“Let me back up,” she said. “I’ve jumped ahead a little. The first interviews I did were in Marilyn’s neighborhood, there in Brentwood. How about this? One neighbor says she saw Robert Kennedy walk up to Marilyn’s gates and go in. Some time mid-to-late afternoon-the neighbor lady was playing bridge, and glanced out the window, and just saw that famous face walking by.”
“Interesting, I guess. Is that it for neighbor witnesses?”
“No! Several complained of hearing a woman screaming and, later, a hysterical woman-maybe the same one, maybe not-yelling, ‘Murderers! You’re murderers! Are you satisfied? Now that she’s dead?’”
I wasn’t sure that rang true. Sounded a little melodramatic. But I asked, “Have they told the police?”
“Have they? You know who took over the investigation, don’t you?”
James Hamilton.
“But now,” she said, “even he’s off the case. The ‘Suicide Squad’ is in charge! But he did his share, on the few days he worked-did he ever. Did you know that Richard Boone played him in the Dragnet movie?”
“What, Paladin?”
“Yes. Mr. Have Gun-Will Travel. But in my opinion the real Hamilton is even uglier, and lacks Boone’s charisma.”
Flo just couldn’t stop writing her column, could she?
“Anyway,” she was saying, “he’s certainly no modern-day knight. After canvassing the neighborhood, the next thing I did was go to the phone company. I have a… contact there. I asked him to make me a copy of all the numbers on Marilyn’s billing tape.”
She finished her martini and waved at Jesse and he scurried over to get her a refill. I’d barely touched my gimlet.
“You know what my phone company contact said? He said, ‘All hell’s broken loose down here. Apparently, you’re not the only one interested in Marilyn’s calls.’”
“That is something.”
“Isn’t it? He said, ‘The tapes and toll tabs have all disappeared. Men in dark suits and shiny shoes impounded them.’ Word was, he said, somebody ‘high up’ ordered it.”
“With all the formalities these days,” I said quietly, “should take something like two weeks for an ordinary cop to get that stuff.”
“An ordinary cop. Is James Hamilton an ordinary cop, Nate?”
Our food arrived. Despite the early hour and the grim subject matter, I was hungry and dug in. When you’re half Irish and half Jewish, corned beef and cabbage makes the perfect compromise.
She nibbled at a shrimp, then said, “You know what I think, Nate? I think Captain James Hamilton is the ideal candidate to cover up the circumstances of Marilyn’s death.”
“I don’t disagree. But who’s he covering it up for?”
I thought I knew, but I wanted to hear her say it.
“For Chief William Parker, who wants to be J. Edgar Hoover when he grows up-he’s been training for the job long and hard enough, using Hamilton to build a file cabinet full of secrets, for blackmail and general influence. So that means Hamilton’s working indirectly for Bobby Kennedy.”
“Maybe directly,” I heard myself saying. “Hamilton and Bobby and Jack are tight. Bastard runs security on all their LA trips.”
She nodded as she chewed, then swallowed shrimp. “And, too, he and Bobby go way, way back, to Teamster-busting days.”
I said nothing. Had a bite of corned beef and cabbage and potato all at once; very nice.
But she was looking at me, the fire in the blue eyes replaced with ice. “And you go way, way back, don’t you, Nate? You worked for Bobby and his Rackets Committee. So maybe I’m taking a chance, talking to you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I’m talking to a Kennedy clan insider, and not a friend of Marilyn’s.”
“Can’t I be both?”
She said nothing. Dipped a shrimp in bright red cocktail sauce, and held it up to study its scarlet glimmer. Then she said, “Maybe once upon a time, you could. But I think that time is about over… I have more for you, but I think we should finish eating first.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You see, I have a contact in the coroner’s office, too. And I don’t think we will want to explore this subject till after lunch.”
We returned to polite conversation and good food. Her son and daughter were both in their teens, so talk of them and Sam took us through the meal.
But for dessert we talked autopsy.
“Marilyn died of a massive overdose, according to the toxicology report.” Flo had a little notebook out and was referring to it. “Four point five milligrams percent of pentobarbital and eight point oh milligrams percent of chloral hydrate in her bloodstream. Her liver contained thirteen milligrams percent pentobarbital-”
I cut in: “Nembutal. That’s the brand name of pentobarbital.”
“Right-and we’re talking about an abnormally large concentration of the stuff.” She referred to her notes again. “There were eight prescription bottles found at her bedside, including an empty container for twenty-five Nembutal. Also, a chloral hydrate container with ten pills remaining.”
Jesse had brought coffee and I sipped some. “I assume Curphey performed this autopsy himself…?”
“No. A young fellow, Noguchi, fairly new. There’s only three full-time pathologists on staff.”
“Did this Jap call it a suicide?”
“At first. Then, when things didn’t add up- literally add up-he sent tissue samples for further analysis. Kidney, stomach, urine, intestines. Those aren’t back yet, my contact tells me.”
“What do you mean, literally didn’t add up?”
The columnist folded her hands. “For Marilyn to have overdosed-whether accidentally or on purpose-she would have to have taken fifty to seventy chloral hydrate pills, and seventy-five to ninety Nembutals.”
I couldn’t find anything to say.
“My contact quotes Noguchi as saying there were enough drugs in Marilyn Monroe to kill any three persons.” She again leaned forward. “Nate, do you think she could have taken-physically taken-a minimum of one hundred twenty-five pills?”
“No,” I said flatly. “She’d have had to take them very, very quickly-mouthfuls, swallowing, gulping them and still manage not to… puke.”
That last word was spoken softly, as this was a restaurant, after all.
I went on: “And if she’d taken them a few at a time, she’d be unconscious, or maybe dead, before swallowing enough to reach the extreme level of barbs you’re talking about.”
Flo gave me a crisp nod, then said, “Thing is, she only had twenty-four Nembutal in the house, at most-that was her prescription, which she’d filled on Friday.”
“And there were ten chloral hydrates left in that pill container,” I said hollowly. “Could she have injected herself?”
She shrugged. “Well, Marilyn died in a locked room, supposedly, and no hypodermic was found.”
“I don’t think it was locked. Somebody else could have injected her.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed, blue glittering from the slits. “Here’s a small mystery. I call it ‘small’ because I do think it can be cleared up. Noguchi claims to have gone over every inch of her with a magnifying glass, and saw no injection marks. But there are several problems with that.”
I nodded. “There are plenty of places hard to detect an injection-on an existing bruise, for example, and she was splotched as hell, with lividity. She may have had existing bruises. Also under the arm, bunch of places.”
“And Noguchi just didn’t see it, magnifying glass or not.”
I leaned toward her. “ Something’s not right, because I know Marilyn was getting regular injections from this character Engelberg, for her sinus and cold problems. Liver extract and vitamins. She almost certainly had an injection within a day or two of dying.”
“Are you sure that’s what the injections were?”
“No,” I admitted. “Far as I know, Engelberg could be one of these Dr. Feelgoods. Enough stars and politicians take magic shots from quacks to make that a possibility.”
“But Engelberg didn’t get there till after Marilyn was gone.”