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True Crime Whore
By John Geirland

I'm trailing Robert Blake down Ventura Blvd. Blake is looking sharp in a black coat and a baggy pair of gray slacks. He sports thick black-frame glasses that give him a surprisingly intellectual air. At his side is a middle aged blonde woman, a bit on the frumpy side, dressed in a tan pants suit that doesn't flatter her. She leans in on Blake as they walk, chattering away. The blonde radiates happiness. She is trying to keep from bursting into an uninhibited smile.

Blake is not so full of light. He strokes his chin and says nothing. He avoids making eye contact with the blonde, staring down at his black leather shoes as the two saunter down the boulevard in the direction of the Killer Shrimp restaurant at the corner of Colfax and Ventura. He looks as if he's trying hard to vanish into thin air.

Six months later, the blonde has a hole in her head and lays dying in Blake's 1991 black Stealth Dodge. The hit occurs in my neighborhood on the chilly evening of May 4, 2001. The Stealth is parked on Woodbridge Street, a block and a half from Vitellos, an Italian eatery in Studio City popular with the polyester crowd. Blake took his wife there for dinner. He is a Vitellos habitué. The restaurant has a dish named in Blake's honor (tomato and spinach pasta). You know the story.

Call the sighting on the Boulevard a prologue to my encounter with the Blake murder case. File it under The Confessions of a True Crime Whore.

* * *

I wasn't actually "trailing" Robert Blake -- star of Baretta, In Cold Blood and the Our Gang series -- and his wife. It's more like I happened to be barreling by the couple behind a two-seated stroller loaded with my then two year-old twins. I don't get to prowl anymore, so the strolls are essential for my mental health. As a domiciled pater familias, I stay at home with the kids. My wife dons the suit and I wave to her as she drives off in the Merc every morning. I work at home, make lunches, slap bandages on my kids' "boo-boo's" and brood. In my darkness I indulge in True Crime stories.

For the connoisseur of True Crime nothing beats a Hollywood murder. I know all the cases. 1922 -- Paramount director William Desmond Taylor is shot in his fashionable Westlake Park bungalow. 1935 -- Film comedienne Thelma Todd is found in her Palisades garage slumped over in her Packard convertible. 1959 -- boozy partygoers at George Reeves' Benedict Canyon home find the original TV Superman sprawled across his bed buck-naked with a bullet wound to his head. Then there was OJ. I've read all the books, know every detail and nuance of the cases. Sometimes late at night, after the wife and kids are asleep, I escape to my home office, open the window to let in the night, pop the Doors into the CD player and morph into a suburban James Ellroy.

So you can imagine how I felt on the morning of May 5, 2001, when I learned that the next big Hollywood murder case had gone down the night before, a mere 300 yards from my armchair.

* * *

I called Max. He lives in the neighborhood, too. Max Marx is a successful TV producer, my best friend, and a person with impeccable noir creds. He knows Kenneth Anger, author of Hollywood Babylon. He's been held at gunpoint for hours by a certain notorious entertainment figure. He possesses a letter from Charles Manson. Brando's dogs viciously attacked him. He has a removable gold tooth with a diamond in it -- how noir is that?

Max loves True Crime, too. During the OJ trial, he and I drove far out of our way to take our weekly walk in OJ's Brentwood neighborhood, for which we were deeply ashamed. Max Marx isn't his real name. He doesn't want you to know who he is.

Max answered the phone, yawning. It was 9:30 am.

"I've been up for hours," I flustered. "Don't tell me you just woke up."

"OK," he said. "I won't tell you that."

"Did you hear about Robert Blake?" I asked.


"His wife was murdered a block from Vitellos," I said.


"This is a good one, Johnny," he purred. "We need to take a walk."

* * *

For reasons so trivial I no longer recall them, we didn't actually hit the pavement until the next day, 36 hours after the crime. Max showed up at my house wearing three layers of sweat clothes and a huge straw hat. He'd applied several coats of sun block on the off chance that a ray of sunlight might reach his face. He had a gob of it on the tip of his nose.

Max smiled. He was wearing his gold tooth with the diamond. "Let's go crack this case," he said.

It was a cool, sunny morning. The air smelled like freshly baked bread. The bees were buzzing happily in well-tended flowerbeds. Max and I were filled with a joie de vivre we hadn't felt since the OJ walk. We took broad strides in the direction of Woodbridge Street.

The murder occurred in a Studio City neighborhood called Colfax Meadows -- which I always confuse with Carfax Abbey, Count Dracula's London residence. Unlike Carfax Abbey, there's nothing creepy about Colfax Meadows, unless you find something menacing about real estate agents hustling door-to-door with sackfuls of promotional calendars. A lush and woodsy district of modest '40s era single-family dwellings, the homes in Colfax Meadows are rapidly being bought up, torn down and replaced with bloated Mediterraneans, faux California craftsmen and towering Cape Codders.

"So I understand they haven't found the murder weapon," Max observed. He'd come up to speed on the case since I'd called him the day before. "I think that should be our mission."

"We'll collect clues and make inferences," I said. "We'll use logic."

"This could be big, Johnny," he huffed in a thick Brooklyn brogue. "Very, very big."

We reached the spot where Blake parked the Stealth, a block and a half from Vitellos. The homicide detectives had already packed up the crime scene, but the place was bustling. Curiosity seekers strolled down the street while others cruised past in SUV's. News helicopters hovered far off in the sky.

"Look at those lookie-loo's," I said, pointing to the curiosity seekers.

Max shook his head. "It's disgusting."

We saw a makeshift shrine on the sidewalk near the spot where Bonnie Lee Bakley had been killed. Passersby had left flower arrangements, votive candles and handwritten notes in remembrance of a woman they didn't know. On the street sat a rusty-brown dumpster that looked like it might have once been a D-Day landing craft. The house nearest the murder site was being torn down and would later be replaced with a behemoth Mediterranean.

We stopped. I pointed to the shrine.

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