A slightly older Greenson, in the uniform of an army captain, popped onto the screen.
“That psychiatrist, of course, was Dr. Ralph Greenson, stationed at Fort Logan, Colorado. To give the devil his due, Greenson had great success with many of his patients.”
I must have missed the part where Greenson was shown to be the devil. But I was starting to think I was not a guest of the CIA, rather the FBI. The paranoid, McCarthyesque slant reeked of J. Edgar Hoover.
A more recent photo of Greenson, outside his office, took the screen. Another surveillance photo.
“Greenson, of course, became a successful Beverly Hills psychiatrist. Murray worked and traveled for a company we believe to be a Communist front, most frequently going to Mexico. During the ’50s, despite the House Un-American Activities Committee making a target out of Hollywood, neither Greenson nor Engelberg was dissuaded from pursuing their radical beliefs. Communist cell meetings were frequently held at Greenson’s home, and also at Murray’s Santa Monica home, where he lived with his wife.…”
A younger, more attractive photo of Eunice Murray with her husband, John, outside a modest clapboard home, shimmered on the screen.
“… Eunice.”
Another click announced a more recent picture of Engelberg, this a studio portrait.
“Though he had been particularly active and outspoken, Engelberg finally went deep underground during the rest of the so-called Red Scare years.”
I sighed and said, “Marilyn leaned left, but she was no Commie.”
“Her husband was and is.”
“Her ex-husband Arthur Miller? Far as I’m concerned, he’s just another one of these arty dilettantes. Like Marilyn’s poet pal, Norman Rosten, and for that matter the Strasbergs. What are you trying to convince me of? That a lot of stars and Beverly Hills doctors are politically naive? Sold. By the way, doesn’t your file say my father ran a leftist bookstore on the West Side in Chicago? So obviously I’m a Commie, too, right?”
“These are dangerous people, Mr. Heller. Zealots behind their American masks.”
A blurry color photograph came on of a heavyset guy who seemed vaguely familiar. He wore a Mexican-print shirt and was drinking a beer and smiling at somebody off-camera. Then I pegged it: his features echoed Eunice Murray’s husband.
“This is Churchill Murray, John’s brother, who runs a Communist propaganda radio station in Mexico City. He has countless questionable political contacts, including diplomats from the Cuban and Soviet embassies there.”
Now came a color surveillance photo of a balding guy with glasses and a pipe, talking to Churchill Murray outside a cantina.
“Frederick Vanderbilt Field—great-great-grandson of the railroad tycoon. Notorious silver-spoon Communist who was exposed as a Comintern operative and fled to Mexico City. There he was a mainstay of Zona Rosa, a colony of expatriate Americans, Communists mostly, including John Howard Lawson, Dalton Trumbo, Albert Maltz, and of course Churchill Murray—Eunice Murray’s brother-in-law.”
Wearily I said, “So Marilyn had some extreme leftists in her life. I would imagine that’s true of a lot of Hollywood stars.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Heller. But not a lot of Hollywood stars have had intimate access to the president and the attorney general.”
“Now you’re imagining Marilyn is a Commie spy?”
“No. A dupe. And we’re not imagining anything.”
A click announced a very recent picture of a beaming Marilyn at a restaurant table with Vanderbilt Field.
“Field is who Miss Monroe stayed with, Mr. Heller, when she went on her buying trip to Mexico, for new furnishings and decorations for her home, a trip on which Miss Monroe was accompanied by Eunice Murray.”
“Okay. So?”
“So, Mr. Heller—Frederick Vanderbilt Field is an active Soviet agent.”
I didn’t say anything. What had seemed foolish at first had become something real and troubling as hell. Marilyn getting friendly with Field, in the middle of her affairs with Jack and Bobby, had made security risks out of the president and the attorney general.
“We have surveillance tapes in which Field, in the guise of conversation, is heard pumping Miss Monroe for confidential information she learned in discussions with the Kennedy brothers.”
“Was Marilyn forthcoming?”
“She was. From her point of view, she was answering questions from an expatriate longing for news of home. Much of what she and Fields discussed was only tangentially associated with politics, her interest in civil rights for example, or her frustration that Jack Kennedy hadn’t fired J. Edgar Hoover. But she also talked about what she viewed as her own intellectual shortcomings, her desire to quit show business and change her life completely.”
The latter was typical Marilyn, and a daydream she would have under no circumstances pursued, at least not until age caught up with her.
Which now it never would.
“Mr. Heller … frankly, we believe Dr. Ralph Greenson, like Vanderbilt Field, is a Soviet agent. Greenson helped form, and then secretly ran, the National Arts, Sciences and Professions Committee, a major force in promoting Communist ideology on the West Coast. Heading up this group, Greenson has influenced sister organizations like the Doctors Professional Group, of which Engelberg was at one time a prominent member.”
“I thought the government had stopped looking for Reds under every bed.”
“Perhaps under beds, but not in psychiatrists’ offices. It is Soviet espionage policy for cell leaders to have psychiatric training, aiding them in the periodic need to interview key cell members, to appraise their state of mind and continuing loyalty. Mr. Heller, psychoanalysts’ offices around the U.S. have been regularly used by Soviet agents as safe havens for the transfer of intelligence.”
“And I’m supposed to buy that Greenson is one of those?”
“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.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“If you were going to kill me, you would not do it where my wife would be an innocent victim in whatever confused scenario you have contrived.”
I sat up on the edge of the couch. “Wow. That’s very analytical of you, Doc. Have a seat.” I indicated his desk with a friendly wave of the nine-millimeter.
“You don’t need that gun.”
“I was thinking of asking you about that, Doc. See, this is the gun my father used to kill himself. He was disappointed in me for joining the Chicago PD. He was a leftist, a real true Marxist, so you can identify. And ever since, this is the only gun I’ve carried. I like to call it the only conscience I have. What do you make of that, Doc?”
He had seated himself in his comfortable leather chair, which swiveled and rocked. But he wasn’t rocking. The dark eyes in his somber face—made more mournful by the bandito curve of black mustache that provided such stark contrast to his white hair—were trained on me. His hands were folded. He appeared relaxed. He wasn’t.
“I don’t think you’re a good candidate for therapy, Mr. Heller,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because you seem rather too attached to your neurosis. I would say, on some level, in certain instances at least, it provides a sort of engine for your activities.”
“Bingo. Do you mind if I get comfortable?”
“Certainly not,” he said, dryly sarcastic. “You are, after all, a guest in my home.”
I got up, moved the couch around so I could face him more easily, and stretched out again. The weapon in hand I kept against my side, away from the door. He frowned, noting this.
“In case your wife comes checking,” I explained. “Just say I’m a patient. Emergency situation.”
“I wouldn’t be entirely lying, would I?”
“Not really.”
He shifted, settled in the chair, somehow found a sardonic smile for me. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Heller?”
“You can answer some questions, in a while … but first,
just do what makes you the big bucks—listen. No note-taking necessary.”
He nodded in acceptance.
“Now, you can interrupt or interpose a thought or question at any time. You and I, Doc, we don’t stand on ceremony. We share a common goal, or at least we once did.”
His eyebrows went up questioningly.
“Marilyn’s well-being,” I said. “She was your patient, and she was my client. And I believe you did care about her. That you did try to help her. I mean, you are in a sense the hero of this story—you saved her from a number of overdoses, I understand. You weaned her off drugs. You helped build up her confidence and self-worth.”
“I’m not a hero, Mr. Heller, but I did do those things.”
“Trouble is, you’re also an egomaniac, at least as big a one as me—that’s a layman’s usage, Doc, not a diagnosis—plus you are one controlling son of a bitch. That’s my diagnosis, by the way. You tried to better yourself through your famous patient. You wheedled and wormed your way into aspects of her life that should have been off-limits—interfering with her movie studio, putting a personal spy in her home, even controlling her interaction with people like Ralph Roberts and Whitey Snyder, who were always supportive influences.”
Greenson sighed. “I did those things as well.”
Was he playing me?
“And, Mr. Heller, I crossed other boundaries of the patient/doctor compact. I often brought Marilyn into my own home, made my family her surrogate one. This I think may have been ill-advised, but it was, as you say, Marilyn’s well-being I sought to nurture.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” I admitted. “She was an orphan kid who always wanted a family. She wanted a daddy. You were it for a while … till she fired your ass.”
That got a rise out of him. Or a frown, anyway.
Bye Bye, Baby Page 28