Page 4 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

“The what?” replies Dr. Engelberg.

“Her glass of water.” Clemmons nods toward the nightstand. “If you’re going to take a lot of pills, you need a lot of water.”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Engelberg sounds irritated. “Maybe the housekeeper does.”

“So, this is not the crime scene?” The sergeant looks from one doctor to another.

“It is,” declares Dr. Engelberg. “But there’s no crime.”

“So, where’s the glass?”

“There wasn’t one,” says Greenson. “Not when I broke in through the window anyway.”

“No glass,” confirms Clemmons, taking out his notepad.

“Not that I saw,” says Dr. Greenson. “But then I wasn’t really looking. I was more worried about, um, the patient.”

“You broke in?” asks Clemmons.

“Through that window.” Dr. Greenson glances over his shoulder at the shattered windowpane.

“And did you try to revive her?”

“It was too late,” replies Dr. Engelberg.

“We were all too late,” adds Greenson.

“Do you have any idea when she took the pills?” Neither doctor meets his eye.

“No,” they both reply.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” he asks, indicating the bed.

“Go ahead,” replies Dr. Engelberg.

Clemmons pulls back the sheet. There are the distinctive blond curls, the smooth curves of her shoulders, the luminous white skin of her back. He pauses. It feels almost indecent to carry on. There’s a slight purple discoloration over her buttocks. Her smooth legs are aligned, her toes turned inward. She has a dried-up blister on her left foot. He covers her quickly. It feels intrusive.

“Any idea who she was calling?” he asks.

“Calling?” Dr. Engelberg looks surprised.

“The housekeeper says she was holding the telephone?”

“Oh? Did she? Maybe she realized what she had done and was calling for help?”

“But the housekeeper’s bedroom is less than ten feet away. Why wouldn’t she just shout out?”

There’s another knock at the front door.This is my case now,Clemmons thinks as he strides to answer it, determined not to leave the two doctors alone at the scene any longer than necessary.

“Who are you?” asks the sergeant.

Standing on the doorstep is a scrawny young man with a small chin and a large Adam’s apple, dressed in workman’s dungarees and carrying a toolbox.

“Norman. Norman Jeffries. I came as quickly as I could. My mother-in-law called and asked me to come and fix a broken window.”

“Your mother-in-law?”

“He’s married to my daughter,” Mrs. Murray says. “He does all the odd jobs around the house.”

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