Page 5 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe
“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.”
FOUR
THE SECRET IS OUT. Hollywood’s screen goddess is dead.
Sergeant Clemmons’s radio call was overheard and beamed around the world. Newspaper editors are waking their reporters, demanding that they get over to Brentwood.Time, Life,and theNew York Herald Tribunealready have writers stationed outside Marilyn Monroe’s gate.
More reporters arrive. Cameras. Lights. News trucks park up along Fifth Helena Drive.
Inside, the police set up an office in the kitchen as more officers join the investigation. A police photographer documents Marilyn’s bedroom, popping off flashbulbs.
Marilyn’s lawyer, Milton “Mickey” Rudin, marches in, as does her personal publicist, Pat Newcomb.
“This must have been an accident,” Newcomb says, but she is overcome with grief and quickly dissolves into sobs. “When your best friend kills herself, how do you feel? What do you do?”
In the chaos, a gossip columnist manages to get into the house and take photos of Marilyn lying dead on the bed. Pretending to be from the coroner’s office, he’s only removed when the real team arrives at about 5:45 a.m. The mortuary van navigates the crowds, barely clearing the gate.
Everyone wants a glimpse. A glimpse of what? The body? A curl of blond hair hanging off the back of the stretcher?
Guy Hockett, director of Westwood Village Mortuary, walks into the bedroom along with his son, Don. The younger Hockett has been working with his father to earn money for a trip to Mexico at Christmas. Together, they begin to pick up some of the drugs and place them in plastic evidence bags.
Next, it’s the body. This is only Don’s third corpse. The first two, both elderly men, didn’t bother him much. But this is Marilyn Monroe, and he can’t bear to look.
“Get the gurney, son,” says his father, sensing Don’s discomfort. “I can deal with this.”
Don walks back through the house packed with police officers and doctors all talking over each other. He walks past the housekeeper doing the washing and goes out into the front yard. He pulls the gurney out of the back of the van and sets it up on its wheels. It’s old and stained. It doesn’t seem good enough for her.
By the time Don returns to the bedroom, his father has prepared the body. Marilyn’s arms are crossed over her chest and she’s covered in a pale blue blanket. Together they lift the corpse and use two leather straps to secure it on the gurney.
Dr. Engelberg accompanies the somber procession. At theentrance to the house, they pause. The young man straightens the blanket. The doctor looks down at tiles set into a flagstone. One bears a small coat of arms and two words in Latin.
“Cursum Perficio,” he says, then translates the inscription: “My journey’s end.” He sighs as he watches father and son wheel the gurney toward the van. “Oh, Marilyn. Dear, dear Marilyn.”
“So, I have fixed the window,” announces Norman Jeffries, holding his toolbox. “I think I’ll be off then. Nothing more for me to do here.”
The bewildered doctor is not really listening. He watches the van disappear through the gate to the explosion of a thousand flashbulbs.
“I can take the dog if you want,” Jeffries says, nodding over at the guest house. “Poor little thing hasn’t stopped barking. I wonder if he knows his mistress is gone.”
Maf’s stuffed toys, a tiger and a lamb, are strewn across the backyard.
As Engelberg gathers up his things, he watches Mrs. Murray walk across the front lawn toward whereLifemagazine entertainment correspondent Tommy Thompson is waiting outside, his microphone at the ready.
