t’s pretty rare when a documentary film about a thirty-year-old unsolved murder uncovers a viable lead to the actual perpetrator, but My Brother’s Killer is a perfect example of one. Our victim, Billy London, was a product of the eighties, a time when people did not freely declare themselves to be gay. He knew exclusion, disdain, and actual violence could be the result. As a young man, he left his small town home and eventually landed in L.A. In his short time there, he made gay porn to subsist and found a place for himself in the gay community. At age twenty-five, he was set to move out of state to help his mother set up a home for her retirement. The day before he was to leave was the last day he was seen alive.
His severed head was found the next day by a dumpster diver. It was big news in the gay community but hardly mentioned in the mainstream press. A friend and ex-business partner was able to ID him; his body was never found. For years, it remained one of L.A.’s unsolved gristly murders, like the Black Dahlia from the forty’s. Recently, his brother and some amateurs started looking through whatever clues they could find and presented them to the current cold-case detective. To everyone’s surprise, this led to an actual resolution.
This film is an intriguing look into L.A.’s past gay culture, when handsome young men would leave their stultifying small towns in hopes of fame, fortune, and love, but sometimes only find a tragic end. It’s sympathetic and tastefully done, considering the subject matter. It gives some closure to know, after all this time, the person and reasoning behind the killing. It gives some hope that things may have changed for the better.