Hollywood & Crime - Murder In Hollywoodland | The Crime Scene | 1

Episode Date: August 21, 2024

The murder of William Desmond Taylor rocks Hollywood. Within hours, everyone has heard the news and is asking the same question: why would anyone want Taylor dead? After examining the crime scene, detectives start narrowing in on the first suspects in this shocking crime.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

You're listening to the first episode of Murder in Hollywoodland. To continue the journey, you can binge episodes 2 through 7 exclusively with Wondery+. Start your free trial today in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. In Hollywood, in Hollywood, someone is lonesome in Hollywood. It's Thursday, February 2nd, 1922. Shortly after 7 a.m. An unusually cold morning in Los Angeles, California. But the town will heat up soon enough. Because a body is about to be found over at the Alvarado Court Apartments.

Home to some of the biggest names in Hollywood. You've probably seen some of them in the moving pictures. Like romantic leading man Doug McClain, who was fast asleep in apartment 406. Doug is known as the man with the million-dollar smile. His wife Faith snuggled next to him as starred in films, too. She's certainly pretty enough, but Doug's career is on fire right now.

Who knows if her turn will ever come. Just across from the Maclean's in 402A is the home of actress Edna Proviance. She's Charlie Chaplin's leading lady, both on and off screen if you get the drift. Edna is blonde and luminous, with the kind of chiseled features the camera loves. She's still in bed too, getting her beauty sleep. In 402B, actor and screenwriter Fred Fishbeck is up early again. He's worried his connection to Fatty Arbuckle is going to cost him his career. Arbuckle is the most highly paid comedy actor in the business. Except now he's on trial for the rape and murder of a part-time actress named Virginia Rappe. Lately, nobody's returning Fred's calls. Guilt by association.

That's Hollywood for you. There's someone else who lives in this exclusive hamlet. The guy in 404B. If you look around his fancy digs, it won't take long to figure out what he does. who lives in this exclusive hamlet. The guy in 404B. If you look around his fancy digs, it won't take long to figure out what he does. Scripts piled everywhere, marked-up location reports, and a wall covered with headshots of famous actresses. He's a director, with several Hollywood hits under his belt.

Normally, he would be waiting for his valet, Henry Peavy, to unlock the front door and draw his bath while his driver fired up the custom-built McFarlane to deliver him to the studio. But not today. Today, everything is going to be different at Alvarado Court. Because that director is bleeding out on his very expensive carpet. Stone cold dead. And that director is me. In less than an hour, Hollywood is going to be

turned inside out and upside down. And by the time people get off work, newsboys on street corners all over the country will be yelling out the story. But that's just the beginning. The list of suspects will stretch as long as the line outside a movie premiere and be just as star-studded. There will be exposés on scandalous affairs, sexual deviancy, and shadowy drug dens, and calls for censorship will blow apart the town. I'll warn you now,

the story doesn't have one of those happy Hollywood endings. Oh, there'll be a confession, but no one will serve time, and I'll still be dead in the third act. But I promise, it will be one hell of a ride. The Grinch is back again to ruin your Christmas season with Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast. Listen as his celebrity guests try to persuade the Grinch is back again to ruin your Christmas season with Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast.

Listen as his celebrity guests try to persuade the Grinch that there's more to love about the holiday season. Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Grownups, enjoy bonus content of Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus. Each morning, it's a new opportunity, a chance to start fresh. A first from NPR makes each morning an opportunity to learn and to understand. Choose to join the world every morning with Up First, a podcast that hands you everything going on across the globe and down the street, all in 15 minutes or less. Start your day informed and anew with Up First by subscribing wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Tracy Patton, along with my co-host James Remar.

This is Hollywood in Crime, Murder in Hollywoodland. Imagine it's 1922. Your train pulls into La Grande Station near downtown Los Angeles. You walk outside in the late afternoon and you're bowled over by the city's hustle-bustle. Cars careen through the streets without stopping for pedestrians. The sidewalks are packed. Street trolleys are everywhere. You hop on the one that's headed toward Hollywood. You pass by lavish movie theaters with exotic facades.

There's Grauman's with its high-column pillars and sphinx statues guarding the door. And the Palace, styled after an early Renaissance palazzo, decorated with flowers, fairies, and theatrical masks. Almost 50 million people go to the movies each week, nearly half the country, to watch their favorite stars flicker across a giant screen. Maybe one day you'll be a star too. You picture what your friends back home will think and all the fancy things you can buy with the money you make. You hop off the trolley near Sunset and Vine to sneak a peek at the biggest studio in town, famous Players Lasky. Who knows who you might see? Maybe the glamorous Gloria Swanson.

You read in PhotoPlay magazine that she makes $15,000 a week. She's so rich, she bathes in a bathtub made of solid gold. But under all the glitz and glamour and promise of stardom lies something much darker. Call it a deal with the devil. And in this town, the devil has a name. The studio moguls.

They are the men behind the movies, the kingmakers. Careers live or die by what they want. Movies made or not made, laws changed or broken. The Kingmakers have connections all over the city, from the LAPD to the DA, from the hoodlums to the grifters. They grease the palms of politicians and policemen or anyone they think can help them

because the studios aim to control all of Tinseltown and all its secrets. If you're one of the lucky few who make it, you'll find out that fame isn't free. It might cost your soul or your life. And if you turn up dead in Hollywood in plenty due, you can be sure the studios will be the first to know, especially if it involves one of their own.

A dead body doesn't look good for the bottom line. It could threaten box office receipts. And with that kind of money involved, the studio moguls aren't about to let anything get in their way, especially over a little murder. In this six-episode series, we take a deep dive into the dark heart of Hollywood in the 1920s to explore the murder investigation of director William Desmond Taylor

and how his death forever altered this town. This is episode one, The Crime Scene. The Crime Scene. Henry Peavy is a man people notice. He's used to folks giving him the side eye, making fun of his brightly colored ties and striped knickers. They joke about the way he walks, arms and hips swaying like he's listening to music nobody else can hear.

Some call him flamboyant. He prefers expressive. The morning of February 2nd, 1922. Peavy leaves his boarding house in downtown Los Angeles. He heads to work as valet and cook to the great director William Desmond Taylor. But first he walks two blocks out of his way to Powell Drugs, where he buys a bottle of milk of magnesia for his boss. Taylor suffers from frequent stomach ailments,

so Peavy does what he can to help. After his errand, he hops the trolley to the Westlake District where the high-class movie people live. It's just past 7 a.m. when Peavy steps off the trolley and heads towards Alvarado Court where Taylor rents one of eight bungalows. The lush, pink bougainvillea bushes bordering the sidewalks always makes him feel like he's stepped into another world. While Peavy has only been the director's valet for six months, it's already the best job he's ever had.

Mr. Taylor pays him a handsome salary, plus $5 a week extra to cover the cost of his rooming house.. Mr. Taylor pays him a handsome salary, plus $5 a week extra to cover the cost of his rooming house. And Mr. Taylor is nice. Peavy rarely finds him in a bad mood, although lately he must admit Mr. Taylor has seemed preoccupied. As he approaches Unit 404B, Taylor's lights are still blazing. Peavy shrugs it off. He knows the director sometimes stays up late reading scripts. He collects the morning paper and unlocks the front door. The first thing he sees upon entering are Taylor's legs and feet on the living room floor. The director appears to be sleeping, face up,

dressed in the same tan gabardine suit he was wearing the night before when Peavy bid him goodnight. Peavy takes a tentative step towards his body and calls out, Mr. Taylor? No response. This is odd. He inches closer. That's when he sees the blood. Horrified, Peavy drops the milk of magnesia. It shatters on Taylor's front step, but he doesn't notice. He is already racing into the courtyard, waving his arms frantically and yelling out, Somebody help! Mr. Taylor is dead! Mr. Taylor is dead! At 7.05 a.m. on February 2nd, Edna Provines wakes up with a bolt when she hears the panicked voice of Taylor's valet. Edna lives a few doors

down from Taylor. When she got home last night around midnight, she noticed his lights were still on, which she thought was strange. Taylor was one of the few people in the complex who didn't paint the town red every night. The only time she saw him get in late was when he had been out with Mabel Norman. And now he's dead? It dawns on her. Mabel. She has to call her immediately. Mabel and Taylor are best friends. Oh God, this is terrible. She reaches for the phone, trembling. It's 7.15 a.m. at L.A.'s 1st Street Homicide Division. Detective Sergeant Thompson Ziegler is pouring his morning coffee when he gets the call. Some Hollywood big shot has turned up dead over in the posh Westlake District. The manager of the building where the guy lives is on the phone.

Sounds panicked. Folks in that neck of town aren't used to finding corpses in their snazzy homes. It's not the kind of case Ziegler usually catches. The 30-year LAPD veteran is used to work in the city's soft white underbelly, mostly crimes of greed. LA is a wide-open boomtown, a hotbed of vice that brings in racketeers, bootleggers, and grifters looking to make a quick buck for a price you can get anything in the shadows of Tinseltown. Opium, high-stakes

card games, and prostitutes of any flavor or size. Prohibition has only added to Ziegler's load. On January 1st, 1920, liquor establishments closed their storefronts on the street and took business underground. Now there are miles of tunnels under the streets where Hooch is stored and sold. Without government regulation, the profits belonged to whoever could move it and sell it. Yeah, it kept Ziegler plenty busy. And now this. He calls the medical examiner, and then the doctor, to meet him at the scene.

Ziegler takes a last swig of his coffee, and then takes his time walking over to his squad car. After all, the dead VIP isn't going anywhere. On September 29, 1908, William Dean Tanner was on day three of a bender to end all benders. was on day three of a bender to end all benders. He had started off drinking with pals at a racetrack in Long Island and ended up in a Manhattan hotel room, alone, guzzling bourbon for the last 72 hours. He looked at himself in the mirror. The haggard face with the bloodshot eyes

was not the face of a man he wanted to be. Somewhere he had lost himself. He had planned to take the theater world by storm with his acting. Instead, he ended up married and with a kid, the manager of two failing antique stores. He'd gotten himself into debt and then falsified information on some heirloom pieces. Now he was in a jam.

His wife Ethel knew it was bad. She just didn't know how bad. He didn't dare tell her. In the last few years, the woman was always in tears about everything, money, her position in society, her fading looks. Tanner was overwhelmed and miserable. Something had to change. Work from the outside in, he told himself. He picked up his razor and shaved off his signature mustache. Then he made a call to an employee at one of his stores. An hour later, the man arrived looking worried.

Are you all right, sir? He asked. Tanner, as always, was polite. Fine, thank you for asking. Did you bring the money? The man nodded. Tanner counted out six crisp $100 bills. He put one in his pocket and the remaining five into an envelope and scrawled his wife's name across the front. It was the closest he'd come to crying in years. Take this directly to my wife. Yes, sir, the young man replied, lingering nervously in the foyer. It was the closest he'd come to crying in years.

Take this directly to my wife. Yes, sir, the young man replied, lingering nervously in the foyer. That's all. Twenty minutes later, Tanner walked out of the hotel into the cool autumn morning to his only remaining possession, his Buick Model 10. As he cranked the engine and pulled into traffic, he caught a glimpse of his clean-shaven face. Better, but not enough. He'd have to change his name, too.

Then William Dean Tanner, aged 36, respected business owner, loving husband and father, disappeared into thin air. Mabel Norman's phone rings just before 8 a.m. She sighs. Let the maid get it. It's probably the studio calling to tell her a car is on the way. Mabel quickly lines her eyes with a coal black pencil. She's known for running notoriously late

But at least her makeup will be done As she runs out of the bathroom, her maid is holding out the phone She tells her Miss Edna Proviance insists on speaking with her Mabel motions to put it on the dressing table Darling Edna, what in the world has gotten you up before the lunch bell? Edna's voice is quivering. Oh, Mabel, I have the most horrible, horrible news. It's about Billy. Mabel's stomach drops.

Is he all right? Edna's voice is barely above a whisper. Honey, Billy's dead. I'm so sorry. It can't be true, Mabel thinks. Billy Taylor is her rock, her friend and mentor. She needs another trusted source before believing the news. Charlie will know.

He lives near Alvarado Court. She picks up the phone again. Charlie, can you find out what's going on at Billy's place and report back? Edna says he's dead. I can't bear to go myself. Then she hangs up the phone, drops her head on the vanity, and sobs. When Detective Ziegler arrives at Alvarado Court, it's already a circus. Inside the apartment, there are four men crowded around the body.

A man in a green bathrobe with a complexion to match approaches. I'm the one who called. I'm the landlord. I was sick in bed when I heard his valet yelling. Ziegler nods and looks around. He spots a familiar face in the corner. Holy smokes, is that Doug McClain? He just saw McClain in a picture. The guy's as good-looking in person as he is on the screen, but seems shorter.

McClane nods his chin toward the body. Looks kind of like a dummy in a department store, wouldn't you say? Ziegler doesn't think the kid is wrong. William Desmond Taylor is flat on his back, arms neatly folded in at his sides. He could be asleep if it weren't for the pool of blood congealing around his head. Ziegler takes a closer look. He's known on the force for his hunches, and to him, it looks like Taylor probably fell and hit his head. There's no sign of a struggle or marks on the body, and the valet says the door was locked when he arrived. This does not smell

of foul play. Doug McClain isn't so sure. I heard what sounded like shots last night. Ziegler's a trifle annoyed. McClain probably couldn't tell a gunshot from the backfire of a Model T. Ziegler checks the dead man's breast pocket, and sure enough, his wallet is still there, with 78 bucks inside, and he's still wearing a platinum watch and a two-carat diamond ring. Plus, the joint is packed with classy goods. The vase in the corner probably cost more than his entire month's pay. Nope. Murder makes about as much sense as the plot of McClane's last movie. When the doctor shows up, he concurs, announcing Taylor died from a stomach hemorrhage

and then fell and hit his head. All that's left to be done is wait for the coroner to pick up the body. Open and shut case. With any luck, the detective will be done with the paperwork by noon. Three miles away near the Hollywood Hills, Charles Eiden, general manager of the famous Players Lasky studio, is scanning the morning papers. He's interrupted by his wife.

Bill Taylor's assistant is on the line for you. William Desmond Taylor is Eiden's star director and they're starting pre-production on a new picture today called The Ordeal. After the success of Taylor's last film, famous Players wants to move fast on this one. Aydin's glad for the distraction. He's sick of reading about comedian Fatty Arbuckle's murder trial. Arbuckle is a contract player at the studio in a big box office draw.

Until actress Virginia Rappe ended up dead after one of his parties. Now Arbuckle has been fingered as the murderer. Since his fall from grace, the entire movie colony has been on razor's edge. Scandal is not good for any studio's bottom line. When Aydin picks up the phone, Taylor's assistant spits out the news. William Desmond Taylor is dead.

Aydin blinks. Taylor is dead? Stone cold dead? Yes, sir. His valet found him. Scenarios race through Aydin blinks. Taylor is dead? Stone cold dead? Yes, sir. His valet found him. Scenarios race through Aydin's mind. His first question is, how? The assistant answers, the doctor here says it was a stomach hemorrhage. Thank God. Natural causes.

Still, you never know what will set off a feeding frenzy with the press. Aydin tells the assistant he'll be at Taylor's apartment in 15 minutes or less. First, he has a call to make. Eiten is a former boxing referee and tough as nails. But even he flinches at the thought of informing his boss, Jesse Lasky, who runs the Los Angeles office.

It means Lasky will have to call his partner Adolph Zucor in New York. And Zucor is one of the most feared men in the business. He built famous players from nothing to a multi-million dollar picture factory, and you don't do that unless you're willing to run a few people over in the process. Zukor is short-tempered, ruthless, and brilliant, and he will be seething if there are any more debacles to deal with. Lately, the press has been pumping out nonstop stories of the scandals in Hollywood.

Opium dens in Chinatown. Actors gone haywire on dope. Sleazy affairs. The do-gooder backlash is threatening their profit margins. Hell, their very existence. Church ladies are screaming for censorship, saying kids shouldn't be allowed in movie theaters.

If kids stop going to the picture show, the whole business tanks. That's 80% of their matinee audience. So even if Taylor dropped dead from a leaky gut, Iden has to make sure his home is squeaky clean before the press arrive. Not that he thinks he'll find much. He's known Taylor for years.

He's a good man. Iden looks at his watch. He'll check in with Lasky later. Aydin looks at his watch. He'll check in with Lasky later. Harvard is the oldest and richest university in America. But when a social media-fueled fight over Harvard and its new president broke out last fall, that was no protection. Claudian Gay is now gone. We've exposed the DEI regime, and there's much more to come. This is The Harvard Plan, a special series from the Boston Globe and WNYC's On the Media.

To listen, subscribe to On the Media wherever you get your podcasts. They say Hollywood is where dreams are made. A seductive city where many flock to get rich, be adored, and capture America's heart. But when the spotlight turns off, fame, fortune, and lives can disappear in an instant. When TV producer Roy Radin was found dead in a canyon near L.A. in 1983, there were many questions surrounding his death. The last person seen with him was Lainey Jacobs, a seductive cocaine dealer who desperately wanted to be part of the Hollywood elite. Together, they were trying to break into the movie industry. But things took a dark turn when a million dollars worth of cocaine and cash went missing. From Wondery comes a new season of the hit show Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club Murder.

Follow Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club Murder. Follow Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club Murder on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of The Cotton Club Murder early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. William Desmond Taylor looked up at his name on the marquee of the Alcazar Theater on O'Farrell Street in San Francisco. It looked a hell of a lot more impressive than the dumps he'd been playing lately. Four years earlier, he abandoned everything in New York to start fresh. Instead, he felt as battered and bruised as the working girls who stood in front of the theater every night, desperate to make a dime. who stood in front of the theater every night, desperate to make a dime.

He picked up some wretched stomach bug touring Hawaii with an Australian stock company. He practically crawled to San Francisco on his hands and knees a few weeks ago, broke and sick. Thank God some old theater friends took pity on him. They nursed him back to health and floated him a few bucks until he was back on his feet. Then he managed to land this show on the biggest stage in the city. With luck and a few good reviews, he could start paying them back and then keep moving. He couldn't escape the feeling he was running from something that followed him wherever he went. Shake it off, old boy, he told himself. The show must go on.

He was appearing opposite stage actress Ginger Mitchell, and the 1,000-seat theater was almost sold out. Later that night, taking their bows at the final curtain, Ginger squeezed his hand tightly. They really wowed them, didn't they? Afterward, he made the rounds backstage. Self-promotion was part of every actor's bag of tricks, but Taylor did it especially well. A stocky man in a very expensive suit introduced himself as Thomas Ince, a movie guy running his own studio in Los Angeles. Of course Taylor knew who he was. Everyone knew Ince. Taylor complimented him on his latest film,

A Real Barn Burner, about General Custer. Ince sized him up and said, you should get into the movies. They could use real actors like you instead of some of these kids who just fell off the turnip truck. I'm offering you a contract to work at the New York Motion Picture Company of Santa Monica. Starting salary is $40 a week. Taylor didn't need much convincing. $40 a week sounded like a fortune. The movies it was. Ince shook Taylor's hand and said, you're gonna love Hollywood. Prince shook Taylor's hand and said, You're gonna love Hollywood. Charles Idins strides into Taylor's bungalow at 8.30 a.m. like he owns the place. He tells Detective Ziegler he needs to check a few things.

Studio business. Taylor is one of their employees. Well, ex-employee. Ziegler shrugs and quickly ushers him through. It's standard procedure for the LAPD to give studio chiefs considerable leeway. Besides, it's just another death as far as he's concerned. There's no crime scene to protect. First, Eiten confirms with the doctor who's there that Taylor died of a stomach hemorrhage. Then he surveys the people jammed into Taylor's apartment.

Five of them work for famous players Lasky. Aydin orders them to start going through Taylor's personal effects, code for anything that could raise the eyebrows of reporters. And don't forget the booze. Taylor has one of the best liquor collections in town, and if the press finds it, it won't look good with prohibition in full force. And for God's sake, cover it up before you walk it out the door. Aydin tells the others to go through Taylor's papers and letters. Anything made from a tree, take it. As the crew gets to work, Aydin notices pretty boy actor Doug McClain pacing nervously across the room. Aydin snaps at him.

You're gonna wear a hole in the damn carpet. McClane stops and looks at him desperately. Charlie, don't let them take his body away without turning it over. I know I heard a gunshot last night. No one's listening to me. Aiden scoffs. But then again, what if he's right?

What if Taylor's death wasn't a stomach hemorrhage? Jesus, the press would have a field day. Then he shakes it off. Actors and their vivid imaginations. At dawn on a warm October day in 1912, William Desmond Taylor walked through the studio lot for his first day on the job as a bona fide movie actor. In front of him were sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean. Behind him was a massive city. Not a real one, but a manufactured motion picture set on several thousand acres around the hills and plateaus of Santa Monica. Taylor had never seen anything like it. Huge open-air stages with a multitude of sets, a false western front, a Swiss landscape,

a Japanese-style village. Stagecoaches rumbled past herds of buffalo and cattle grazing in a field. The whole fantasy world was nicknamed Inceville for the producer himself. He had built this grand vision of make-believe, even importing real cowboys and Sioux Indians from a Wild West show. Taylor approached a craggy-faced cowboy. I'm William D. Taylor. I believe I need a horse. Upon hearing Taylor's British accent, the cowboy looked at him skeptically. A horse?

You don't sound like a guy who knows much about horses. You sure you know how to ride? Taylor nodded. We have horses where I come from, too. The cowboy cracked a smile. Well, I guess nobody's going to hear your voice anyway, so saddle up. Be careful, though. We just had two guys break some bones. Taylor had heard plenty about accidents on set, but it didn't worry him. Over the last few years, he'd seen far worse. Between acting gigs,

he traveled the country taking whatever jobs he could find, including mining for gold in Fairbanks, Alaska, and toiling through muck as a ranch hand in more states than he could count, he could handle a frisky horse. Taylor was slated as a supporting player, the guy who could play anyone, the friend, the businessman, the bartender, anyone except the lead. Over the next few months, it proved to be steady work, but the hours were grueling. Sun up to sun down. The studio shot several two-reelers a week. Short 20-minute films, the movie houses could run back to back. Actors brought their own costumes and most of their

props. Taylor did his best to keep up with the younger players, even when his joints stiffened from riding or his eyes burned from the massive reflective silver screens. But it was worth it. He was earning a paycheck again. But it wasn't just about the money. Taylor was in awe of everything. In studios, this town, and making movies. Something spectacular was happening in Hollywood. It was being molded and shaped before his eyes. He could reinvent himself here, alongside the town. He had finally found a place where he could stop running and leave behind his past. For good.

Past for good. Charles Eiden isn't surprised when the first reporter shows up and starts snooping around. He tells the Lasky employees hauling out Taylor's effects to move faster before one reporter turns into 12. When the coroner arrives, Eiden meets him at the door. He tells him everything's under control. A doctor had already confirmed that Taylor unfortunately died of a stomach hemorrhage. The coroner nods but tells him he still needs to examine the body. Protocol, he says matter-of-factly. Aydin glares at him. The studio executive isn't used to having his authority questioned. The coroner understands. He knows who's boss in this town. He thinks for a minute and then offers a workaround. Why not do it together?

The two men kneel down, but when the coroner reaches under Taylor's coat, something doesn't feel right. He pulls out his hand, and his fingers are covered in blood. Aydin then quickly unbuttons Taylor's vest, revealing a blood-soaked shirt. Let's get him rolled over, Aydin barks. When they get him onto his side, they see it. A bullet hole under the dead man's right arm. The examiner looks

closer and says, looks like it happened at pretty close range. From the corner, Doug McClain mutters under his breath, I knew it. Detective Ziegler instantly comes alive. People running roughshod through the place was fine when Taylor was presumed dead from natural causes, but murder is a whole new ballgame. Everybody, get the hell out. This is officially a crime scene. By the time the examiner and Iden load up Taylor's body

for the trip to the mortuary, a hungry mob of reporters has descended on the courtyard. News travels fast. As Iden passes, one of them quips, Guess you'll need a new director for your next movie. Iden tells him to shut the hell up. Inside the bungalow, Detective Ziegler uses Taylor's phone to call the station. He tells the officer at the

desk they've got a murder on their hands, and it's big. Call in the Flying Squad. The Flying Squad is the elite team of detectives who handle violent crimes committed in the early morning hours, but he's pretty sure they've never handled a murder like this. When the squad arrives, five of the detectives secure the area, making sure no more looky-loos find their way inside. Then the team gets to work interviewing Taylor's neighbors and canvassing the surrounding area. Later in the morning, the detectives question Doug McClain and his wife Faith, as well as their maid. The maid tells the cops she saw a man loitering in the alley smoking cigarettes next to Taylor's apartment. Shortly after that, both she and Faith McClain heard what sounded like a gunshot,

but they also thought it might be an automobile backfiring. When Faith opened the door to check out the noise, she saw a stocky, rough-looking guy coming out of Taylor's apartment. She said he seemed to be in no rush, even hung back a little. She swore she saw him smile at her before he disappeared into the night. The whole thing was unsettling. Back at Taylor's bungalow, the officers make some discoveries that Aydin had either missed or chosen to leave behind. Inside Taylor's writing desk, letters exchange between Taylor and a daughter who no one knew anything about. And it turns out the confirmed bachelor also has an ex-wife. Even more mysterious,

the dead man's name isn't even William Desmond Taylor. It's William Dean Tanner. William Desmond Taylor stood in the middle of a hot field with a cranky gray mare and his co-star Gibby Gibson shooting publicity stills for his latest movie. He'd been in Los Angeles for almost a year and he continued to thrive. After a series of supporting roles, he moved up the ladder into slightly meatier parts. Now he was working at Vitagraph in Hollywood, one of the oldest studios in the business, and he had finally landed the lead. The film was a western called The Night

Riders of Petersham, co-starring Margaret Gibby Gibson as his love interest. Gibby was just 19 years old, to his 42, but she'd been around the block more than once. She had acted on the stage since she was 12 to help support her mother when her father passed away. But the movies paid a lot more. Like Taylor, she had only been at Vitagraph for a year, but she hoped to be there for a long time. Taylor met her on a movie called The Kiss a few months back. Sweet kid. She'd play the naive shop girl to his wealthy Lothario. He felt awkward when the script naturally called for a kiss. With her golden curls and girlish expression, she was young enough to be his daughter Daisy, which made him wince. Best not to remember. You know, I never thanked you, Gibby said, patting the horse.

Oh, for what do I deserve praise, kind lady? For being a real gentleman, she said, back on the set of The Kiss. You were the only fellow who didn't try to get in my drawers. Any other guy who's supposed to kiss the girl would have been a real masher. Taylor gave her his best bow. My pleasure, madam. Do me a favor. Call me Billy.

By late morning, the Santa Ana winds started to kick up, blowing hot dust around the set. Take a minute, everyone, the photographer growled. Everyone's nerves were frayed. Even the mare was jittery. But Taylor was impressed with how well Gibby handled the horse's nerves. You're an old pro, he said. She furrowed her brow. Just what do you mean by that?

Taylor flushed. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imply. He was saved by her gales of laughter. Oh, goodness. You are proper, aren't you? I was just joking. I grew up with horses in Colorado. Western girls learn to ride a horse before we even go to school. That must serve you well here in Hollywood, Taylor said. You can get parts other actresses can't. This time, Gibby seemed annoyed by his comment. A lot of good that does.

Women don't get leads in westerns. We're just the sidekick or someone fluttering her eyelashes at a cowpoke. She was a funny one, Taylor thought. Such a pretty oval face and mysterious dark eyes. And another quality he couldn't quite figure out. Maybe a spark of anger behind her ingenue-like innocence. He said, I suspect you'll get wherever you want to go. She looked hopeful again.

You think so? I'd bet on it. Be patient. You've got plenty of time. Gibby looked up at him and beamed. Hello, ladies and gerbs, boys and girls. The Grinch is back again to ruin your Christmas season with Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast.

After last year, he's learned a thing or two about hosting, and he's ready to rant against Christmas cheer and roast his celebrity guests like chestnuts on an open fire. You can listen with the whole family as guest stars like Jon Hamm, Brittany Broski, and Danny DeVito try to persuade the mean old Grinch that there's a lot to love about the insufferable holiday season. But that's not all. Somebody stole all the children of Whoville's letters to Santa,

and everybody thinks the Grinch is responsible. It's a real Whoville whodunit. Can Cindy Lou and Max help clear the Grinch's name? Grab your hot cocoa and cozy slippers to find out. Follow Tis the Grinch Holiday Podcast on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Unlock weekly Christmas mystery bonus content and listen to every episode ad-free by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Spotify, or Apple Podcasts. Charlotte Shelby's driver pulls up to her Italian-style mansion on North Hobart Street just before 11 a.m.

Thank God, no press people are lurking. Yet. She gets out of the car, walks briskly to the front door, and lets herself in. Charlotte stands in the white tiled foyer for a moment, collecting her thoughts. A half hour ago, she got a call from a member of her staff who was also a bit actor. He had a part in Mabel Norman's new film, but the shoot had been canceled for the day. The whole set was buzzing with terrible news. It was canceled for the day. The whole set was buzzing with terrible news.

William Desmond Taylor was dead. Charlotte didn't dwell on the information for longer than a heartbeat. She thanked Carl for letting her know and immediately summoned her driver. If the news was already whizzing around the studios, it wouldn't be long before it hit all over town. She had to get to her daughter before that happened. As the mother and manager of famous movie actress Mary Miles Minter, her job is to contain the situation.

There's very little that can rattle Charlotte Shelby. Even though she's only 5'4", her stern, dark eyes and impervious attitude make even the toughest studio executives move out of her way. Taylor was another story. He'd thrown her off her game. His stone face so unreadable Everyone called him Regal Debonair Debonair my ass used to think

What a self-righteous bore But Mary was obsessed with Taylor From the moment he had directed her In Anne of Green Gables What Mary saw in him Charlotte never understood The man was twice her age, although that hadn't stopped her before. She climbs the grand staircase to Mary's door and

bangs on it. Mary calls out, I need some rest. I'm exhausted. Charlotte doesn't let up. Let me in or I'll break down the door. After a moment, Mary obeys. She steals herself before efficiently relaying the news. William Desmond Taylor has just been found dead. I thought you'd want to know. Mary puts her hand to her mouth as if suddenly struck deaf and mute. Charlotte takes no pity on her daughter. Well, why don't you say something?

Maybe this will teach you a lesson on how to behave in the future. Mary finally reacts, spinning around like a top, looking for her car keys. Where do you think you're going, Mary? Mary glares at her mother. To him, of course. You're not going anywhere, Charlotte tells her. But Mary's not listening. You've deliberately kept me from the man I love, but you can't keep me from him now. I'm going to him. Mary pushes past her mother, her hair ribbons trailing behind her. Mary's worried grandmother, Julia,

sees her run down the stairs. The elderly woman trots after the teenager as fast as her brittle legs will allow. Back at Alvarado Court, Detective Sergeant Ziegler pulls aside Henry Peavy, the dead man's valet, for questioning. I wish I could get the man that did it, he says, his face a mess of tears. Ziegler asks him, was everything locked when you arrived? Anything tampered with? Peavy again confirms the doors and windows downstairs were locked, and the kitchen door was hooked from the inside.

Just as I left it last night, he says. But I did leave before she did. Who's she, Ziegler asks. Peavy finally says, Miss Mabel, when I left they were drinking gin blossom martinis. I made them myself. She was always sassing me. Why, even last night she said, Henry, Mr. Taylor and I are going to get married. We're going to get married and have a baby. Will you work for me? Ziegler's ears perk up. It sounds like they were more than good friends.

Peavy says he's not sure what Miss Mabel felt about Taylor. But from Mr. Taylor's actions, he knew damn sure Taylor was crazy about her. Mabel Normand loved to tell stories about her life before Hollywood, and most of them were invented out of thin air. She didn't mean to deceive anyone, it was just more fun to make things up. As a kid growing up on Staten Island, Mabel's father would take her out on the water and point to the lights of the Manhattan skyline. He'd say, there's a great big world out there, kid,

and it's yours for the taking. She believed it was true. At 15, Mabel moved to Manhattan and quickly became an artist model and one of the era's popular Gibson girls, the feminine ideal of beauty and allure. Mabel certainly had that in spades. But there was something different about her. She was quirky, even goofy.

Eyes like big, dark saucers and long, curly black hair. She was smart and she wanted adventure in her life. A friend summed it up saying, for Mabel, being smart meant doing what wasn't done. Mabel started splitting her time between modeling and appearing in short reel films for director D.W. Griffith. She became buddies with an ambitious producer named Max Sennett, who was working for Griffith. In 1911, Sennett moved to California to start his own movie company, where he planned to direct and produce comedies. But he couldn't forget the zany, free-spirited girl he met in New York.

She would be a perfect female lead. When Mabel got his invite a year later, she hopped the first train going west, landing at the La Grande station in downtown Los Angeles. Hollywood was everything Mabel imagined it would be. Palm trees, ocean breezes, orange trees wherever you looked. And the movies. She was smitten with Sennett's comedic vision, and the two didn't waste any time before starting an affair.

She was 19 years old. He was 32. Sennett was right about his hunch to make Mabel a star. She was hilarious, and the camera loved her. Mabel quickly became Sennett's creative collaborator. They pushed the genre past the standard comedy of manners, dreaming up silly stunts and pratfalls, bumbling keystone cops chasing one another down alleys, and kicks in the rear end. Mabel made history by throwing a pie in Fatty Arbuckle's face and had no problem being on the receiving end of one either. She was gutsy and ambitious and seemed made for Hollywood. But like many who came before and after, Mabel would discover the road to fame is paved with misfortune.

The press hovers like vultures waiting for roadkill outside the Alvarado Court complex. Taylor's body is on its way to the morgue, but they're still hoping for a juicy scoop to make headlines in the afternoon edition. They get it when a robin's egg blue Cadillac Roadster roars around the corner and screeches to a stop. Mary Miles Minter is in a state. The 19-year-old ingenue actress, all of five feet, two inches tall, pushes her blonde curls out of her eyes as she runs out of her car. She's almost hyperventilating in panic as she makes a beeline for Taylor's apartment with her grandmother Julia hot on her heels.

But she's stopped by a policeman blocking the door. She looks up at him through her big blue eyes. It isn't true, is it? It can't be true. I saw him just the other day. She howls into the air. Can you come out and prove them wrong, Bill? Mary is used to playing the drama queen,

and the press is now her captive audience. The policeman at the door softens at the sight of Mary in tears, but he still won't let her in. Sorry, Miss Minter. William Taylor isn't here. They've taken him to Overhalter's morgue. This can't be happening, Mary thinks. She feels dizzy and faint.

The man she loves can't be dead. She spins around to face the reporters, her hand to her brow, and starts to sob. The reporters fire questions at her. What was your relationship with the director? When did you last see him alive? She answers one or two, but she can't think. Then an idea hits. The policeman had told her Billy was at the morgue. She must go to him. She lunges to the caddy and then speeds

away before her grandmother has even closed the passenger door. Even in her delirium, Mary can see the reporters scrambling to give chase. She pushes the gas pedal to the floor and finally careens to a stop in front of the mortuary. Reporters pull up behind her, racing to see who can get the exclusive on the young star. Mary and her grandmother hurry up the front walk and breathlessly close the front door behind them. A voice shakes Mary back to reality. I'm sorry, but visitors aren't allowed in here. Mary looks at him with the eyes of a desperate woman. I'm coming to give blood to Mr. Taylor

He tries to tell her no blood is going to save Taylor now Mary refuses to believe it I can lie down on the table and you can pump the blood out of me into him, she says The man shakes his head I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor is dead Stone cold dead You don't understand, Mary says Her panic rising again.

This is my mate. I have the right. I claim this man. But the undertaker doesn't budge. Defeated, she turns to leave. This is the worst day of her entire life. Mabel Norman has been crying non-stop since her friend Edna Proviance called her with the horrible news about Billy. And her friend Charlie had confirmed the terrible truth. He was dead. She feels the tears welling up again.

Mabel has endured so much lately. The men, the drugs, and the death of her friend actress Olive Thomas from an accidental overdose in Paris. And Big Otto, her pet name for Fatty Arbuckle, has been paraded through the headlines, accused of rape and murder, as if he would be capable of such a thing. The studio was holding back releasing all of his films, including the ones where she is a co-star. What will that do to her career?

And the one person she could rely on for advice and comfort was gone. And now, here she is sitting with two rude and insistent policemen. What can she tell them? She takes a deep breath and answers their questions. She has nothing to hide. She spent a lovely hour at his apartment. They drank gin blossom martinis, and she sat at the piano, deliberately hitting wrong notes just to hear him laugh.

Now she will never hear him laugh again. She turned down his offer for dinner and left before 8 p.m. She had an early call on the lot. She can picture him blowing kisses to her as her car drives away, to think he walked back inside to meet his death. The one cop named Sergeant Wynn jumps in. So you and Taylor were just good friends? She says yes.

He shoots her a look. Isn't that something? I never met a guy who'd just want to be pals with a looker like you. If Mabel could throttle him, she would. But Wynn doesn't let up. Do you know anyone who would want Taylor dead? Mabel is indignant. No, everyone loved Billy. Mabel has had enough. She tells the officer she's too upset to continue. As they get up to leave, Sergeant Wynne has one final parting thought. If I were you, I'd stick around town for a while. Oh God, she realizes.

They think she might be involved? Then it hits her. That night, a year and a half ago in her apartment, Billy had come over to welcome her home after her trip to the sanitarium. She was finally clean. They were celebrating her new lease on life, when there was a knock on the door. It was Mabel's old drug dealer, hoping she was in the mood to buy.

Billy had chased the dealer away, but not before the man had threatened him. Could he have killed Billy? She hopes this wasn't her fault, but she can't think about that now. To get tangled up in another drug scandal, it would mean the end of her career. And Billy wouldn't want that. Not now, after she's worked so hard to turn her life around. Let the cops find the murderer on their own. But as soon as the police walk out,

Mabel can't help but think, what if they find out? You've just finished episode one of Murder in Hollywoodland. In the next episode, Detective Ed King defies the district attorney's orders to pursue his prime suspect, actress Mary Miles Minter. As he delves into her shadowy past and domineering mother, he uncovers dark secrets that may hold the key to William Desmond Taylor's brutal murder. that may hold the key to William Desmond Taylor's brutal murder. But the closer King gets to the chilling truth, the more he realizes powerful forces are determined to keep it buried. Will his relentless quest for justice put his own life in jeopardy?

The stakes couldn't be higher as King confronts the sinister web of lies and corruption threatening to destroy him. Don't miss episodes 2 through seven of Murder in Hollywoodland, available right now exclusively on Wondery Plus. Subscribe today on the Wondery app to binge the entire gripping season completely ad-free and explore other captivating true crime investigations you won't find anywhere else. Download the Wondery app and subscribe to Wondery Plus now to unravel the rest of this riveting Hollywood mystery. On the next episode of Hollywood and Crime's Murder in Hollywoodland, a mysterious package contains clues to the murder weapon and one of the biggest starlets in Hollywood becomes a prime suspect.

Hollywood becomes a prime suspect. This was episode one of six of Murder in Hollywoodland from Hollywood and Crime. If you like what you've heard, be sure to tell your friends and fans of true crime. We're counting on you to help us spread the word. Murder in Hollywoodland was written by Elizabeth Coulson and produced and edited by Laura Donna Palavoda. Additional editing assistance by Leah Sutherland. Sound design by Kyle Randall. Audio assistance by Sergio Enriquez. Additional audio editing by Marcelino Villalpando. Our consultant is William J. Mann.

His book, Tinseltown, Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood, has a lot more amazing stories about Hollywood and the way the studios operated in the silent era. Executive producers are Marshall Louis, Stephanie Jens, and Hernan Lopez. Or Wondery. You don't believe in ghosts? I get it. Lots of people don't. I didn't either. Until I came face to face with them. Ever since that moment, hauntings, spirits, and the unexplained have consumed my entire life.

I'm Nadine Bailey. I've been a ghost tour guide for the past 20 years. I've been a ghost tour guide for the past 20 years. I've taken people along with me into the shadows, uncovering the macabre tales that linger in the darkness, and inside some of the most haunted houses, hospitals, prisons, and more. Join me every week on my podcast, Haunted Canada, as we journey through terrifying and bone-chilling stories of the unexplained. Search for Haunted Canada on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music,

or wherever you find your favorite podcasts.