Page 3 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

“I gave her that prescription only three days ago,” Engelberg says. “And only after she begged me.”

“I thought we agreed that we were weaning her off medication?” Greenson raises his voice for emphasis. “That’s what we said. No more drugs. No more. Enough.”

“We had,” acknowledges Engelberg. “And we were doing well. I’d got her usage right down. Until her last appointment when she wouldn’t let me leave without prescribing fifty capsules.” He starts picking up the bottles on the nightstand, his eyes scanning the labels. “Chloral hydrate. Jesus,” he whispers. “Knockout drops … Where did she get fifteen bottles of medicine?”

“I thought it was you,” Greenson says, glaring at Engelberg.

“Me? No. I’d never prescribe that. Mix it with alcohol and Nembutal …” He looks down at Marilyn on the bed and checks the empty bottle again.

“Fifty …” He shakes his head. “I think we should cover her up, don’t you? Or at least roll her onto her front?” He looks around the sparsely furnished and frankly inelegant room of the world’s most famous movie star. “Give the place a little decorum.”

“I can’t face it,” Greenson replies, his voice barely audible, “but shouldn’t we call the police?”

It is 4:25 a.m. when Engelberg makes the call.

THREE

“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 5 a.m. 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.

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?”

“Three a.m. 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.

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?”

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