“I remember that case pretty darn well,” ex-Palm Springs Police Officer Joe Jones says. “I joined the police department in September of ’64. Twenty-two years old. I hadn’t been to the academy yet.”
When they arrived at the scene, Jones walked in first.
“The front door opened to the living room,” he recalls. “She was on the couch. The blood from the head wound had gone through the pillow and soaked the floor. My God! My first felony report is a murder! I didn’t touch her. I looked around for a weapon and started writing my report.”
The fireplace was roaring. The telephone receiver was off the hook, lying on the dining table. On the wall hung a bright red wooden barometer — a piece of art — emblazoned with the words “How is my darling today?” and painted with a floral motif. The “He” hand pointed toward “Affectionate.” The “She” hand stopped on “Cold.”
On the couch, 29-year-old Gail Neal lay dead, her arms raised toward her face, wrists bent, and hands frozen in place inches from her chin. A white bedspread covered her body to her neck.
“There was no doubt in my mind when I walked in that someone had walked up to this gal and shot her through the head,” Jones says.
Tom Neal, a graying 51-year-old landscaper with Hollywood dreams, was promptly arrested.

Tom Neal (1914–1972) began his acting career in theater, performing on Broadway in 1935 and appearing in his first film in 1938. He found his footing in Hollywood as a B-list star of the 1940s and was being groomed by MGM to become a leading man when things went awry.
Twenty-five years earlier, Neal was a rising star at MGM being groomed as a Clark Gable type. But his promising film career spiraled with scandals that rivaled Errol Flynn’s — a penchant for starlets and headlines eclipsed his performances.
“Movie queens. I get involved with them,” Neal told a reporter. “I had a great chance at MGM, but a certain actress on the lot killed it for me. The same thing happened at RKO. I loused myself up. If the lady is with you, your career goes. If the lady’s not with you, you don’t go.”
Despite his expulsion from MGM, Neal thrived as a leading man in the 1940s. He possessed rugged good looks and an air of sophistication, and he came cheaper for the smaller studios. But by 1951, his extracurriculars could no longer be ignored. Neal had sent respected actor Franchot Tone to the hospital with a severe beating, and he painted the town red too often with actress Barbara Payton. Major studios wouldn’t touch him.
Neal bided his time, waiting for another chance to headline. It never came. By 1954, he’d been relegated to bit roles on live, local soap operas in Chicago. Even then, he was often at odds with the writing staff and found himself being written out. He decided to forge his own path back to the limelight.
The frustrated actor settled in Palm Springs in 1955 armed with a new screenplay. The project, titled 4:20 a.m., would be his triumphant return. The character he wrote for himself, “Steve Granite, Private Investigator,” was an amalgamation of every role he’d ever had.
To fundraise, Neal hosted parties for producers and local businessmen. But the industry was evolving away from his brand of brash, hard-boiled, misogynistic characters.
When the resurrection flopped, restaurateur Ethel Strebe hired Neal as a host and bouncer at The Doll House, a hot spot for celebrities of the time on North Palm Canyon Drive. Stationed at the door, amid the sounds of revelry and the rhythmic guitar pickings of The Guadalajara Trio, Neal observed the daily procession of stars, holding court and living the carefree life.
This is temporary, he told himself.
He yearned to reclaim his standing among his former peers, but Palm Springs harbored constant reminders of the life he’d lost. For one, the July 1956 issue of The Villager featured William and Diane Powell on the cover. The happy couple paraded around town. Neal had starred opposite William in 1939’s Another Thin Man and was engaged to Diane when, abruptly, she left him and married Powell.

The crime scene (left) and Gail posing for a photograph on the couch.
There at The Doll House, night after night, Neal witnessed his acting career fade into obscurity. Desperation prompted introspection, leading him away from the Hollywood periphery into a complete self-rebranding. He turned an interest in landscaping into a new career, launching Tom Neal & Co., advertised as the “complete maintenance service.”
Neal also immersed himself in Christian Science. For the first time in his life, the plot aligned, and the characters felt authentic. His “happily ever after” came in the form of Patricia Fenton, a beautiful Western Airlines flight attendant he met at the church.
At 43, Neal had found a peace he’d never known. “I wouldn’t go back to acting for anything,” he told reporters. “I’m outside all day. I’m my own boss, and I don’t have to worry about waiting for work. I’m a very fortunate man. I’ve found religion, a good wife, and work I can be proud of.”
But Patricia’s cervical cancer diagnosis during the delivery of their son, Thomas Patrick Neal, shattered Neal’s world.
As part of his beliefs, the Illinois native perceived the material world as an illusion — the real world existed within the spiritual realm. Consequently, any illness or diagnosis was not seen as a physical ailment but rather a manifestation of the mind. Prayer, in lieu of medicine, was considered the most effective treatment.
The couple battled Patricia’s diagnosis through rigorous prayer, but her condition deteriorated rapidly. For the sake of their son, Neal broke protocol and drove Patricia to Riverside for weekly radiation treatments. But it was too late. Patricia, only 29, died March 11, 1958.



Crime scene photos show the living room, a close-up of the decorative “How is my darling today?” barometer hanging on the wall, and the exterior of the Neal residence.
After her death, the grieving widower claimed to receive a visitation from Patricia, saying she had explained the cure for cancer: “naphthalene mixed with camphor.” Neal was so convinced by her visit that he contacted the head of research at a Chicago university.
Finding his way back to Hollywood, the actor-turned-landscaper parlayed his grief into two small roles. Sympathy, however, only went so far. The industry didn’t want him. By 1961, Hollywood in itself was the illusion. Neal’s world had contracted, with everything in decline: stature, bank account, lifestyle.
One night at Il Destino, a restaurant in Palm Springs, the bright smile of Gail Kloke, a 24-year-old transplant from Los Angeles, caught Tom Neal’s eye. She was vibrant and youthful. Instant attraction ignited a chemical and volatile romance. In less than three months, they eloped.
Gail’s cousin, Dennis Cser, remembers visiting the newlyweds in Palm Springs over spring break. “She didn’t seem that happy,” Cser shares. “He got religion, and he was so fanatic. He went overboard. He was getting her up at like 4 o’clock in the morning to pray and study the Bible.”
Even for Neal, the honeymoon period only lasted so long. The landscaping work was slowing, and financial troubles piled up. They sought refuge in his hometown of Evanston, Illinois, where his family always welcomed them with open arms, often carrying their costs.
The tighter his wallet, the more jealous Neal grew. He fenced in what little was left, including his wife. “She told me, ‘I couldn’t go to any social function where he was in attendance, where I was talking to any individual male for at least 30 seconds,’ ” Neal’s nephew, Walter Burr, later recalled of Gail.
The escalating aggression became so noticeable that a plastic surgeon friend suggested Neal take shots of estrogen.
“I will never be able to thank you both for putting up with all of us through so many trips and moves in and out,” Neal wrote in a letter to his family after returning to Palm Springs. “Several clashes of temperament. Garlic. Very rare beef. I was running away from responsibility and myself. No one ever tried harder, but you just can’t run far enough. I am in real good shape now. Back in the swing of landscaping and maintenance service. Have picked up several new accounts and just finished our first landscaping job on Friday in the Las Palmas section. Contemporary job with Italian cypress and many varieties of junipers, natal plums, and white dolomite boulders.”
But with each passing day, as Neal tilled soil for his famous clients, the persistent longing he thought he had buried bubbled back to the surface. His former glory still felt within reach, if only he could find the right project.
Neal had persuaded a young writer to team up on Who Killed the Black Dahlia?, a dark murder mystery. John Gilmore recalled the project in his memoir, Laid Bare: “Tom was on the phone with me almost daily to ‘get pages piled,’ as he’d put it, to sew up a deal with the Palm Springs money he claimed to have on tap as co-producer. It was Tom’s plan to co-star in the movie as a tough L.A. detective who falls in love with the dead girl.”

Neal reviews paperwork in 1965.
As Neal immersed himself in the project, the lines between reality and fiction blurred. Gail noticed increasingly peculiar behavior, confiding in a friend that her husband would leave the house but sneak back, hiding outside and peering through the windows.
Neal’s revival failed, again. Producers feared his volatility and, despite liking the project, were unwilling to accept the washed-up actor’s ongoing involvement.
Rejection intensified a profound internal conflict for Neal. On the one hand, he exhibited tenderness, caring for a large tortoise and rescuing cats, even nursing a one-winged meadowlark back to health. Yet, on a separate occasion, in the presence of his business partner, he flashed his .45-caliber pistol and shot at a cat walking along the perimeter of his backyard.
Following an eruption of marital tensions that turned physical, Neal once again absconded to Illinois, this time pulling his son out of school and all the money out of the bank but leaving Gail behind. Gail pled with his relatives to get him psychiatric help. He refused and confined himself to his room, believing he could fix himself through prayer and study.

The bailiff escorts Neal through the courthouse.
Gail cashed several small landscaping checks but then noticed that the mail delivery had stopped. When she called the post office, she was told that Neal put a hold on the mail.
Cut off from support, Gail found work as a receptionist at the Palm Springs Tennis Club in early 1965, and her autonomy began to re-emerge. She started dating a successful (but married) businessman and tennis player. Word soon reached her husband.
Gail came into work one day in March, visibly shaking. She had just filed for divorce and feared what Neal might do. She had an arrangement with his family — they would call if he were to leave Illinois and return to Palm Springs.
Two weeks later, Neal told his family he was off to Detroit for work. Instead, he flew to Los Angeles, rented an ivory Mustang under a partially fake name, and drove east to the desert.
When Gail arrived home from work on March 31, 1965, Tom Neal was waiting. There were no warm greetings; both harbored suspicions. He had rifled through her things, finding intimate letters written by Allen. Gail ensured that every caller and visitor knew Neal was back in town.
He claimed to return to Palm Springs for reconciliation. Gail agreed to a dinner. At Kelly’s Steak House on South Palm Canyon Drive, they washed down their steaks with martinis. Alcohol smoothed the edges, and dinner turned into a night on the town. Neal proposed they go dancing.
At Ethel’s Hideaway, across from the Ocotillo Lodge, libations continued to flow as they discussed the divorce papers. After an hour, they left for Rim-Rock, preferring its atmosphere to the pop-rock music at the Hideaway, ordering more drinks and dancing until the early morning.
The next day, Neal awoke before dawn, full of nervous energy. He persuaded Gail to join him for lunch, determined to seal the deal. They opted for Laurye’s Steak Ranch, ordering a hair of the dog and steak sandwiches.
Still nursing her hangover after lunch, Gail laid down on the couch. Her suitor moved in, dialing up the affection. As Neal kissed her, Gail pulled away.
Moments later — the gunshot.
Neal prayed, covered Gail with a blanket, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and peeled off in the Mustang. He sped toward the train station at the edge of town and looked over the schedule. No imminent departures.
Back in the Mustang, he mulled his options. He considered ending his life. Instead, he fired up the engine and raced toward Idyllwild, knowing friendly faces awaited at the Tirol restaurant.
During the Tom Neal trial, District Attorney Roland Wilson laid out an airtight case, proving the impossibility of an accidental shooting, the crux of Neal’s defense. “We had experts in, testifying about the grip safety on the .45,” former Officer Joe Jones recalls. “There isn’t any way you can accidentally discharge it without a finger on the trigger and a hand depressing the safety on the back of the grip.”
From his years onstage and on screen, Neal understood his audience. He knew their fears, desires, and emotional unlocks. The trial reinvigorated him, giving him the spotlight to do what he hadn’t been able to do for years — act. The jury pleased him greatly. “I have a wonderful jury,” he said after their selection. “Ten women and two men. One juror looks exactly like my mother. But exactly!”

Neal gives a double thumbs-up during trial proceedings.
With his life on the line, Neal was oddly composed. He believed he had divine intervention. “Each time I go to the courtroom, I pause at the doorway while God enters before me as I strive for the prize of the high calling of God, to have the same mind in me that was in Christ Jesus,” he wrote in a letter to the widow of his best friend, Ed Hall, during the trial.
In the days spanning Neal’s testimony and cross-examination, the son of a jury member tragically died. The distraught juror was replaced with an alternate. On the stand, Neal invoked Patricia’s death and the helpless feeling of losing a loved one. “Patrick has now lost two mothers,” he told the jury, speaking of his son. He wove together a pitch-perfect tale of infidelity, personal tragedy, and self-defense, infusing his testimony with religious incantations.

He poses at a gravesite while out on bail during the trial.
Neal explained the presence of the gun as a means of protection for Gail, claiming she told him she had been followed home from the Tennis Club on multiple occasions and that one night someone had tried to enter the house. Neal brought out the .45 and showed her how to load it.
But in an outburst, after he confronted her about her infidelity, Neal said he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. In a split-second reaction, he shoved her arms away, and the fatal shot rang out. Immediately, he went into shock. The trauma, he claimed, erased any knowledge of the gun’s whereabouts.
Ignoring stone-cold facts, the star-struck jury rewarded Neal’s performance with the least possible charge: involuntary manslaughter, one step above complete exoneration.
“He’s an actor,” Jones says, “and at least one woman on the jury fell in love with him. But we didn’t know that until after the trial.”

Film from Neal’s gravesite shoot depicts a state of sorrow.
Just before Thanksgiving, Neal was granted bail until sentencing. As a free man, he worked to refine his persona. He knew the audience needed more — the main character had to undergo a transformation.
At Desert Memorial Park, a cemetery in Cathedral City, the click of a camera shutter cut through the stillness of the graveyard. Neal had orchestrated a somber scene. He placed a bouquet of ferns and roses on a flat headstone. He hung his head, overcome by grief. Click. He buried his forehead in the palm of his hands. Click. He raised his hands toward the sky. Click. The photographer backed away, firing off a rapid succession of photos. Grief. Anguish. Despair.
Only one problem: Gail had been laid to rest by her family 127 miles away at Inglewood Park Cemetery.
Neal’s moving display held a grotesque irony. It was Juanita Zepeda’s grave that he’d chosen for this scene. Five years earlier, in August 1960, 10-year-old Juanita Zepeda had gone missing. After a frantic house-by-house search, her brother, Ruben Zepeda, a part-time gardener, discovered her body buried in a shallow grave next to a flower bed outside their home. Juanita had been struck with a blunt object and buried alive during a robbery by Jose Angel Gonzales, another gardener. A landscaper himself, Neal likely knew either the victim’s family or the killer.
Multiple rolls of film were shot during Neal’s two-week stint on bail, revealing a glimpse into his psyche as his character depicted the stages of grief. Beyond the cemetery scenes, photos show Neal forlorn outside his house, singing in the desert with his Bible, resuming his landscaping duties, sharing an intimate dance with a woman in a local nightclub.
Prosecutor Roland Wilson and Judge Hilton McCabe presided over both Juanita Zepeda’s case and Neal’s. While it remains unknown if they knew of the actor’s macabre display in the cemetery, they saw through his courtroom performance. Tom Neal received the maximum sentence for involuntary manslaughter: 15 years. He served only six years at California Institute for Men, aka Chino, where he oversaw the landscaping around the prison grounds.

This portrait of Neal was taken in 1972, the year he returned to Hollywood and the year he succumbed to heart failure.
Out on parole in December 1971, he found an apartment in Studio City on Radford Avenue, across the street from CBS Studio Center, once the home of Republic Studios, which helped to launch his career 30 years prior.
If he could just find the right project, he told himself, staring at the gate. Alas, it never came. Neal died of heart failure at his home exactly eight months after his release.