It was 1947 a day before the murder, in the cold winter of New York; there was a murder that was driving me crazy. As I walk down the New York streets alone, it’s about midnight. It was around the winter time that the piercing cold ate me up like a swarm of bugs. I couldn’t feel anything; my toes were like ice ready to break off like an Alaskan winter. As I swarmed into the bar for an ice cold beer, working under cold case files made me a madman in the making. As I sit down upon my seat the blood rushes everywhere, and my heart runs crazy. The bartender asks me if we caught murder that killed, Elizabeth Short. You see Elizabeth Short was, Born: 29 July 1924, Hyde Park, Massachusetts. I am here to tell her story. . .

On the morning of January 15, 1947, a housewife named Betty Bersinger was walking down a residential street in central Los Angeles with her 3-year-old daughter when something caught her eye. It was a cold, overcast morning, and she was on her way to pick up a pair of shoes from the cobbler. At first glance, Bersinger thought the white figure laying a few inches from the sidewalk was a broken store mannequin. But a closer look revealed the hideous truth: It was the body of a woman who'd been cut in half and was laying face-up in the dirt. The woman's arms were raised over her head at 45-degree angles. Her lower of half was positioned a foot over from her torso, the straight legs spread wide open. The body appeared to have been washed clean of blood, and the intestines were tucked neatly under the buttocks. Bersinger shielded her daughter's eyes, and then ran with her to a nearby home to call the police. Two detectives were assigned to the case, Harry Hansen and Finis Brown. By the time the duo arrived at the crime scene — on Norton Avenue between 39th and Coliseum streets in Los Angeles — it was swarming with reporters and gawkers who were carelessly trampling the evidence. The detectives ordered the crowd to back off, then got down to business.

From the lack of blood on the body or in the grass, they determined the victim had been murdered elsewhere and dragged onto the lot, one piece at time. There was dew under the body, so they knew it had been placed there after 2 a.m., when the outside temperature dipped to 38 degrees. The victim's face was horribly defiled: the murderer had used a knife to slash 3-inch gashes into each corner of her mouth, giving her the death grin of a deranged clown. Rope marks on her wrists and ankles indicated she'd been restrained, and possibly tortured. By measuring the two halves of the corpse, the detectives estimated the victim's height to be 5'6 and her weight to be 115 pounds. Her mousy brown hair had been recently hennaed, and her fingernails were bitten to the quick. After calling the Los Angeles County Coroner to retrieve the body, the detectives were left with a daunting assignment: finding out who the woman was. In the 1940s, the police and the press lived in a symbiotic relationship. Reporters used the cops for inside scoops and the cops used reporters to disseminate information to the public that they hoped would help solve crimes. FBI technicians compared the prints with 104 million fingerprints they had on file, and quickly made a match to one Elizabeth Short.

Elizabeth Short embodied the feminine ideal of the 40s, with her meaty legs, full hips and a small, up-turned nose. She was drama personified. She dyed her mousy brown locks raven black, painted her lips blood red and pinned white flowers in her hair. With her alabaster skin and startling light blue eyes, she looked like porcelain doll. The provenance of her nickname is unclear. Some say her friends started calling her the "Black Dahlia" because of her fondness for the color black and in reference to a 1946 movie called "The Blue Dahlia." Whatever its genesis, the press ran with it, and doing so, made Elizabeth Short a legend.

Every time I opened her case file, things start running through my head. I mean what kind of perv would ever think of doing that, ha it was almost a bad as the case where ten teen body’s hanging from tree guts n’ all removed perfectly. There was a sad looks coming from everyone when the story was being told, some other couldn’t handle the fact that it happened. It replayed over and over again in my mind, I could never forget the day when Elizabeth Short was disassembled by some freak that had the balls to kill and not be seen or heard of again. . .