 Hello, I'm Mr. Ed
The concept of purgatory is a familiar one to most Catholics. It's sort of a waiting room for souls, usually special cases, that merely need time to expiate whatever few sins they committed in their lives. Elizabeth Short was only twenty-two when she died, never knowing the exquisite pleasure of foreclosing on a mortgage, or framing a black suspect. Just an innocent kid with a broken heart. She got a mere sixty years.
And yet there is something still so real and vital about her mute appeals for truth, justice and closure that even nature itself must now bend it's will to that end. So it was that yesterday afternoon, on what should have been her 82nd. birthday, the inspiration struck me.
I drew a new line on the map bearing southwest from the entrance Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills Memorial Park straight to the Santa Monica Municipal Airport and then continued it until it hit sand, which it did, at the foot of Breeze Ct. in Venice, right where the alleged suicide note was found.
I couldn't believe it, at first. Surely, I had looked at that back in March? Nope, I checked it again...
And then suddenly it was falling on me like a ton of bricks...I marked the Venice location and then drew another line from there east by northeast to the Norton Av. dumpsite and continued on that line, which connects all of the dots at 300 E. Washington Blvd. The Hirsh Apartments.
Where Mr.& Mrs. Ed Barnes, late of Hollywood and environs, were last seen alive checking into the Hirsh on the morning of Sunday the 12th. of January, by the manager and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson who knew them both as regulars, and positively indentified them to the LAPD as the photobooth couple.
 Horse blanket.
12:10:18 PM 
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