mona Freeman. No sign of John Wayne, though. Or Guy Madison.
Rest in peace, Gail Russell Moseley, 1925-1961
Here's "The Angel and the Badman" on Google video.
Bonus fact: Jan's is still in business.
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July 5, 1957
Lilly Cooper is an average, mature woman.
But she has one quality which separates her from the rest of us older, wiser inhabitants of the world.
She is neither amused nor annoyed by teenage melodramatics.
Instead, she has a true sympatico for them. Because Lilly Cooper probably knows more about our kids than we ourselves do.
One of her jobs is that of "problem" columnist for the teenager magazine Dig.
The magazine has a readership of close to a million and every month
Miss Cooper prints answers to subscribers' letters dealing with
personal difficulties.
The printed problems involve dating, troubles at home or in school, employment and similar subjects.
But they're not the ones which bother Miss Cooper.
The ones which disturb her are those she can't print--without the risk
of stimulating the wrath of hundreds of adults. (And, from letters
received by the magazine, it's obvious that many parents browse through
it too.)
Her mailbox is full every day.
There is correspondence from girls, 12 and 13 years old, who are
pregnant. From married girls who want to know where babies come from.
From others who want explanations of the invisible, often arbitrary
barriers of religion or race.
"Yet," Miss Cooper told me, "they write to me--a complete stranger--with the most intimate details."
Miss Cooper asked me to run a few of the letters she couldn't print.
"To let adults know that teenager melodramatics have a base.
"And to let them decide the cause for themselves."
I will, today and tomorrow.
The letters are quite basic. I'm sorry if they offend you--Unless, of
course, they offend you into positive, constructive thought.
From Judy:
"I'm 15 and I'm going to have a baby in two months.
"My boyfriend and I were engaged, and one night we just went too far. We were going to be married and he got drafted.
"I just wrote him about the baby last month.
"What can I do, he's overseas and can't come back to marry me for four
more months. By then the baby will be born and without a father.
"Oh, I'm so worried, please, I love him so much, and he wants the baby as much as I do."
From Louise:
"I am a sophomore at high school and a girl of 16.
"I come from an average family with wonderful parents. I am dating a
boy 20 years old. But because he's a Mexican I have to lie to Mother
and Dad to be with him.
"I hate to do things behind their backs. What would you suggest?
"Do you think it's proper for a white girl to date a Mexican?
"Three other girlfriends of mine are in the same boots. And we could use all the information possible."
From Harriet:
"I am 19 years old and have been married six weeks. Now I am pregnant.
"I was wondering if you would tell me how a baby is born and how they start us nursing.
"My mother would never tell me and my doctor just died.
"So you see it is important for me to know this."
From Jane:
"I do have a problem.
"Kenny and I are very much in love. I am just turned 17 and he is 18.
My family don't like him and have forbidden me to see him because he
has been in jail and had a lot of trouble.
"He is trying to stay out of trouble and has for over a year and a half.
"But a month ago I found out I'm pregnant and Tony's [cq--lrh] the father.
"He told me to tell my parents but someone said they could charge him with rape.
"He has a job and is setting aside for the baby and our future. He can't afford any more trouble.
"Please tell us what to do for the future of ourselves and our baby.
"They won't give consent to our marriage. So we can't get married till we're of age."
It's melodrama, possibly, but it's more gnawing than annoying.
Certainly, it's not amusing.
I wouldn't ask anyone to do something I wouldn't try myself, so here's
Route 5 of the Auto Club's commuting survey from 1957. It's not an
entirely fair test since I made the trip on a Saturday morning, but it
was an interesting experience all the same.
Photographs by Larry Harnisch The Los Angeles Times
Washington and Lincoln boulevards, Venice. 10:51 a.m.
Washington and Centinela Avenue, 10:53 a.m.
Washington and Grand View Boulevard, 10:53 a.m.
Washington and Sepulveda Boulevard, 10:56 a.m.
Random shot--King Fahd Mosque 
Washington and Elenda Street, 10:58 a.m.
Washington and Overland Avenue, 10:59 a.m.
Washington and Ince Boulevard, 11:02 a.m.
Washington and National Boulevard, 11:03 a.m.
Washington and La Cienega Boulevard, 11:05 a.m.
Washington and Adams Boulevard, 11:05 a.m.
Adams and Redondo Boulevard, 11:07 a.m.
Adams and 8th Avenue, 11:10 a.m.
Adams and Arlington Avenue, 11:12 a.m.
Adams and Western Avenue, 11:13 a.m.
Adams and Normandie Avenue, 11:15 a.m.
Adams and Hoover Street, 11:17 a.m.
Auto Club of Southern California, Adams and Figueroa, 11:19 a.m.
Random shot
I wish I'd gotten a shot of the Helms Bakery, but it went by too fast.
Total time, 1957: 30 minutes (rush hour)
Total time, 2007: 28 minutes (weekend)
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The west San Fernando Valley's tinderbox goes up in flames--again.
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July 5, 1957
Los Angeles
What we have is a dead woman and a man who says he strangled
her--except he doesn't remember it. Or he did remember it and then he
forgot.
No, it doesn't make any sense.
Her name was Ruth Lucero de la O. She was 35 and lived with her three children at 12812 Waltham Ave.,
Baldwin Park. The husband, Albert, 42, a foundry worker, moved out a
year ago because "she had too many men friends." He lives at 1020 W.
91st St.
This is what supposedly happened early Wednesday, July 3, 1957.
Ruth is sitting in the living room reading a magazine. Her 15-year-old
son Jerry comes home about 11 p.m., July 2, 1957, talks to his mother
and goes to bed. His younger sister, Amelia, 13, is spending the night
with a friend. The youngest girl, Marguerite, 5, is asleep in her
bedroom.
Sometime after 2 a.m., the Sheriff's Department gets a call from Jerry,
who is hysterical. "There's something wrong," he says. "It looks like
Mom is all mangled." Later, Jerry says the sound of a door closing woke
him up, and he thought his mother had gone out so he got up to turn off
the radio.
"I looked out the window and I saw a car. I think it was a 1950 Chevy.
The lights were out and a few minutes later it drove away," he says.
Jerry goes into the living room and finds his mother strangled. The
Times says she was on the floor near the kitchen and was wearing a
light skirt, white blouse and moccasins. The Mirror says she was fully
dressed, bent backward over an overstuffed chair. The volume on the
radio was turned up high.
"Her hands were behind her and she was all bent over," Jerry says.
According to the medical examiner, Dr. Frederick Newbarr, she may have
been struck on the head and then strangled by someone who approached
her from behind.
"Marks on the woman's neck indicated that the assailant's thumbs had
been placed on the back of her neck and the fingers at the front," the
Mirror says. There are scratches on her neck and detectives speculate
that the killer might have been a woman, The Times says.
On July 18, 1957, a mural painter named Wilber A. White, 12721 Salisbury
St., Baldwin Park, told investigators that he killed Ruth. White says
he had been loaning Ruth money since she was separated from her husband
and went to her home to discuss finances. White says she "infuriated
him by talking about his wife," so he "grabbed her by the throat and
then threw her aside," The Times says.
Of course, the medical examiner says she was attacked from behind and
struck on the head before being strangled, so White's story doesn't make much sense.
The next day, sheriff's detectives took White and his wife, Allie, to the
home. White says: "I can't believe it. I know I've done something
terrible but I just can't believe it's possible." Then he told
detectives he couldn't remember the killing. "I can't think," he said.
"I just can't think."
After that, the entire case vanishes from the paper.
What else can we find out? Ruth was born June 15, 1922, in New Mexico.
Her mother's maiden name was Enriquez and her maiden name was Lucero.
No recorded Social Security number. A man named Albert de la O, born
Jan. 6, 1910, in Mexico, died in Los Angeles on Aug. 8, 1979, so I
assume that's the husband.
A man named Wilbur A. White, born May 24, 1917, so he was the same age as the suspect, died in Monterey County in 1964.
Here's a map.
Note that the crime scene is only a little more than three miles from
where the body of Geneva Ellroy was found less than a year later.
Probably a coincidence.
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Happy Fourth of July from the staff of the Daily Mirror!
Through most of World War II, Tom Treanor provided Times readers with
firsthand accounts of the battle against the Axis as his travels took
him to such places as China, South America and Europe.
This is the last story he wrote before being killed Aug. 18, 1944, when
a tank made a turn and struck his jeep on a dusty road outside a French
village that had just been liberated from the Nazis. He lived long
enough to learn that the doctor attending his wounds was from Los
Angeles: Capt. William Werner, 1402 Crenshaw Blvd. Treanor told Werner that
he was sorry he wouldn't be able to cover the liberation of Paris.
Part 1
Part 2
The Times established a journalism fellowship at UCLA in his honor, but
it apparently hasn't been awarded since 1961. He also wrote a book titled "One Damn Thing After Another," published in 1944. Treanor was buried in an Army cemetery near Le Mans.
Other Times writers killed while covering violence include: Dial
Torgerson, Honduras, 1983; Joe Alex Morris Jr., Tehran, 1979; and Ruben
Salazar, East L.A., 1970.
Note: The Times identified the village where Treanor was fatally
injured as "Eront," which cannot be located on any map of France.
Possibly it was Ermont.
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Continue reading Times reporter killed covering war, August 18, 1944 »
July 3, 1957
We have on our hands today a taxpayer in that happy frame of mind known as irate.
He is enraged because he finds himself helpless at fighting City Hall.
Half a dozen years ago he bought a home in the Hollywood Hills. It
wasn't new, but he and his wife envisioned that it could be made into
their dream home.
They put every cent they could spare into modernizing it and worked
like slaves repainting, landscaping and putting in brick walks. They
even went to night school to learn of cabinetwork. It was a labor of
love.
About a year ago, a bulldozer appeared nearby and carved out a ledge on
the hillside and soon there was erected a house sometimes referred to
as "chicken coop modern." It was promptly sold.
A few months later, the same builder put up another and sold it and now a third is under construction.
The indignant homeowner and his neighbors complained about these cheap,
unorthodox homes. They were particularly irked because the builder
seemed able to get away with certain techniques in construction that
they had not.
They learned that the only restriction on building in the section was
that homes must cost not less than $5,000. The ordinance so stating
went into effect in 1923. The law is ridiculously outdated, of course.
You can hardly build a garage today for $5,000.
Here's the angry homeowner's plaint:
"A man who buys a home to live in is at the mercy of these fast-buck
guys who grab up vacant land and build these chicken-coop homes on
speculation. It's beside the point that such houses cause the
neighborhood to decline and run down property values. What is needed
down at City Hall is a new conception of home ownership. It's about
time they rewrote the property and building laws to protect the
homeowner. But he's only the poor chump who gets nicked for every tax
raise. Nothing is ever done for him. He's stuck."
Is that an echo I hear?
THE BEAUTY contest
season is upon us. Everywhere you turn, it seems, smiling girls in
unswimmable swimsuits are parading. Don't get me wrong, I'm not
knocking it.
Once such event was held in a mountain resort a few days ago and as a
bevy--I think the word is bevy--swished past the judges a boy of 5 was
overheard by Lee Austin inquiring in an awed voice:
"Mommy, are you going to do this too?"
THE FLOWERS will
continue to bloom in the spring, the birds will continue to be on the
wing, but things will not be the same up on Mulholland Drive, for lo
these many years a hallowed rendezvous for neckers.
About a week ago, advises Carol Sugar in horror, they put a traffic signal at Mulholland and Beverly Glen Boulevard.
Imagine young couples trying to whisper sweet nothings in the moonlight
as a traffic light winks green, yellow and red at them. It could give
them a complex as if Big Brother were watching.
TRAFFIC casualties are hardly news any more, they're taking for granted--except by the victims and their loved ones.
William DeLair took his wife to an Eastern Star meeting a few nights ago at Masonic Hall on Daly Street.
He was waiting outside for the meeting to end so he could take her home
when he was struck by an auto and killed. In this case the tragedy was
deeper than most. Mrs. DeLair is blind.
MISCELLANY--
Big uproar among the ladies who save Green Stamps. They're discovering
inflation has hit the premiums and for their precious books of stamps
they get, say a two-quart stew pan instead of a three-quart one. . .
Statistic for tomorrow: In 1903, according to the Safety Council, 466
persons were killed by fireworks, 400 in auto crashes. Last year one
person died of fireworks injuries, approximately 40,000 in auto
crashes. . . When the boss returned from his vacation the other day in
a midtown office the help was all wearing black mourning bands on their
sleeves as a gag. He didn't think it was funny.
July 3, 1957
Los Angeles
We complain about traffic all the time. But how much worse is driving in L.A. than it was in 1957?
We can find out.
Best of all, you can help!
You might be surprised by some of the results. I was.
In July 1957, the Auto Club of Southern California announced the results of a survey that
examined commuting times over 17 routes in Los Angeles comparing
freeways and surface streets. The Auto Club praised the freeways for
faster trips and noted that it took less time to get to work in the
morning than to get home in the evening. All distances were measured
from the Auto Club headquarters at 2601 S. Figueroa.
(Travel time was unchanged
between 1936 and 1957 even though the number of cars had tripled,
according to the Auto Club. And commuting was
about to get better because of the new freeways, club officials said).
Here's how you can help: Pick one of the routes, send me your time and I'll post it. Note: All drives in the 1957 survey were conducted during weekdays from 7
a.m. to 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.
In the meantime, I'll be sampling a few of the routes myself. Check back and see how I'm doing. Here's one surprise: So far, driving at off-hours last weekend, I beat the commuting times from 1957 by a few minutes.
Let me say that again: So far, driving at off-hours in 2007 has been FASTER than the commuting times from 1957.
Above right, a freeway wreck and gawkers' block courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department. Note that in 1957, the LAPD had jurisdiction over the local freeways rather than the Highway Patrol.
OK, let me know. I'm eager to hear your experiences!
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 July 2, 1957
You simply have no idea of the hazards of journalism.
The city desk got a call from a woman on East 6th Street who proudly announced that she had become a great-grandmother at 48.
This was indeed unusual and worthy of words, a picture and perhaps a
subsequent appearance on TV, which was probably what great-grandma had
in mind.
Unfortunately, a checkup of the facts disclosed that the new
great-grandchild's mother, 15, hadn't quite received a proposal of
marriage from the father.
July 2, 1957
This is a twist story--a reverse mystery.
I've been presenting, for the past few months, weekly missing persons
cases on file with local sheriffs and police. Each started with a
living, active person, surrounded by apparent normalcy.
Next came the disappearance. And last, the search--into the subject's background, personal habits, likes dislikes, associates.
On investigation, the missing person nearly always becomes a very known quantity.
Today, however, comes the switch.
To start, go back to the afternoon of April 7, 1957, when four boys
were scrambling along the brush incline of the Crestmore Cement Co.
property, three miles west of Riverside.
They were on their way fishing, but their plans met sudden interruption.
They stumbled upon a body. And they went, instead, to the Riverside County sheriff's office.
That was three months ago.
Immediately sheriff's investigators determined that the victim had been
dead about three weeks. And that cause of death was a gunshot blast in
the chest.
Two days later, when enough data had been collected, an emergency all-points bulletin was sent out.
The victim was described as male white American, late 20s or early 30s, 5 feet 10 inches, 160-170 lbs.
It was determined that the victim had brown hair, but the body's
advanced state of decomposition left the color of eyes and complexion
unknown. No discernible scars or moles could be found.
There was also broadcast, however, the description of physical evidence at the scene:
The victim wore a white T-shirt and blue Wrangler pants. He wore socks
but no shoes. Wrapped around his head was a pink military-type shirt. A
bed pillow had been placed on his chest and then the entire body had
been wrapped in a white muslin sheet and a green chenille bedspread.
Brown electric light cord bound his head and feet. A small braided rope was wound around his waist.
So where's the clue?
Riverside sheriff's deputies, directed by Det. Cmdr. Robert Presley, began a patient investigation.
From the start, they knew it would be a tough one.
Clue by clue, they attacked it.
CLOTHING: No laundry marks. In
the pink shirt there was a ballpoint pen with the words "Cisco Ice
Blower Service, Cisco, Tex." A check with the sheriff of Eastland,
Tex., revealed that some 800 similar pens had been distributed by the
company, mostly to truck drivers.
FINGERPRINTS: Lab tests showed that the victim's hands had been encased in cloth containing lye in an effort to destroy prints.
But eight out of 10 prints were established and print copies were
immediately circulated locally, at the state level, to the FBI, to
Canada. No luck.
MISSING PERSONS: Local and
state bureaus were checked. Hotels and rooming houses were checked to
see if a guest had departed without notice, or possibly leaving some
property behind around the 17th of March. Local papers published the
victim's description. No response.
TEETH: The following description was included in the all-points bulletin:
Some evidence of pyorrhea. Dental restorations appear to be well done,
carved and finished. Space between the upper front teeth. Upper left
first molar is an alloy in the mesial and distal pits. Lower left
second molar has an occlusal buccal filling. Lower right first and
second molars have occlusal fillings. One huge cavity upper right third
molar.
Such information will possibly serve well later for positive identification after tentative identification is made.
"A false dental plant solved one for us last year," Lt. Presley told
me. "Through it, we identified the body of a woman 13 months after we
discovered it.
"And," he added positively, "we found her killer, too."
July 2, 1957
Los Angeles
I wonder what the preacher told worshipers at Mount Tabor Missionary Baptist Church
in Miami about his faith journey. Did he talk about his years with the
San Diego Chargers and the Chicago Bears? Or maybe it was his time with
the Patriots, becoming the first African American assistant coach in
the American Football League.
He could have spoken of his time as head of the Florida Blazers in the
World Football League. Or being a football star at Blackshear High
School in San Angelo, Texas; or Jefferson High School in Los Angeles.
He might have talked about being an All-City player or making
All-American at UCLA.
The minister might have talked about being the "All-Pro Pastor" who
hosted a sports show broadcast on closed-circuit TV at the Miami-Dade
County Jail.
The Rev. Rommie Lee Loudd Sr. might well have talked about serving
three years in prison on drug charges. Maybe Loudd even spoke of his
six months in jail for molesting three teenage boys in 1957 when he was
working as a counselor at Juvenile Hall.
The newspapers--and certainly The Times--were squeamish about certain
types of sex cases and did very little reporting on this incident.
There are few details, and if Loudd hadn't been a football star, the
paper probably wouldn't have reported it at all.
According to The Times, he and another suspect, Benjamin F. Kelly, were
working at Juvenile Hall when they were arrested, along with Lindsay M.
Gerren, on charges of abusing three boys, ages 12, 13 and 15.
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