‘Marilyn Monroe has died. She’s committed suicide.’
Sergeant Jack Clemmons is a homicide investigator with the Los Angeles Police Department. He immediately presumes the call is a hoax. Drunks call the police department, making ridiculous claims, at every hour of the day.
‘Who did you say was calling?’ he asks.
‘I’m Dr. Hyman Engelberg, Marilyn Monroe’s physician. I’m at her residence. She’s committed suicide.’
‘I’ll come right away.’
It is almost 5am when Sergeant Clemmons arrives. He’s already radioed for backup. He hopes they won’t be long. It’s never pleasant attending a suicide.
The one-story bungalow with a tiny front yard is smaller than he expected. Don’t they make millions in Hollywood? He knocks on the front door.
It takes a while for someone to answer. Weren’t they expecting him? He can hear the constant yapping of a dog. And from the inside, whispering and shuffling sounds.
Marilyn Monroe (pictured) was 36 when she was discovered dead in her bed, phone receiver in her hand, by her housekeeper
The actress had struggled with prescription drug addiction in the final years of her life and was surrounded by multiple pill bottles when she was found dead
Finally, an elderly woman answers. She’s neatly dressed in a maroon skirt and a buttoned-up baby-blue cardigan.
‘Sergeant Clemmons.’
‘Eunice Murray,’ she replies, smiling briefly. ‘I am Marilyn Monroe’s housekeeper. Or I was… She’s committed suicide.’
‘She has?’
‘I found her. Lying on her bed, naked, still holding the telephone. It was the telephone cord that first alerted me,’ she continues in an odd monotone. ‘I woke and left my bedroom,’ she indicates across the corridor. ‘And I saw the cord and the light under the door.’
‘What time was this?’
‘3am. I remember it as I looked at my watch.’ She lifts her wrist by way of demonstration. ‘Over here.’
He follows Mrs. Murray through the hall.
Pills can be seen on Marilyn’s nightstand in the bedroom where she was discovered dead, as well as a diary and an expensive face cream. Sergeant Jack Clemmons stated there was no glass near the bed – though this has been disputed
She points toward the open bedroom door. ‘Forgive me if I don’t come in. But I have a lot to do.’
In the half-lit bedroom, Clemmons finds two men, who introduce themselves as Marilyn Monroe’s attending physicians. Dr. Greenson sits with his head in his hands, while Dr. Engelberg paces the cream-colored carpet. He glances at the broken window and the pinking dawn, like he is waiting for something.
Clemmons surveys the small bedroom. There’s no glamorous padded headboard, no glittering chandelier, none of the spoils of stardom. There are pills and handbags and clothes on the floor, which is now also covered with shattered glass. He looks down at the bed. Marilyn’s body is covered in a sheet. She is lying on her front. One arm hangs off the bed, her hand in a claw. Her unpolished fingernails are bitten to the quick.
This isn’t right. Clemmons furrows his brow. Marilyn’s legs are perfectly straight. Her face is buried in a pillow. He’d like to get a look at her mouth, check for signs of foam or vomit. Suicides are usually messier than this. The normal signs of distress or struggle are not present.
‘Where’s the drinking glass?’
‘The what?’ replies Dr. Engelberg.
‘Her glass of water.’ Clemmons nods toward the nightstand. ‘If you’re going to take a lot of pills, you need a lot of water.’
‘I don’t know,’ Dr. Engelberg sounds irritated. ‘Maybe the housekeeper does.’
‘So, this is not the crime scene?’ The sergeant looks from one doctor to another.
‘It is,’ declares Dr. Engelberg. ‘But there’s no crime.’
‘So, where’s the glass?’
‘There wasn’t one,’ says Greenson. ‘Not when I broke in through the window anyway.’
‘No glass,’ confirms Clemmons, taking out his notepad.
‘Not that I saw,’ says Dr. Greenson. ‘But then I wasn’t really looking. I was more worried about, um, the patient.’
‘You broke in?’ asks Clemmons.
‘Through that window.’ Dr. Greenson glances over his shoulder at the shattered windowpane.
‘And did you try to revive her?’
‘It was too late,’ replies Dr. Engelberg.
‘We were all too late,’ adds Greenson. ‘Do you have any idea when she took the pills?’ Neither doctor meets his eye.
‘No,’ they both reply.
‘Do you mind if I take a look?’ he asks, indicating the bed.
‘Go ahead,’ replies Dr. Engelberg.
Clemmons pulls back the sheet. There are the distinctive blond curls, the smooth curves of her shoulders, the luminous white skin of her back. He pauses. It feels almost indecent to carry on. There’s a slight purple discoloration over her buttocks. Her smooth legs are aligned, her toes turned inward. She has a dried-up blister on her left foot. He covers her quickly. It feels intrusive.
‘Any idea who she was calling?’ he asks.
‘Calling?’ Dr. Engelberg looks surprised.
‘The housekeeper says she was holding the telephone?’
‘Oh? Did she? Maybe she realized what she had done and was calling for help?’
‘But the housekeeper’s bedroom is less than ten feet away. Why wouldn’t she just shout out?’
There’s another knock at the front door. This is my case now, Clemmons thinks as he strides to answer it, determined not to leave the two doctors alone at the scene any longer than necessary.
‘Who are you?’ asks the sergeant.
Standing on the doorstep is a scrawny young man with a small chin and a large Adam’s apple, dressed in workman’s dungarees and carrying a toolbox.
‘Norman. Norman Jeffries. I came as quickly as I could. My mother-in-law called and asked me to come and fix a broken window.’
‘Your mother-in-law?’
‘He’s married to my daughter,’ Mrs. Murray says. ‘He does all the odd jobs around the house.’
‘And you called him?’ Clemmons is astonished. Who comes to mend a broken window at 5:15 in the morning?
‘He lives locally. And it needs to be done.’
Eunice looks at the detective. ‘It’s dangerous.’
Clemmons takes a step back to allow the handyman in.
‘There are newsmen outside the house,’ Jeffries tells the sergeant. ‘And a few of the neighbors.’
‘Newsmen?’ asks Clemmons. ‘
That’s right,’ he confirms. ‘They asked what I was doing here. I said I was here to fix a broken window. Has something happened?’
Was his call for backup intercepted?
‘How many people are outside?’ asks Clemmons.
‘Twenty, thirty,’ replies the handyman. ‘I didn’t stop to count.
Extracted from The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe by James Patterson & Imogen Edwards-Jones. Available now from bookstores, as an eBook and audiobook
