¶ A Shocking Deathbed Confession
For Ray Long, October 24th, 1964 is a day like any other. He's visiting his parents' house in Beachwood Canyon. Beachwood is a quiet community tucked deep within the Hollywood Hills. It sits directly below the Hollywood sign, but it's certainly not a haven for movie stars or directors. It's the kind of place that people move to to escape the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. Or perhaps, to hide.
As he pulls up to his parents' bungalow, Ray spots a commotion at the house next door. It's rare to see anybody outside that old vine-covered hideaway. You know the kind of house we're talking about. There's one on every block. Neighborhood kids dare each other to throw stones at it and peer through the windows. For Beachwood Canyon, that house belongs to an elderly recluse called Patricia Lewis that no one ever really sees. Today, for some reason...
Neighbors are slowly congregating outside Mrs. Lewis's crumbling home, worriedly peering over the dilapidated fence. Ray is one of the few people in Beachwood that actually knows Mrs. Lewis. She's a nice enough old lady. Sometimes she comes over to watch TV with his mom. Ray runs up the back steps of the bungalow. And what he finds shocks him. Mrs. Lewis is on the floor writhing in pain. Her eyes bulge out of her head.
Her frail, withered hands clutch her chest. It's clear. Mrs. Lewis is having a heart attack. Suddenly, she lets out a cry. A priest! The old woman is desperate. Her cataract-covered eyes stare off into the distance in horror. It's as though she's glimpsing the flames of hell. I need a priest! Rey rushes to her side. Suddenly, she snaps out of her dying haze. She turns to him, terrified. I killed William. Desmond. Taylor. She begins to sob.
She grits her teeth desperately, holding on to the life that's rapidly leaving her body. A priest! I killed William Desmond Taylor! The name means nothing to Ray. Most likely, you've never heard of him either. But in the 1910s and early 20s, William Desmond Taylor was the talk of the town. Actor, director. Spokesman. Taylor was the handsome face of old Hollywood. Everyone across America knew this Irish immigrant-turned-movie tycoon's name. He was a beacon of hope shining from the West.
the epitome of the American dream. But dreams have a funny way of dying in Hollywood. On February 1st, 1922, William Desmond Taylor, the silent film industry's golden boy, was murdered. Shot at just 49 years of age. His death shocked America. It was plastered across every headline for weeks. The LA police rushed to find his killer, but...
No culprit was ever found. Could old Mrs. Lewis's deathbed confession be the solution to Hollywood's most famous unsolved murder? To find out, we'll need to travel back in time. Back to the age of silent film, when the silver screen hid dark secrets, and sex, drugs, and murder ran rampant. At the moment of death, people often have an overwhelming need to get their biggest secrets off their chests. From murder, fake identities, illicit affairs, and even government cover-ups.
This show dives into the world's most explosive deathbed confessions. This is the story of Margaret Gibson, alias Patricia Lewis, of the words she spoke as she lay dying. It's the story of Hollywood's silent film era, and the dark underbelly it so desperately tried to hide. It's about sex, lies, and jealousy. A secret so explosive, it had the power to take down Hollywood.
Above all, it's about dreams. And one young woman's obsessive quest to make hers come true, no matter the cost. I'm Estefania Haigman, and this is Deathbed Confessions. This episode is brought to you by Happy Egg. The recipe for a better egg starts with how the hen lives. Happy Egg hens spend their days outside on pasture, running, stretching, and flapping their wings in the sunshine.
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¶ Ray Uncovers Margaret Gibson's Past
Could his kindly old neighbor really have killed a man? He never gets the chance to ask follow-up questions. Mrs. Lewis is carted off to the hospital and dies within the hour. Ray's mother tells him to just forget it. She was an old dying woman. She was probably just confused. It's a little strange how quickly his mother brushes it off. Almost as though she's too willing to dismiss Mrs. Lewis's strange dying words. Ray can't shake it.
He decides to investigate. In the days following her death, it becomes clear that Patricia Lewis was a recluse in every sense of the word. No family, no friends. Certainly no one would help unravel the mystery of her deathbed confession. Ray Long's mother seems to have been the person closest to Mrs. Lewis. Checking on her from time to time, inviting her over for dinner or to watch TV.
In the end, it appears her kindness paid off. Mrs. Lewis leaves her house, and all its contents, to the longs. So Ray starts digging through her belongings, searching through old boxes and... piles upon piles of yellowed papers for clues. At first, all he figures out is that she died poor. Very poor. But then he spies an odd-looking trunk in the corner of the living room.
It stands out against the tawdry cheap furniture that surrounds it. The trunk is also latched shut. After some effort, Ray is able to pry the trunk open. Jackpot. Digging through the trunk's contents, Ray finds black and white stills from old movies, by the looks of it from the silent era, all featuring the same beautiful woman. She plays lots of different parts. A demure farm girl, a sultry sex worker.
A bejeweled flapper. At the bottom of the trunk, Ray finds what will prove to be one of the most important pieces of evidence. A glossy black-and-white headshot. Sad eyes stare at him out of a delicate heart-shaped face framed with ringlet curls. The name Patricia Palmer is scrawled across the bottom. Ray decides to confront his mother.
Who exactly was this woman? His mom tells him that she was a silent film actress who went by the name Patricia Palmer. She became Patricia Lewis after marrying a rich man in the oil business named Albert Lewis. In fact... Mrs. Lewis had a lot of names. Six aliases and screen names that we know of. But for the remainder of the series, we're going to refer to her by her original name, Margaret Gibson. Gibby for short.
She doesn't know much about her career, but she was pretty famous at one point. Now for the big question. Could she have killed a man? Ray's mother froze. She too has a secret to get off her chest. A few months before she died, Margaret Gibson had come over to the Long's house to watch TV. A program came on that revisited the murder of William Desmond Taylor. Gibson started shaking, eyes fixed on the screen.
Then suddenly she cries out, I was the one who killed him. I killed Taylor. I thought it was all forgotten. She then ran out of the house in tears. Ray's mother didn't know what to make of Margaret Gibson's outburst. She told her husband about it. He was a detective with the LA Police Department during the 1920s. He joined the force just after the Taylor murder, but was well aware of the media circus it created.
He figured if they went to the police with their elderly neighbor's apparent confession, a similar circus might follow. The Longs didn't want that kind of attention, and they especially didn't want to bother the kindly old woman unnecessarily. So they decided to let sleeping dogs lie. When his mother finishes her story, Ray seems to let it go too, for a few decades at least. But questions remain in the back of his mind.
Questions you're probably asking yourself at this very moment. Who exactly was Margaret Gibson? What was she hiding? Was she responsible for one of the most notorious murders in Hollywood history? To find out, we'll need to go to the event at the center of the whole mystery, the grisly murder of William Desmond Taylor.
¶ The Morning of Taylor's Murder
It's the morning of February 2nd, 1922. Imagine the bright California sun slowly rising over old Hollywood. Its rays reach the stucco roofs of the Oliverado Court apartment complex. in the chic Westlake district of Los Angeles. It's an uncharacteristically cool morning. The bitter scent of smudge pots that nearby orange growers burn at night to keep their groves warm still lingers in the damp air. Normally,
Alvarado Court is a quiet, respectable community. It's home to famous starlets and directors. Large date palms and boxwood shield the inhabitants from the prying eyes of gossip columnists and fans. It's an oasis of calm for the Hollywood elite. But around 7.30 a.m., the peace is shattered. Blood-curdling screams suddenly echo out across the courtyard. In this moment, Hollywood will change forever.
Soon the whole nation will hear these screams. And they're coming from apartment 404B, the home of famed actor and director, William Desmond Taylor. This episode is brought to you by Nordstrom. Oh, what fun. Nordstrom has tons of gifts under $100 for all your favorite people, all in one place. Like beauty and grooming sets, UGG gifts, jewelry and toys. Need ideas? Check out gifts from UGG, Skims, Dipteeth.
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creating a sensual and vibrant signature scent. Uoma born in Roma fuses aromatic sage and smoked vetiver, leaving a lasting impression that lingers well into the early hours. Shop Born in Roma by Valentino Beauty, now at Ulta. At around 7.30 a.m. on the morning of February 22, 1922. Henry Peavy hops off the trolley and heads to apartment 404B in Alvarado Court. He's on his way to work. A few months ago, Peavy landed a job as director William Desmond Taylor's valet. Today...
He's clutching a bottle of milk of magnesia wrapped in a brown paper bag. Last night, Mr. Taylor had requested he bring some as his heartburn was flaring up again. Even though it meant him leaving a bit earlier to go to the pharmacy, Peavy doesn't mind taking this pit stop for Mr. Taylor. Peavy respects and is fiercely loyal to his employer. Until landing the job, he'd lived a hard and impoverished life. Now, he's on the fringes of the glamorous world of Hollywood.
He's paid well, and Mr. Taylor is one of the few people in this town that's actually nice to him. You see, Henry Peavy sticks out, even in Hollywood. He's an openly gay black man that's not ashamed of who he is. He wears brightly colored suits and flamboyant scarves and can often be seen sashaying through the streets of L.A. with his head held high. People hate that, especially the cops. But Mr. Taylor has always stood by him.
Even when, a few weeks earlier, he was arrested for cruising in Westlake Park. It was Mr. Taylor who'd posted his bail and promised to testify on his behalf in court. Peavey knows that Taylor is a good man. One of the few honest men left in this town. Which is why what he finds upon entering apartment 404B on the morning of February 2nd is so devastating. When Peavy opens the door to the apartment, the first thing he sees are Mr. Taylor's feet.
Mr. Taylor? He calls. He walks closer. William Desmond Taylor is lying flat on the ground. His arms are straight at his side. He's wearing the same clothes he was wearing yesterday before Peavy went home for the night and his shoes are still on. Mr. Taylor? Again, no response. Taylor looks serene, almost like a statue. Peavy peers at his face. That's when he notices the crimson halo of blood surrounding Mr. Taylor's head. Mr. Taylor is dead. Henry Peavy is terrified, but he knows what to do.
He needs to call the Hollywood studio to which Mr. Taylor is contracted. You might think that surely he'd first alert the police. In fact, the cops are the last people Peavy would call. That would be against protocol.
¶ Hollywood's Scandals and Censorship Battle
After all, it's the studios, not the police or even the politicians who run LA. To understand the investigation moving forward, we must first understand the immense power that the studios wielded over Hollywood and the city of Los Angeles in the 1920s. In 1907, movie studios began moving out west to chase the sun.
Before the invention of high-intensity arc lights, movies had to be filmed in studios with retractable roofs. One cloudy day could set a shoot back months. So, moviemakers left the dreary East Coast for the land of eternal sun. California. Practically overnight, the population of Los Angeles exploded. It was like the second gold rush with actors, directors, cameramen, publicists, and more packing up their lives and heading west.
They left behind their old lives and secrets, but brought with them their dreams of greatness. Among this new wave of pioneers were Margaret Gibson and William Desmond Taylor, who had strangely parallel careers. They arrived in Hollywood the exact same year, 1912, and started working at the same studio, Vitograph. The two rising stars worked together in four consecutive films.
Taylor played the handsome older suitor to Gibson's wide-eyed ingenue. They became friends. One fan magazine even described them as great friends. Gibson was one of the few people in Hollywood to call the refined gentlemanly Taylor Billy. It seemed they were headed down the same path to stardom, but that's not what happened. Taylor became a celebrated director, loved by the masses. He rubbed elbows with the Hollywood elite while siffing champagne at big movie premieres.
His films were hits and won many awards. He was revered, the pinnacle of success in the vibrant birth of the movie industry. But Margaret Gibson followed a much darker path. As Taylor's star rose, Gibson slipped into obscurity. Show business is tough, especially for women. There's always someone newer, shinier, younger waiting in the wings to take your place.
After a couple of years, Gibby was forced to start taking bit parts in cheap comedy shorts. Soon, she became consumed by Hollywood's seedy criminal underbelly. which was an environment much more closely connected to the industry than you might think. See, in 1922, movie studios are incredibly powerful enterprises. Studio executives are kings and Hollywood is their kingdom. The movie industry has ballooned into the fourth largest in the country, just behind steel, railroads, and automobiles.
But all that success has brought a lot of unwanted attention. Sex, drugs, and violence sell. They always have and always will. Conservative America, however, does not want to buy what Hollywood is selling. Protesters against the film industry say these filthy pictures will destroy the moral fiber of America. And the government listens to them. Back in 1920, the very same protesters had been instrumental in getting nationwide prohibition laws passed.
Now, the sale of alcohol is banned in all 50 states. Hollywood seems to be their next target. A few years earlier, the Supreme Court ruled that motion pictures are not protected by the First Amendment in the same way as literature or theater. As a result, censorship laws are being passed in states throughout the country. These censors ruthlessly cut or ban films they deem too sexy, too subversive. If things continue down this path,
A federal censorship law might be passed, spelling curtains for the entire film industry. And it certainly doesn't help that life imitates art in Hollywood. Tinseltown is plagued by scandal. Actors, actresses, and even directors and producers are the endless focus of gossip columns. The studios are continually on a knife's edge, hurriedly covering up sordid affairs before the censors get the chance to pounce.
If they let anything carelessly slip through their fingers, it could mean outright censorship. They've become very efficient in this endeavor, constantly using their power to sweep Hollywood misconduct under the rug. Opium-addicted starlets are hauled off to relaxation retreats, to detox beyond the prying eyes of gossip columnists. Suicides are made to look like tragic accidents. So, Hollywood takes on a type of dual personality.
The outward-facing glamour. The lights. The stardom. Then there's a side under the surface. Drug addiction. Crime. Cover-ups. No better is this scene than in the disparate lives of Taylor and Gibson. See, Taylor becomes a spokesman, a scandal-free, all-American golden boy. primed to make eloquent arguments to the press against censorship and to champion free artistic expression. But Gibson, Gibson takes on Hollywood's other face. In 1917, at the age of just 22,
¶ Margaret Gibson's Downfall and Trial
Her career was almost destroyed entirely when she became embroiled in a white-hot Hollywood scandal. A scandal that the studio rushed to cover up. When Margaret Gibson came to Hollywood in 1912, she was just 18 years old. As a talented, fresh-faced ingenue, she had no trouble getting work. Her first films were westerns. Gibby, as her friends called her, grew up in Colorado and was proficient in trick writing. She made for the perfect on-screen cowgirl.
For a while, she was the talk of the town. Newspaper articles often ran stories about her and hailed her as the next big thing. She was, for a while at least, far more famous than her on-screen paramour, William Desmond Taylor. She got a contract with Vitagraph Studios, where she stayed for three years. Then, in 1915, she got her big break starring alongside comedy star Charles King in the hit film The Coward. Gibby had worked so hard to get to the top.
She'd grown up about 10 feet below the poverty line. Her father abandoned the family when she was just 12 years old, forcing her and her mother to live out of the back of a wagon. They made their living singing and dancing in backwoods theaters from Colorado to Kansas. All the while, Gibby dreamed of greatness, of one day becoming rich and famous, and for a fleeting moment,
It looked like all of her dreams were about to come true. But Hollywood is a fickle place. By 1917, at the age of just 22, her star was rapidly fading. A local swindler convinced her to try out sex work. She could buy herself some nice things while waiting for her next big break. It took some convincing, but eventually, Gibby relented. That's how on August 25th, 1917...
Margaret Gibson found herself in a seedy brothel in the little Tokyo district of Los Angeles. She wore a scandalously low-cut kimono. Her hair was knotted up in a high-top bun. Suggestively, she reclined on a silken chaise as Japanese men went in and out the front door. The fragrant smell of opium wafted from adjoining rooms. It was a day like any other in the brothel.
Gibby sat waiting for a man to come tap her on the shoulder and take her to a room. Suddenly, the front door banged open. Gibby heard the loud voices of men barking orders. It was two police officers flashing their badges and declaring that everyone is under arrest. Gibby knew just how to play the situation. She was, after all, an actress.
She calmly explained to an officer that she was simply there researching for a role. He didn't buy it for a second. Gibby was loaded off into the paddy wagon with the rest of the sex workers in John's. This was an absolute disaster. Utterly humiliating. It could have destroyed everything she's worked for. All her dreams, obliterated in one afternoon. To get out of it unscathed, Gibby knew she needed a damn good lawyer.
She turned to the movie industry. An industry desperate to make any sordid affair such as this disappear. Somehow, Gibby got one of the best lawyers in the state, Frank Dominguez. No one knows exactly how, but it was most certainly someone from the studio that footed the bill. In any case, Dominguez worked like a charm. He painted Gibby as the victim.
a poor innocent flower unwittingly corrupted by the evil criminal underbelly of Los Angeles. When Gibby took the stand, she was a vision. Wearing a fashionable green suit, she tearfully explained to the jury that... She was just trying to research for a role. Life in Hollywood is hard and she needed more work to support her dear sweet mother. She'd certainly never participated in the sex work going on at the brothel.
She was nothing but a quiet observer. After a four-day trial, the defense rested its case. The jury took just 15 minutes to deliberate. They declared Margaret Gibson innocent of all charges. Gibby knew she dodged a bullet. So did the studio. And getting Margaret Gibson acquitted, they'd put one more fire out. But it certainly won't be the last scandal they'll have to try and erase. This podcast is brought to you by Carvana.
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¶ Studio Cover-up, Murder Confirmed
In February 1922, the Hollywood scandal du jour is that of Roscoe Fatty Arbuckle. Fatty is the comedy king of cinema, but his star is now rapidly fading. after being accused of raping and murdering aspiring actress Virginia Rapp during a booze-filled hotel party. Hollywood is in major damage control mode, and the man they would usually call to help get them out of it, William Desmond Taylor,
is lying dead on the floor of his apartment. This is an absolute disaster. It could be just the ammunition conservative America needs to pass federal censorship laws. Now perhaps you can understand why Henry Peavy calls the studio, not the police, when he discovers Taylor's lifeless body. As the studio executives listen to Peavy's frantic words, they know it's time to fight fire once again.
Back at William Desmond Taylor's apartment, the Los Angeles police are about to arrive on the scene. It's 8.30 a.m., one hour after Henry Peavy discovered the body. Taylor's landlord called the police saying that it appeared Mr. Taylor had died in the night of natural causes. He didn't see any evidence of foul play. The officers believed they were about to investigate a simple case of natural death.
We'll take a few pictures, scribble a few notes, and wait for the ambulance to arrive and take the body of William Desmond Taylor away. Accounts vary on what the police see when they arrive, but we know for sure that it's utter chaos. There's just so much going on. One claims to see two executives from famous players Lasky, the film production arm of Paramount Pictures, standing by the fireplace, dumping piles of paper into a roaring blaze.
Another says he spots a pretty young woman desperately rifling through drawers. He looks closer. Could it be? It's A-list actress Mabel Normand. She's one of Hollywood's top comedians, Charlie Chaplin's leading lady. What is she doing here? Groups of unidentified people, neighbors and friends perhaps, mill around Taylor's lifeless corpse. Suddenly, out of the pandemonium steps a neatly dressed middle-aged man.
Through his nice pince-nez glasses, he calmly stares Detective Thompson Ziegler in the eye. He introduces himself as Charles Eaton, general manager of famous players Lasky. He tells Ziegler that he has everything under control. Ziegler offers no protest. He's seen enough over the past 10 years to know who's really in charge. He, along with the other executives, and Mabel Norman tell police that Taylor suffered from terrible stomach cramps.
Henry Peavy agrees and shows them the bottle of milk of magnesia that Taylor had asked them to bring. It seems like an open and shut case. Taylor's stomach had clearly hemorrhaged and he'd fallen from the chair he was sitting in. The blood around his head must have come from his mouth. Still, there's a strange air of secrecy about the whole scene. Aiden is adamant that the studio does not want to investigate the death any further. But the body hasn't even been examined yet.
What the studio knows about Taylor's death at this point is a mystery. Studio correspondences from the month of February 1922 have either gone missing or been destroyed. But so much can be understood. about the power of Hollywood Studios from this interaction. Here we have a studio manager, not a family member or friend, speaking on behalf of the deceased, telling the police how to proceed with their investigation. But...
Ayton meets his match when Deputy Coroner William McDonald arrives. McDonald is a trained nurse. It's his duty to examine the body. He won't let anyone stop him, no matter how powerful. Aiton continues to insist that the cause of death had been a stomach hemorrhage. But McDonald knows it would be ludicrous to declare such a thing without first taking a look. He reaches his hand under Taylor's coat. When he pulls it out, it's covered in thick congealed blood.
I should say it was a stomach hemorrhage, he quips. He, with the help of Aiton, turns the body over. The back of Taylor's white shirt is stained crimson red. There in the center is a neat bullet wound. William Desmond Taylor's death was no accident. No, this is yet another Hollywood murder. Outside the apartment, the press are already gathering. Flashbulbs explode as the body of Hollywood's golden boy is carried out on a stretcher. They peer through the windows of apartment 404B.
Some precocious reporters even try to break in. The sharks are circling, but the feeding frenzy is only just beginning. Just after midday, the afternoon newspapers hit the stands. Throughout Los Angeles, the voices of newsboys can be heard screaming, Murder Shocks Film Colony! The studio is in full crisis mode. The scandal could ruin them.
They know they need to spin the story in a way that removes all culpability from the movie industry. Just imagine if someone in the business had anything to do with this. Some disgruntled cameraman. A jealous fellow director. Even some jilted actress? The press would have a field day. Even worse, conservative America's fears that the film industry was deteriorating the moral fabric of the nation might seem justified.
Back at Alvarado Court, the police have begun their murder investigation. Douglas McLean, a famous actor known for his good looks, who lives just across the way from Taylor, says he heard a muffled gunshot between 8 and 8.15 the night before. Another neighbor claims she saw a man wearing a flat cap rush out of the house shortly after. He was about 5 foot 10 inches, medium build and casually dressed. Two gas station attendants remember seeing a man who fit that description at around 6 p.m.
He'd asked them directions to William Desmond Taylor's house. At first, the police suspect a robbery gone wrong, but further inspection of the body proves that this wasn't the case. Taylor arrives at the morgue with $78 in his pocket, a diamond ring on his finger, and a $2,000 platinum watch on his wrist. But if robbery wasn't the motive, then what was?
¶ Star-Studded Suspects, Gibson's New Identity
The police start thinking of possible suspects. And it's as star-studded as the Hollywood Walk of Fame. There's no sign of forced entry, so it's possible that the murderer was someone who Taylor knew. First on the list is, of course, Henry Peavy. The valet was the first to find the body. He was also in legal trouble, for morals charges no less. The day of the murder, Taylor was scheduled to appear in court in defense of Peavy.
Could Mr. Taylor have changed his mind at the last minute, causing Peavy to fly into an uncontrollable rage? Then there's A-list comedy queen Mabel Normand. She's one of Taylor's closest friends, but it's well known that she suffers from a serious cocaine addiction and sometimes behaves erratically. Certain reports read that she was there when police arrived on the scene.
rifling through his drawers. She claimed she was just looking for personal letters, something to remember her old friend by. But could she really have been trying to hide evidence? The most explosive on the suspect list is little Mary Miles Minter. At just 19, Minter is Hollywood's newest ingenue. Papers say she'll be the next Mary Pickford.
Sweet, demure, with the face of an angel and a halo of blonde hair to match. Minter is Hollywood's golden girl, but she also had a nasty habit of falling for much older men. And in 1922, her daddy du jour was none other than William Desmond Taylor. They'd worked together on a few films, and the young star was absolutely infatuated by him.
Could the 49-year-old Taylor have rebuffed her schoolgirl crush? Finally, there's Mary's mother, Charlotte Shelby. Shelby watches over her daughter like a hawk. Mary is, after all, The family's cash cow. William Desmond Taylor wasn't the first older director her daughter had become infatuated with. By now, the press have caught wind of Mary Minter's penchant for older men. But Charlotte Shelby has a way of dealing with these potential suitors.
She threatens them with her snub-nosed .38 caliber pistol, the very same type of gun that was used to shoot William Desmond Taylor. The name Margaret Gibson is never mentioned in connection to the murder. Maybe. That's because Margaret Gibson no longer exists. In 1918, one year after the humiliating debacle in Little Tokyo,
Margaret Gibson knows she needs a fresh start. Sure, she's been acquitted of the sex work charges, but she's still a marked woman. If the studios didn't want her before, they definitely won't want her now. No, Gibby needs a fresh start. A new name. One that will make people forget that horrible day in little Tokyo. Patricia Palmer. Now that's the kind of name that will instill confidence. Patricia Palmer was never on trial for vagrancy.
Hell, she'd never even been to Little Tokyo. She was just a fresh-faced new starlet, as pretty as Mary Miles Minter, as talented as Mary Pickford herself. In 1920, after a few years acting under her new name, Gibby is ready to take Patricia Palmer to the big leagues. At this point, Margaret Gibson is 25 years old. Already the age where even the top starlets start to be forgotten. Patricia Palmer is just 19. She's got plenty of time to climb her way to the top. The world is her oyster.
No one will ever know that Patricia Palmer is really Margaret Gibson. It's easy to create a new identity in the 1920s, even if you're a movie star. Most of Gibby's movies have already been dumped in the vault. Soon the film will crumble into dust. never to be seen again. Only the very best films are preserved, and none of Gibby's work falls into that category. Still, Gibby can use some of the connections from her former life on screen.
And one of her biggest connections is famous Players Lasky director William Desmond Taylor. She's sure that her dear friend Billy will remember her. He's such a good man. Of course he'll help her in her new life as Patricia Palmer. If he doesn't, well, that would just be cruel. The nerve he would have to have to reject her. The man she'd once outshined on screen, who had leapfrogged over her success.
That could be the kind of rejection that finally sends Gibby, ambitious, obsessively driven Gibby, right over the edge. Next week on Deathbed Confessions, Ray Long and a group of web sleuths begin untangling Margaret Gibson's web of lies. We enter the minds of detectives in 1922 as they hunt for William Desmond Taylor's killer. The Los Angeles Police Department investigates their star-studded list of suspects. And the studio races to hide evidence.
For more information on Margaret Gibson and the murder of William Desmond Taylor, amongst the many sources we used, we found Tinseltown, Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood by William J. Mann, a cast of killers by Sidney Kirkpatrick. and Bruce Long's Taylorology newsletter, extremely helpful to our research. Deathbed Confessions is a Spotify original from Parcast, produced in partnership with Noiser. Executive produced by Max Cutler, Drew Cole, and Pascal Hughes.
Developed by Julian Boirot for Parcast. Written and produced by Addison Nugent. Music by Oliver Baines and Dori McCauley. Mixmaster and sound design by Thomas Pink for Noiser.