“Yes. And to keep in mind that Engelberg is his longtime friend… you might say, comrade. Consider, Mr. Heller-how important a Soviet agent might Greenson prove, having access to the mind of a female who often shares the bed of the president? And/or of the attorney general?”
Well, that I couldn’t bat away with a flip remark.
“We believe that Greenson, with the aid of Engelberg and Mrs. Murray, created a web of influence around Marilyn Monroe devised to gather information from her relationships with the Kennedy brothers.”
“Why are you telling me this, again?”
“To simply aid you in your investigation. Help you avoid going down a blind alley. You see, Mr. Heller, we know that you are a man capable of… rough justice. That people in your life who meet with your disfavor sometimes reach a violent if unexplained end. And in other instances, simply disappear.”
That thick file they said they had on me again. How much did they really know?
“You’ll be free to go, in a very few minutes. Your weapon will be returned to you. First, however, there is something we would like you to hear.”
“Like the Commies say-it’s your party.”
I heard footsteps across from me, and when the radio-announcer voice returned, it was closer than before.
“You spoke to Walter Schaefer yesterday, and he told you a story. You will recall that he did not allow you to speak to the ambulance attendants who figured prominently in that story.”
Christ, whoever they were, they were everywhere…
“We interviewed the driver. His name is James Hall, and you can seek him out for yourself. Whether he speaks to you frankly or not, we can’t say. But listen to what he told us…”
A click was followed by the whirring of tape reels.
… happened to be close by, right around the corner practically, when we caught the emergency call. We got there in under two minutes, didn’t even hit the siren. We were met at the front gates of this Mexican-type home by a tall guy, who let us through. Then this frumpy middle-aged lady, leading a poodle on a leash, met us, and led the two of us into this small guest cottage.
That fit Norman Jefferies, Eunice Murray, and, for that matter, Maf.
The lady stayed outside when we went into the cottage, and, brother, did we get the shock of a lifetime. It was Marilyn Monroe, naked, faceup on a folded-out daybed. She was alive, but not in good shape, respiration and heartbeat slight, pulse rapid, weak as hell. To administer CPR, we moved her on the other side of this divider into this sort of foyer area. Wanted to get her on the floor, to provide better support, so we did that, put her on her back and, with an airway tube, started resuscitation. I had a perfect exchange of air going from Miss Monroe, and her color was coming back, and my partner agreed that it was safe to transport her to a hospital. We were heading out to get the gurney when her doctor showed, medical bag in hand. He had me remove the resuscitator and start mouth-to-mouth. I thought this took us in the wrong direction, but you don’t keep your job in my business disagreeing with doctors. There were no signs of vomit. No distinctive odors. Chloral hydrate, for example, gives you that pear-type odor. “So the doctor takes this big old heart needle out of his bag and fills it with adrenaline. He tries to inject it into her heart, but apparently the angle was wrong. Needle must’ve hit a rib. Her vital signs were nil at this point, and then the doctor used his stethoscope on her chest, but couldn’t get a heartbeat. He told us he would pronounce her dead, and said we should leave.
A questioner’s voice:
“Did the doctor give you his name?” “Yeah-Greenson. Her psychiatrist, I think.”
A snap and whirring-to-stop indicated the show was over.
“Well, Mr. Heller?”
“Could be real. Could be a phony. But I can tell you this-the deputy coroner didn’t report any sign of a chipped rib, or a puncture in the area of her heart.”
“Needle marks are easy to miss, particularly with so much lividity. And a ‘Y’ incision in the chest cavity might obliterate any such puncture and possibly any chipped bone.”
I didn’t have a comment.
“That’s all we have for you, Mr. Heller.”
“Time for the blindfold again?”
“Yes. The literal one. We hope, Mr. Heller, that we’ve removed the figurative blindfold, and restored your vision.”
CHAPTER 22
In the light of the three-quarter moon on this clear August night, the two-story Monterey-style Spanish colonial, with its floor-length cantilevered balcony and thickness of trees out front, played games of light and shade, the stucco cut by dark wood trim, greenery glimmering with a slight breeze, ivory touches here and there, splotches of black elsewhere.
Here, on Franklin Street in Santa Monica, lived Dr. Ralph R. Greenson and his wife, Hildi (their son and daughter off at college); they enjoyed a nice backyard hilltop view of the ocean a few miles west, the Brentwood Country Club and golf course nearby. Maybe they belonged, unless it was restricted.
On a clear night like this, you had a nice backyard view of the Pacific Palisades, too. And I can report this because the back way was how I entered the house. There were glass doors off the garden patio, with an easily picked lock, and if Greenson had an alarm, it was a silent one. I was prepared to take my chances.
The Greensons were out for the evening, though they should be home soon. I’d followed them to La Scala-Marilyn’s favorite Italian restaurant, by the way-where their mid-evening reservations indicated they weren’t planning to take in a movie. I supposed a jazz or folk music club was a possibility.
Still, I figured they’d be home soon.
No dog greeted me, so the dog biscuit laced with chloral hydrate (a nice ironic touch, I thought) went unused, stuck in a pocket of my black zippered Windbreaker. Which went with my black slacks, black polo, and black Keds-I looked like a cross between a ninja and a tennis coach. The nine-millimeter Browning was in my waistband.
A few lights were on and I was immediately struck by how the living room-with its open rough-hewn-beamed ceiling, big fireplace trimmed in colorful Mexican tiles, and antique wooden table-resembled Marilyn’s on Fifth Helena. The decor of the big room, which took up half of the first floor, had clearly influenced her.
The kitchen had more of those tiles, but the den was a small, cozy, predictably book-lined affair, with a massive old desk with wormholes and lots of character. A typing stand beside the desk with a stack of manuscript pages indicated a work in progress. A black couch was opposite the desk along a shaded window. Was this for home visits by patients?
I stretched out on the couch, fairly sure I wouldn’t fall asleep. I had the nine-millimeter in my right hand, draped across my lap. Maybe Greenson would find that significant; he’d studied with Freud, after all. But sometimes a nine-mil is just a nine-mil.
The sound of a garage door opening stirred me-despite my confidence, I had gotten drowsy, dangerous for a housebreaker-and I could hear them coming in and talking in soft, muffled tones about nothing special. They were in the living room, just beyond the cracked den door.
His wife said she was going on upstairs to sleep, and Greenson, in that first tenor touched by both Brooklyn and Vienna, said he’d be up soon. He wanted to do a little writing.
To his credit, he didn’t yell in surprise or fear, seeing me. Not even in outrage at his home being invaded. He was in a black-and-white houndstooth sport coat, pretty snazzy, a gangster-ish black shirt with white tie, and gray slacks. The tie he’d been in the process of loosening as he entered his den.
“I guess I should have expected this,” he said.
“Why? It was just this evening I decided to stop by. I was planning a night out with my son.”
“This is about me refusing to see you.”
“I never got that far, to be refused.”
He shut the door, shrugged. “Well, it’s fair to say I’ve been avoiding you. I know of your reputation, Mr. Heller, but I hardly think you’re here to do me any harm.”