DISGRACELAND - Dorothy Stratten: A Playboy Pinup, a Private Investigator, and a Chilling Murder

Episode Date: February 21, 2025

Dorthy Stratten went from Dairy Queen counter girl to Playboy pinup to murder victim – in just two years. Hugh Hefner called her the next Marilyn Monroe. A major Hollywood director wrote a role in his new film just for her, confident that she would make the leap from centerfold to starlet. But all of that was cut short on August 14, 1980, when a private investigator stumbled upon a brutal murder scene that shook the entertainment industry to its core.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about murder, about obsession, about sex, sex appeal, about Hollywood, and about one of the most beautiful women to ever arrive in that town, Dorothy Stratton. Dorothy didn't make great films, but there was a pretty okay film that was made about her, Star 80, directed by Bob Fosse. And Dorothy Stratton didn't make great music either.

But she did inspire great music, that's for sure. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, which, of course, was not great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called DimeSpot for Days, MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Magic by Olivia Newton-John. And why would I play you that specific? slice of leg warmer cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on August 14, 1980. And that was the day a private investigator stumbled upon a brutal murder

scene that would shock Los Angeles to its core. On this episode, Sex, Obsession, Murder, Hollywood, and Dorothy Stratton. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. You want to know the secret to a successful stakeout, you got to savor every smoke. See, what you do is when you're about to go park your ass in one spot for a while, get yourself a fresh pack. That's 20 in all. And after you get your seat adjusted just right, you light the first one. Take a puff and count to five. Now check the door of the place you're watching and then the window. Maybe the skylight if it's some Bel Air mansion. And then you exhale.

See, you can't drink because then you're going to have to piss. You can't do the Sunday crossword because while you're still scratching your head over 11 down, the perp walks right out of the door. So you savor that first smoke. Give it 30 minutes. Have another. Finish two and it's an hour. If you finish the whole pack and nobody's moved inside,

it's time to either call for backup or get the hell out of there. I should know. My name's Carl Rothstein, and I'm a private eye. I used to be a lawyer until the California Bar Association thought I got a little too rough with the defendant before they could testify. They yank my license to practice, so now I'm a professional dick. People pay me to dig up dirt. I specialize in matrimonial work. You might even say it's my matriere.

Usually it's easy enough. Some jealous husband wants me to tail his wife for a few days, and most times I find nothing, but every once in a while, there's a surprise. Hey, what do you know? She joined a bowling league. And that type of easy score was exactly what I thought I was getting myself into a few weeks ago when this wiry little dark-haired guy walks into my office. My office, being a diner, a few blocks off the sunset strip. The coffee's bad and the service is even worse, but there's never a crowd. He slide into a booth and he shakes my hand, hard, too hard. Hey, he says, I'm Paul. Paul Snyder. Steve says you're the best.

Steve is Paul Snyder's roommate. Let's just say I helped him out of a jam with a married brunette last year. And Steve's right. In this sleazy little corner of Los Angeles, I am the best. That's why I know everything about Paul Snyder before we even sit down. He's a small-time wannabe promoter. Quote unquote, disco consultant is what his business card says. He's got quite the past.

Back in Vancouver, he used to run a few girls, and his taste for flashy clothes and the diamond-encrusted star of David he wears around his neck earned him the nickname the Jewish Pimp. But to the local tough guys here in L.A. Paul is a fucking joke. When one of his girls steals his money and takes off in his car, he decides to go straight. He starts putting together bar nights. Anything from rock bands to wet t-shirt contests, all the while, he's dreaming of bigger clubs and brighter lights.

But he's Paul Snyder, so the lights are only going to get so. bright. It seems like all he's going to do is dream about it, until one day the schmuck decides he wants some ice cream. Best decision of his life. He rolls into the local dairy queen for a strawberry Sunday, only to discover the absolute finest piece of ass he's ever seen in his life working the front counter. Even in a red apron and pigtails, Snyder can tell she's a thoroughbred. You can't pimp a girl like that. No, this girl is his ticket to the big time. All he has to do is wait for her to turn 18. Her name is a real mouthful, Dorothy Ruth Hoagstratten.

She has the perfect girl next door look. Like if the girl next door woke up at 16 with the body of Marilyn Monroe. Maybe if Daddy was around, he would have warned her, but he wasn't and nobody did. So when Snyder swaggers into the Dairy Queen, his charm and flashy clothes are enough to turn her head. She falls for him, hard. She's so in love she'll do anything. Up to and including posing stark naked for a photographer friend of his. See, he tells her, Playboy magazine is turning 25,

and they're running a contest to find a new center full, and the winner gets 20 grand. Incredibly, this schmuck's plan almost works. The photos make it all the way to Hugh Hefter's desk and the pajama man likes what he sees. Next thing they know, Dorothy is on a plane to LAX. She lands on August 13th, 1978. Snyder follows a few months later. She doesn't win the contest, but her photos appear in the 25th anniversary issue on one condition.

She's going to drop that last name. Hogue Stratton just isn't sexy. From now on, she's Dorothy Stratton. In 1979, she spent six weeks shooting her first Playboy Centerfold, and right before it drops in July, she and Snyder tie the knock. And this fucking dope has hit the jackpot. It's barely a year after that first flight to L.A. And Hefner is already confident that Dorothy Stratton is the crossover star he's been looking for. Acting offers pour in.

Vanity Fair wants her on the cover. In April 1980, she's named Playmate of the Year. Snyder is feeling so confident that are on a rocket ride to the top that he runs out and buys a black Mercedes 450 SC complete with custom plates that read Star 80. Now, even though I already know all of this, I let Snyder tell me the whole story. And when he gets to the next part, he pauses for a moment, gripping the handle of his coffee mugs so hard that I'm waiting for it to shatter.

Everything was perfect, he says, until that fucking director started sniffing around. By that director, he means Peter Bogdanovich. Fresh off of his breakup with Sybil Shepard. Bogdanovich eases his pain by special. spending his evenings at the Playboy Mansion. And he took an immediate interest in Dorothy. Snyder's not an idiot. He knows Bogdanovich's type.

The guy started fucking Sybil Shepard when they were filming the last picture show. And now he's definitely up to the same thing with Dorothy. Says he's written a part just for her in his new picture, on which she'll work alongside legends like Audrey Hepburn. Of course, this will require a lot of time between the director and Dorothy to, you know, develop. up the part. I ask him the obvious question. You want me to tailor? He nods. He wants evidence of the affair. Alienation of affection is what it's called. If Bogdanovich is stealing his wife away, so be it.

But, he says, that bandana wearing four-eyed prick is going to have to cough up big time to help me Snyder's pain. He also wants me to look into any assets, Darth he might be hiding. So you can do it, he asks. Follow around the sexiest woman in the world for a few days? See how the rich and famous live and get paid for the privilege? Uh, yeah, I don't. I think I can handle this one. Or at least that's what I thought a few weeks ago. Now I'm sitting in an Osmobile sweating bullets with a cramp in my leg that won't quit.

I reach for the pack of cigarettes and shake out another smoke. It's the last one in the pack. I inhaled deeply and I pray to God I see Paul Snyder or Dorothy Stratton in the next five minutes are also I'm going to have to choose between two bad options. Split or call for backup. Tooling down the L.A. freeway, I'm not sweating anything but the traffic. The job was a breeze. Catch a playboy model doing the dirty with her director and find out where she hides her money.

For the first, I needed to do some digging, but for the money, all I had to do was make it to City Hall before five. See, I have this girl who works as a receptionist there, and she has this husband who happens to have the keys to the records room. And sometimes she likes to share. I push my beat-up cutlass through traffic like a hot knife through butter and make it to City Hall by a quarter of. And with a little sweet talk and a few greenbacks, I'm in and out by the time the clocks are chiming five. It may be the end of the day for these working stiffs, but my day is just beginning. I've got a stack of papers in my hand, the detail of business venture I think Paul Snyder is going to be very

interested in. Dorothy Stratton Enterprises. incorporated earlier this year. Number of stockholders? Just one. Miss Playmate of the year herself. The language in these documents is as thick as the rush hour traffic. I know I'm going to need some bag coffee in an empty booth to get to the bottom of it, so I put on my blinker and head toward the diner.

Inside, I walk past the hostess who doesn't even lift her eyes from the nail as she's filing, and I just pop down in my usual booth. It takes at least five minutes before a waitress comes by with a loose. loopwarm cup of Joe, but I'm too busy reading to care. It's clear that all of Dorothy's money is actually held by Dorothy Stratton Enterprises. If she and Paul divorce, he won't get a cent. As I read, I reach for a flask in my pocket to improve the contents of my mug, but a hand stops me. I glance up into a pair of eyes I recognize from the newsstand. It's her. Dorothy Stratton standing right there in front of me, tracing the elephant. Tracing the elephant.

outline of my knuckle with her fingertips. Mind if I join you? She asks. I got a feeling nobody minds you joining them, I say, motioning for her to take a seat. The coffee's no good here and the pie is even worse, so you must be here for something else. I know Paul hired you to follow me. How did this sweet young thing get the jump on me? She may have had the advantage, but she's not the only one with surprises.

So I lay one on her. I tell her that I know all about Dorothy Stratton Enterprises, that it looks like she's trying to hide money from her husband. The kind of thing a judge may not like in a divorce. It's not what you think, she says. Her upper lip trembles and I think she's about to turn on the waterworks. I hand her a paper napkin, but she shakes her head no. She tells me it was for protection,

that her marriage with Paul has been over for a year and that he knows it but won't sign anything until she gives him half her earnings. Half your earnings? I raise my eyebrows and let out a low whistle. Seems pretty steep. He says I own since he discovered me and he won't budge. I just might give it to him too. If it gets me my freedom, I'll give him all of it.

Whatever it takes, I'm done. In my line of work, I've seen a lot of desperate women looking for an escape and a lot of gold diggers looking for the next step up. I'm not sure which one describes Dorothy Stratton, but if I can keep her talking, I'll find out soon enough. I asked her when she first got the inkling that things might not work out between the two of them. She purses those beautiful red lips

into a heart-shaped frown for a second and then tosses her long blonde hair. It was at the Playboy Halloween party, one of Paul's first times at the mansion. October 1978. Go on, I tell her. So she starts to paint a picture so vivid it plays like a movie in my mind. Paul Snyder punched the accelerator as Black Dotson 240Z roared to life.

He swung into the left-turned lane to pass a slow-moving sedan. And Dorothy clung to the dashboard. Paul, slow down. Fuck that. We're not going to be late to the biggest party of the year. Paul turned the car left, the tires chirping as it flew through the intersection and up a hill. Dorothy's stomach turned too, car wheels. She wasn't drinking, but the way Paul was driving might be but puking her guts out on the front driveway when they reached their destination.

Paul, slow down. I'm feeling sick. Paul's eyes were fixed on the road. His foot glued to the gas pedal. Dorothy watched the California coast with by in a blur until a surge of anger welled up inside of her. Paul, slow down. You're making me sick. The car slammed to a stop. And they sat in silence, engine idling in the middle of the road. Paul's eyes were wide with rage.

He put his hand up like he might slap Dorothy across the mouth, and she shrunk back in fear. Instead, he took a deep breath and lowered his hand. Course. Anything you wish, he said calmly. The tension of the car ride disappeared as they pulled up to the Playboy Mansion. Paul slid out of the driver's seat and tossed the keys to the valet. He was dressed in full pimp,

Galea, make coat, skin-tight pants, shirt on button to his navel, and that signature diamond star of David hanging off his chest. Dorothy was barely in costume at all, a unicorn painted on the side of her face, but dressed in all white she looked radiant. As they walked towards the front door, two men stopped smoking to turn and stare at her. Paul raised his eyebrows. Holy shit, with James Kahn and warm baitie. Inside, the party was in full swing.

Scantily clad young women danced on a table, and outside a band was wailing away out by the infamous Pool Brotto, rumored to be the sight of more than one orgy, while a crowd of actors, politicians, and business tycoons mingled with an endless array of beautiful women. Dorothy quickly spotted Playboy's editor-in-chief dressed in his signature silk pajamas. She grabbed Paul's hand and began to lead him across the room. Come on, I want to introduce you.

Heff stood near the stairwell holding corn, surrounded by half a dozen women, but his face lit up when he saw Dorothy. He kissed her outstretched hand. Dorothy turned to introduce Paul, but instead Paul squeezed past her. Hey, Hugh, it's Paul. Paul Snyder, Dorothy's boyfriend, and manager. He shook Heff's hand with his trademark Iron Grip. I see, Huff replied. How are you enjoying L.A. so far. far. Oh, it's great. I got a lot of deals lined up already. I'm going to do a strip night for the

ladies at this place called Chippendales. I was thinking it would be perfect for Dorothy and a couple of playmates to come down and judge the amateur contest. But we should set up a meeting. Hath replied in the affirmative, but Dorothy could tell he didn't meet him. Trust me, Heth, I've got the golden touch. Dorothy was just a little ice cream shop girl when I found her and look at her now. Heth turned his gaze to Dorothy. Indeed, look at her now. Plans for Dorothy. She's going to be our next Marilyn Monroe. Dorothy blushed, half winked and kissed her hand once more. Dorothy dear, lovely to see you. And only you, his voice implied as he walked away. If Paul noticed, he didn't show it. Hours later, with the party winding down, Paul and Dorothy

climbed back into the Black Dotson to head home. Paul was on Cloud 9. Can you believe it? Hugh fucking Hefner. He loved the idea, don't you think? We're on a rocket ride to the top, baby. La Cara was silent for a moment as Paul envisioned his future glory. You know you might have to sleep with them, right? To get playmate of the year, everybody says you have to sleep with them. But it's cool, baby. As long as you know you're with me, I'll take care of you. Paul flipped up the collar of his mint coat, pushed her hard on the gas pedal. The Dotson flew. Dorothy just stared at the California coast whipping by. As Dorothy finishes her story,

A small tear rolls down her cheek. Personally, I never trust anyone that gets paid to cry on demand, but I can't help but feel sorry for her. She slides out of the booth and tosses her luscious blonde hair once more. I just thought you should know, she says. And then she says she's going to be in New York the next few days. Reshoots or something like that. Tells me I can take a break from being her shadow.

Then she glides out the door like a vision and into her business manager's waiting car. And as the car pulls away, I get a strange sensation that it's the last time I'll be seeing Dorothy Stratton. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. After hearing Dorothy Stratton's story, I have no idea what to do next. So I follow my instincts, right into the bottom of a bottle where I spend the next three days dodging phone calls from Paul Snyder. When I wake up, it's Thursday, August 14th. My head is killing me. There's a low, pounding thud in my ears that won't quit.

Eventually, I realized the pounding isn't coming from inside my head. It's coming from the front door. And I stumbled to the peephole. Paul Snyder is standing outside, yelling at me to open. I swing the door open and the LA sunshine hits my booze-addled brain like a shotgun. Where you been, man, I've been trying to reach you. I tell him I've been on a little vacation with my buddy Jack, but it doesn't catch my drift. Whatever, man, listen, I've got to talk to you.

Dorothy is cutting me out. It's that fucker Bogdanovich, and I can prove it. I sigh and tell Paul to quit yelling and come inside. Once we're in the living room, I ask what the hell he's talking about. And he starts on about this poster idea. Dorothy is the playmate of the year, and there's a killing to be made. They did a shoot with her wearing a sexy leotard and roller skates. He tells me I should see it.

He says Dorothy loved the idea, too. It's a goldmine. Only now she's decided not to do it. Says it's not a good move for her career. Okay, that's rough. I get it, I tell him. But what does that have to do with Bogdanovich? I ask.

And that's what he tells me, Bogdanovich, the director, the guy who wants to turn her into a movie star. This guy has sent her all these love letters. Paul found a stash of them that Dorothy had hidden away and forgot about when she left. I'm telling me, man, Paul says. Bogdanovich, Heffner.

They're trying to rule my fucking life. I had to buy a gun for people. protection. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I tell him to settle down. Don't do anything stupid. We've got the evidence. Now let's just try to make them pay. He weighs me off. What's the point? I can't even get near her anymore. They ban me from the mansion, man, the fucking mansion. She wants a divorce. She's going to have to ask me in person. Eventually, I send Snyder home to cool off. It's a humid day, and I can already feel a hangover creeping in. I wish I could go back to bed, but I've got work to do.

I leave through the phone book for the address of Bill and Susan LeChase. The photographers for this poster deal gone bust, and I hop into my cutlass. On the way to the studio, I buy a fresh pack of smokes. When I tap on the studio door, a man answers. Bill LaChase, I ask. That's right, he responds, I am he suspiciously. I tell him I'm a friend of Paul and Dorothe's, trying to help save this poster deal. I figure, as the ones who snap the photos in the first place,

they want to see this thing happen as much as anyone. Susan appears next to him and pulls the door open. She tells me to come in and waves at a small bar card in the corner. Feel free to make yourself a drink, although you smell like you don't need one. I ignore her sage advice and pour a double whiskey over ice before taking a seat. I asked them when they last saw Dorothy. They say it's been a few days.

She'd been hard to get a hold of, so they flew to New York to show her the proofs in person. And they couldn't get her at the hotel, but someone in production sent them. to Bogdanovich's apartment. Dorothy answered the door looking terrified, like she'd been caught. She asked if Snyder sent them. They swore he hadn't.

Dorothy left them waiting at the door and went inside the apartment. They could hear talking with someone, and they guessed it was Bogdanovich. When she came back to the door, she said, no, she was sorry, but she didn't think it was the right move. Just like that,

Paul Snyder's last chance at a big score was history. I have to know, did Bill and Susan LaChase tell Snyder about any of this when they got back to L.A.? Susan hesitates. I can tell if she doesn't want to say what's about to come out of her mouth. We tried not to, but we just said she declined, and he started ranting about Peter Bogdanovich. Look, we tried not to give anything away, but he could read our faces. I knocked back the rest of the whiskey, and suddenly I'm not feeling so good. I politely excuse myself.

Not even a minute later, I'm standing next to my car hurling up last night's liquid dinner. And that hair of the dog didn't do me much good. I needed to get my eyes on Dorothy Stratton. Fast. I make tracks toward her most likely whereabouts, Peter Bogdanovich's Bellair Mansion. As I pull up, I see Dorothy's business manager leaving, and I wave the guy down.

His face goes pale. It says Dorothy just left to meet Paul. to sign some papers. It feels like I'm about to wretch again, but I hold it down this time. And I jump back in the car and haul asked for West L.A. While I'm driving, I dial Snyder's number from the car phone again and again, but there's no answer. And when I finally get to the house, Dorothy's car is parked next to Paul's Mercedes. I park and I sit there and I wait and I reach for my pack of smokes.

Now it's ten hours later and I'm stubbing out my last cigarette. and that sick feeling in my stomach is more than just a hangover. I've delayed it as long as I can. I pick up the car phone and call Paul's roommate, Steve. One house, two landlines. Steve answers. I ask if Paul's been around. Nah, he tells me, he hasn't seen him all day.

Listen, I tell him. His car is in the driveway, and he's not answering his phone. I ask the guy to go check Paul's room. He puts the phone down, and I can hear the TV playing in the background. It sounds like Fantasy Island. I can hear him call out. Paul, you there's a guy on the phone for you, Paul. I hear the stairs squeak, and then silence.

Suddenly a bone-chilling scream rips through the receiver. I'm out of my car now, sprinting toward the house. I throw up in the front door, and Paul's roommate comes running upstairs. Don't go in there, don't go in there! He's screaming, but of course I do. The dread is overwhelming as I make my way down the stairs. I inch forward toward the bedroom. and I brace myself and throw it open.

Oh, there is so much blood. The walls are painted red. Paul is slumped up against the wall. Dead. A giant 12-gauge shotgun between his legs. In front of him is a naked woman, her face mangled by the shotgun blast. But I recognize that long, blonde hair.

It's Dorothy Stratton, also dead. Just 20 years old. I sit back in the booth and I finish my cup of coffee. In the corner of the diner, the television is playing MTV. On screen, some singer is pouring his heart out on a sappy ballad about the so-called city of angels. I couldn't tell you the name of the band. When I was younger, I knew them all, but nowadays it's hard to keep track. Go-go this and third-eye that, matchbox, whatever the fuck.

I'm Carl Rothstein. Thirty years ago, I was a private eye. That was the fucking best, too. At least in this sleazy little corner of Los Angeles. But when you see something as horrifying as what I saw that night in Paul Snyder's bedroom, it changes you forever. It certainly changed Peter Bogdano. After the murder, no distributor would touch his new movie, they all laughed, the one he wrote for Dorothy Stratton.

He was obsessed with putting it out in her memory, so he bought the rights and released it himself. Shocker, it turned out, no one wanted to watch a dead girl up on the screen, especially in a romantic comedy. The film bombed and he nearly went bankrupt. With Paul Snyder dead, Bogdanovich directed his anger at his former friend Hugh Hefner. He wrote a book about Dorothy called The Killing of the Unicorn, in which he claimed Hefner forced himself on her at the Playboy Mansion. He said Playboy knew Paul was dangerous, but didn't want to risk profits by getting involved. And Bogdanovich railed against Playboy's treatment of women so strongly that Peter Bogdanovich was sued for libel.

Of course, Bogdanovich's crusade against Playboy would have been a lot better received if at the same time he wasn't moving Dorothy's 12-year-old sister Louise into his playboy. in Bel Air. He had a phone line installed in her room so he could always reach her. He vacationed with her, and the pair stayed, shall we say, close for the next few years, and they married when she turned 20 years old, the exact same age as Dorothy was when she was murdered. As for me, after that night, I quit the private investigation game for good. Nowadays, I squeeze a dollar out of a dime anyway I can, but mostly I just sit here drinking the same old bag coffee and trying to forget what I saw that night. But I never can.

Because everybody else seems to want to remember. They've made so many movies and television shows about the death of a pin-up or the death of a Starlet or the death of a playmate that I can't keep track. I look up for a waitress to refill my cup and realize I might be looking for a while. In the meantime, on the TV, now they're talking with the band from L.A. bunch of wild-eyed freaks with a shirtless lead singer. Apparently, they went from teenage punks to superstars so fast that it almost killed them. Somehow, they managed to survive after six years away,

and they're back with a new album filled with songs about the dark side of the Hollywood dream. The segment wraps. The MTV host does the Segway thing. It says something like, That's the Red Hot Chili Peppers talking about their new album, California Cation. And now let's check out the video for the title. track. I look away from the screen, but I can still hear the music. It's a mournful minor key tune. Kind of calls up old memories. The singer comes in weaving this hallucinatory blend of famous

film scenes and seedy street-level images. It captures this city in a way that I've never seen or heard before, and then the chorus kicks in, and it all clicks. Dorothy, like so many others, dreamed of californication. And for a moment, it looked like that dream might come true. Because Dorothy Stratton was a unicorn. The rare playboy model poised to become a movie star. Until that dream became a tragedy. A story that's not only shocking, but also a disgrace.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. This Graceland was created by yours truly and is produced in part. partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free.

Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at disgracelandpod.

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