Los Angeles never sleeps — not the lights, not the whispers, and certainly not the lies.

On November 13th, 2021, as dawn broke over Culver City, hospital staff stepped outside to find a young woman lying motionless by the curb. She wasn’t a homeless stranger. She was Christy Giles, 24, a model with a million-watt smile and an even brighter future. Hours later, across town, another woman — Hilda Marcella Cabrales Arzola, 26, an architect who’d just moved to LA chasing her dream job — was dropped off at another hospital, also unconscious.

Both women were left there by men who vanished into the night. Within days, they were gone.

At first, police thought it might be an overdose — Hollywood’s familiar heartbreak. But as detectives peeled back the layers, they uncovered something darker.

The man at the center wasn’t just any party boy.
He called himself David Brian Pierce — a “producer” who craved fame but never earned it.
Instead, he built his own twisted version of Hollywood — one fueled by lies, drugs, and power over women who just wanted to belong.

“THE PRODUCER THAT NEVER WAS”

On paper, Pierce looked like one of those Hollywood types you meet at every rooftop bar — slick hair, expensive watch, endless talk about “projects in development.”

His IMDb credits? Four tiny films between 2005 and 2007 — the most notable, a horror flick called Tooth and Nail, with a 20% Rotten Tomatoes score. Hardly the stuff of legends.

But in LA, image is everything. Pierce knew that.
He didn’t need success — he needed the illusion of it.
And for years, that illusion worked. He introduced himself as “a producer,” flashing connections, dropping names, offering access to parties where music pulsed and dreams blurred with lines of white powder.

“THE NIGHT OF THE RAVE”

It was Friday, November 12th, 2021 — a warehouse rave in East LA.

Christy and Hilda arrived together, two friends looking for a night out. Security cameras captured them laughing, glowing in neon lights — unaware that it would be the last footage ever taken of them alive.

That’s where they met Pierce.
And by 5 a.m., they followed him back to his Beverly Hills apartment, accompanied by two men — Brandt Osborne and Michael Ansbach.

Hours later, Christy texted Hilda:

“Let’s get out of here 👀.”
Hilda replied, “Yes, I’ll call an Uber.”

The Uber arrived. But they never made it to the car.

By sunrise, they were gone — and Pierce was on camera carrying what looked like Christy’s body to a black Prius without license plates.

When detectives searched Pierce’s phone, they found a message that made even seasoned investigators’ blood run cold.

“Dead girls don’t talk.”

It was the sentence that sealed his fate — proof not just of guilt, but of conscious cruelty.

The LAPD traced Christy’s phone back to Pierce’s apartment. Inside, they found traces of fentanyl, ketamine, and GHB — the date rape drug.

Both victims had the same substances in their systems.
Both had been sexually assaulted.
Both had been dumped like trash outside hospitals.

And when Pierce took the stand, his defense only made things worse.
He called his home a “party house.”
He said people “passed out there all the time.”
He admitted he never called 911 — because, in his words, “the lifestyle I was living wasn’t conducive to regular behavior.”

In other words — he watched them die.

The jury deliberated for two and a half days.
Then came the verdict: Guilty on all counts — two murders, seven rapes, multiple sexual assaults.

A courtroom full of survivors exhaled for the first time in years.

When Judge Eleanor Hunter read the sentence — 146 years in state prison — there was no applause.
Only silence.
A silence filled with grief, rage, and the ghosts of what might have been.

For Christy’s mother, who once believed her daughter was destined for billboards, the only image she’ll ever see now is a hospital photo — pale skin, lifeless eyes, a dream stolen.

For Hilda’s family, who crossed borders to watch justice unfold, it’s the cruelest irony — she moved to LA to build beautiful things, and instead, LA destroyed her.

Even now, the story of David Pierce has become a haunting urban legend in Los Angeles nightlife — whispered in green rooms, on film sets, at afterparties.
The “producer” who promised fame but delivered funerals.

And as more women come forward, one thing becomes chillingly clear:
This wasn’t just a tragedy. It was a pattern — one hidden in plain sight, thriving under the glow of red carpets and fake smiles.

Hollywood loves a comeback story. But not this time.

Pierce will die behind bars. His name erased from film credits, but etched forever into true-crime history — a cautionary tale for every dreamer who thinks the lights of LA only shine.

Because beneath the glitter, the city has a heartbeat of shadows — and sometimes, those shadows have names.