Observing such an exquisite woman is Buddy Greco’s impression, being a jazz singer-pianist. Perched outside Frank Sinatra’s bungalow in Lake Tahoe, he witnesses a striking figure emerge from a limousine – it’s Marilyn Monroe, donning dark sunglasses. She warmly embraces him around the neck. He describes her as witty, intelligent, and although delicate, she carries an undeniable charm. Joining them for the weekend as guests of Sinatra are English actor Peter Lawford and his wife Pat.
In addition, several other Hollywood companions and Mafia acquaintances of Sinatra, including Sam Giancana, have been invited. The Lawfords, who are in the know about Marilyn’s situation with the Kennedys – having been exploited by Jack and Bobby – hope that removing her from Los Angeles might help divert her attention.
For the past several weeks, she’s been feeling deeply sad and secluded. Her social interactions have been limited primarily to her housekeeper, Mrs. Murray, and her medical team – specifically, her psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Greenson, whom she’s met with 28 times over the last 35 days, and her physician, Dr. Hyman Engelberg, who has seen her 13 times during this period.
That evening, following Greco’s performance of The Lady Is A Tramp from 1960, a visibly inebriated and rebellious Marilyn can be seen in the entranceway. He overhears her asking, “Who are all those people staring at?” This is not the usual glamorous image we associate with her, he muses.
Rapidly responding, Sinatra summons his bodyguard. The bodyguard swiftly picks up the petite blond woman and escorts her out. Greco, concerned for her wellbeing, trails behind them to ensure her safety.
In a soft glow under the moonlight, he discovers Marilyn seated solitarily beside the swimming pool, appearing wan and somewhat dazed. Consequently, he guides her towards her bungalow.
She passes the next hours suspended in a fog. She may have nearly overdosed.
She may have fallen out of bed. She may have been unknowingly assaulted. She can’t remember.
The following day, she is transported back to Los Angeles on Sinatra’s private aircraft alongside Lawford. Disheveled and barefoot, she exits and steps into a waiting limousine for her journey home. On their way, Lawford halts to place a prolonged phone call from a public booth. It seems that Marilyn can be unpredictable, and there are individuals he needs to alert about this.
Marilyn is currently determined to expose the situation, venting to anyone willing about how the Kennedy brothers exploited her. She turns to her friend Bob Slatzer, visibly upset. “I’m going to uncover this entire scandal! I’m going to reveal everything! They used me, got what they wanted, and then discarded me!” Upon learning that Bobby will be attending a law conference in San Francisco – some 350 miles north of Los Angeles – she decides to confront him there.
Initially, Bobby and his family – which includes his wife Ethel and four kids – make it to San Francisco. On their end, Marilyn repeatedly attempts to reach Bobby via phone calls from home, only to find that he’s unresponsive. This leaves her quite aggravated.
Friends try to soothe her and persuade her against going through with the announced press conference. Slatzer advises being more secretive in this matter. Everyone is concerned about her emotional well-being. If she speaks to the media in her present condition, there’s no telling what she might reveal.
She is regularly checked on, as there’s concern she might change her behavior drastically. Dr. Greenson visits daily, occasionally twice. Lawford frequently invites her to social events. Her publicist, Pat Newcomb, often spends nights at Marilyn’s residence for various reasons. One evening, they dine out together; Marilyn consumes an excessive amount of alcohol, subsequently takes sleeping pills in a bid to get some sleep.
sleep continues to evade her, mainly due to the persistent ringing of a phone near her bed, her private line. A mysterious woman keeps yelling, “Leave Bobby alone, you hobo,” at her. When she answers, the line suddenly disconnects. ‘Ethel?’ she asks instead.
Sid Skolsky, who’s well-connected in Hollywood and has known Marilyn for many years, phones her up for a chat. Instead, she begins to discuss her issues with the Kennedy family. She maintains that she is currently involved with one of them, supposedly tonight.
Subsequent covert audio from a microphone concealed within her residence suggests a clandestine gathering did transpire. This device was set up by ex-vice detective Fred Otash, who currently earns his living as a ‘truth checker’ for tabloid publications.
In the recording, Lawford and Bobby are seen engaged in a heated emotional dispute with Marilyn, who’s insisting on an explanation regarding Kennedy not intending to marry her. As per Otash, it was a fierce argument about their relationship, centered around Bobby’s commitments and promises towards her. She claimed she had been treated like an object.
In a tense moment, Bobby, who was the U.S. Attorney General at the time, found himself raising his voice. He declared emphatically that he wouldn’t depart until he located what he had come for – Marilyn’s small red notebook, in which she kept records of their discussions about political matters, a tradition that had been passed down from him and his brother.
Bobby covers her mouth with a pillow on the bed to prevent the neighbors from hearing. After she quieted, he seemed eager to leave.
Alone for now, Marilyn reclines in her bed with her phone nearby. After finding solace with a few pills, she’ll be making calls later in the evening, discussing ‘deceit’, ‘powerful men’, and ‘secret romances’.
To one individual, she cryptically mentions, ‘I’m privy to numerous confidential details regarding the Kennedy family, some of which could be perilous.’ To another, she hints at information that ‘may one day leave the entire globe in a state of astonishment’.
Tonight, Lawford was expecting Marilyn for dinner at his place. However, during their conversation, he became concerned by the dreamy tone in her voice. He tried to get her attention loudly, but she only replied, “Bid farewell to Pat [his wife], bid farewell to Jack and bid farewell to yourself, be…” There was then a moment of silence.
On August 5, 1962, Eunice Murray, Marilyn’s housekeeper, is abruptly awakened with a sense of dread gnawing at her core. It’s 3 am, and she can’t quite pinpoint the reason for her unease. Perhaps it’s just the oppressive heat that has her on edge. She stumbles out of bed, grabbing her pink slippers and gown, then walks down the hallway to Marilyn’s room.
I’ve ensured the door is closed, with the telephone cord that Marilyn frequently uses for her lengthy evening calls wedged beneath it. A faint glow of lamplight escapes through the crack under the door. I pause, listening intently. The quietness unsettles me. No laughter echoes. No soft whispers fill the air. It seems amiss.
Eunice gives the doorknob a try, yet it’s sealed shut. Quite surprising, isn’t it? You see, Marilyn tends to be wary around locked doors. Her door gets locked only when she’s with a special friend. But tonight, she retired for the night all on her own.
Alarmed, Eunice dashes into an adjacent room, snatches another phone and calls Dr Greenson, who resides close-by and had previously visited their home. Upon answering, she frantically tells him: “It’s Marilyn. Her room is locked, I can’t reach her.” Without delay, he swiftly heads over.
Eunice retrieves a fireplace poker made of metal from the sitting room, ventures onto the lawn, and positions herself in front of Marilyn’s bedroom with the light on inside. Despite the drawn curtains, one window is slightly open. Leaning on her toes, she gently forces the poker through the gap and stabs at the top of the drapes, slowly moving one aside along its rod, revealing a chilling sight within.
Marilyn lies sprawled on the bed, her eyes closed, lips slightly open. Bare. Her skin, as pale as alabaster, glows in the soft light. Her platinum blonde hair cascades loosely around her well-known face. The sheets are twisted around her lower legs. Her hand is still gripping the phone, dangling off its hook. She appears so serene. One can’t help but wonder if she’s taken an overdose once more, or merely sleeping, or perhaps she’s already passed away?
A vehicle speeds along the street as Dr. Greenson dashes across the lawn. “Is she alive? Has she stirred? Can you spot her?” he queries. Spotting a poker nearby, he breaks the bedroom window with it, then hoists himself up onto the windowsill and enters.
He bends towards Marilyn and softly touches the slender part of her neck. Oh, please, let there be a sign of life. He presses harder, but the flesh seems lukewarm, not as warm as he had hoped for. Could it be something? Yes! But then he recognizes that it’s his own racing heartbeat. ‘We’ve lost her!’ he shouts despairingly, his legs giving way beneath him.
Inside the bedroom, he opens the door for the crying housekeeper and proceeds to tally the medicine bottles on the nightstand. There are eight, then ten, twelve, fifteen. Each one is open. A trail of white pills marks the carpet, but a 50-capsule bottle of Nembutal is completely depleted. Normally, only one capsule from that bottle is taken each evening.
Could this have been the outcome she desired? It’s hard for Dr. Greenson to comprehend. Yesterday evening, she was in a downcast mood when she contacted him, expressing dissatisfaction with her personal life and her inability to sleep. However, he is certain that she wasn’t contemplating suicide.
The main entrance swings shut forcefully. Rapid footsteps echo through the terra-cotta flooring in the foyer. “Where is she?” inquires Dr. Engelberg, a doctor familiar with Marilyn, who had been called by Eunice as well.
Rushing through the bedroom door, he asks urgently, “Is there any sign of breath or heartbeat? Have you verified if she’s still alive in any way?
Dr. Greenson sighs heavily and nods slowly, confirming, ‘She’s departed.’ Upon closer examination using his stethoscope, Dr. Engelberg concurs. He notes, ‘There’s no evidence of violence or injury, but make no mistake, she’s definitely not here anymore.’
He lets out a sigh and grabs an empty Nembutal bottle. “I wrote her that prescription just three days past,” he remarks, “and it was only after she pleaded with me.
Dr. Greenson firmly interrupts, “It seemed we had decided to reduce her dependency on medications. Absolutely no more medication now.
According to Dr. Engelberg, ‘I had successfully reduced her dosage. However, during her latest visit, she refused to let me depart unless I prescribed 50 capsules for her.’
He checks the labels on the bottles. “Chloral hydrate,” he murmurs. “Sleep-inducing drugs. I wonder where she obtained fifteen bottles of this? I wouldn’t prescribe it. Combining it with alcohol and Nembutal…
I cast a glance at Marilyn lying there on the bed, and my head gives a slight shake. “Shouldn’t we drape a blanket over her, or better yet, turn her onto her stomach? Let’s add a touch of decency to this setting,” I suggest, seeking agreement. So, we do just that, turning her and covering her up, before dialing the police for assistance.
At 4:15 am, Sergeant Jack Clemmons of the LAPD questions the authenticity of a call, to which the speaker identifies as Dr. Hyman Engelberg, Marilyn Monroe’s doctor. He clarifies that Marilyn Monroe has taken her own life.
Clemmons quickly responds, “I’m on my way,” but it’s nearly 5 in the morning when he arrives. He requests backup assistance. He dreads the situation as it’s never easy dealing with a suicide. He knocks at the front door, but there’s a delay before anyone answers. Inside, he hears muffled voices and shuffling noises. Eventually, a woman opens the door. “I’m Marilyn Monroe’s former housekeeper,” she reveals. “She took her own life.
In the bedroom, Eunice Murray leads him, finding Dr Greenson seated with his face buried in his hands, while Dr Engelberg moves restlessly across the carpet. Scattered around are pill bottles, handbags, and garments, all lying on a floor strewn with broken glass.
Gazing upon Marilyn’s figure beneath the sheet, I see her stretched out face-down. A single arm slips over the bedside, her fingers curled like a gnarled branch. Her nails, bitten painfully short, reveal the intensity of her anxiety.
Clemmons frowns deeply, expressing disapproval as he finds the situation questionable. Marilyn’s legs stand rigidly, and her face is hidden in a cushion. He’s curious to observe her mouth, searching for any indications of froth or vomit. Typically, suicide attempts are more chaotic; however, there’s no apparent evidence of distress or struggle here.
In a slightly altered version, we have Clemmons drawing aside the cover. There, visible are the unique golden ringlets, the graceful contours of her shoulders, and the radiant pale expanse of her back. It seems somewhat inappropriate to continue. He hastily drapes her again.
At the front door, there’s a knock and a young man in workman’s overalls is standing. He’s Mrs. Murray’s son-in-law, who she’s called to mend the window that Dr. Greenson broke while entering. Upon stepping inside, he informs the sergeant that journalists are gathered outside their house – around 20 to 30 of them. Intrigued, he inquires, ‘Is something going on here?’
Word has spread: Hollywood’s divine presence on screen has departed. Upon hearing Clemmons’ urgent radio plea for reinforcements, newspaper editors are stirring their sleepy journalists, urging them to rush to the residence. Soon enough, news vans are lining up along the road.
Within the home, authorities established a workspace in the kitchen area as additional officers contributed to the ongoing probe. Meanwhile, a law enforcement photographer catalogued Marilyn’s bedroom space.
A tabloid journalist sneakily enters and snaps pictures of Marilyn Monroe lying on a bed, disguising himself as someone from the coroner’s office. He is not discovered until the genuine coroner’s team arrives at the scene.
Everybody yearns for a peek at something – it’s not just the physical body, but also that familiar curl of golden hair cascading from the back of the stretcher, or perhaps an intimate detail about Marilyn Monroe. However, before she is moved to a gurney, the mortuary director gently arranges Marilyn’s arms across her chest and covers her with a blanket.
Dr. Engelberg walks with the solemn group towards the vehicle parked outside. He lets out a sad sigh, saying, “Oh, my, my Marilyn,” as the vehicle drives away beyond the gate, accompanied by the flashing of countless cameras.
Eight years ago, in an interview, I candidly admitted, “I realized I was a woman who might be discovered, tragically, with an unused bottle of sleep aid nearby.
It seemed her prediction had come eerily, horribly true.
Or had it?
Was it an accidental overdose?
Could it be that the initial assessment suggested a self-inflicted act, resembling suicide? Yet, might there be another possibility, such as homicide? Initially, the coroner’s presumptive opinion points towards an overdose of a certain substance causing death. They pass the case on to a ‘suicide investigation team’.
However, homicide detective Jack Clemmons expressed his conviction that the scene of death he encountered was undeniably a well-orchestrated staging, as the pill bottles on the table were meticulously organized and the body’s placement was intentional.
Other people’s actions provoke queries, like when Lawford urgently told investigator Fred Otash to “take any steps necessary to eliminate anything incriminating” from Marilyn’s home, potentially linking her to Jack and Bobby Kennedy.
In her interview with the BBC, Mrs Murray expresses frustration by saying something like, ‘Why must I continue hiding this?’ The interviewer then queries, ‘Mrs Murray, what are you trying to hide?’ To which she responds, ‘Well, certainly Bobby Kennedy was present.’
As a seasoned lifestyle guide, I find it intriguing to delve into the peculiarities of certain events. For instance, in this case, it’s unusual that a junior medical examiner, Dr. Thomas Noguchi, was appointed instead of the senior chief examiner, given the nature of the autopsy at hand. This shift in roles adds an interesting layer to the storyline.
In the autopsy, there were no signs of drug injections through needle marks or any indications of physical violence. The examination revealed blood tainted with barbiturates and an empty stomach devoid of food particles, including the distinctive yellow dye found on Nembutal capsules.
He doesn’t complete all the necessary organ checks, and he acknowledges this later by saying, “I didn’t do what was required of me.
In the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office, John Miner – leader of the medical-legal department – firmly believes that an individual secretly gave Marilyn Monroe a lethal concoction of Nembutal and chloral hydrate via enema. He regards Dr Greenson as a potential, though unofficial, suspect in this matter.
As questions like these remain unanswered, one wonders if Marilyn Monroe will ever rest in peace.
For her funeral, her make-up
Whitey Snyder carries out his last task, carefully applying eyeliner, blush to the cheeks, and a bold red lipstick. He adorns her in an aquamarine gown designed by Emilio Pucci, an Italian fashion maestro.
However, there seems to be something amiss with her appearance; it appears too slim. A comparison might be Marilyn Monroe without ample breasts – according to Snyder’s thoughts, this would have surprised her greatly. To create a more ideal figure, he adds pillows and newspapers.
2025 Copyright: James Patterson’s The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe (Century, £20), published on July 3. Pre-order now for only £18 (limited time offer until July 12; free UK shipping on orders over £25) at mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.
Read More
- WLD PREDICTION. WLD cryptocurrency
- SUI PREDICTION. SUI cryptocurrency
- USD ILS PREDICTION
- Gold Rate Forecast
- BTC PREDICTION. BTC cryptocurrency
- EUR USD PREDICTION
- Planet Zoo Update Welcomes New Animals
- Charlize ditches pants for racy red carpet look at The Old Guard 2 premiere with Uma Thurman
- XEC/USD
- New Nintendo Switch 2 Report Teases Luigi’s Mansion 4
2025-06-29 04:24