You Might Remember Me The Life and Times of Phil Hartman

by Mike Thomas

  As they chatted, Zander twice left to use the restroom. The first time she returned to the bar, around 8:30, Brynn was just getting off the public phone. Zander heard none of her conversation and didn’t ask with whom Brynn had been speaking, but the restaurant’s assistant general manager thought Brynn looked unhappy during her conversation—and furtive, as though she wished to talk in private. He also thought she mentioned the name Mat (or Matt).

  At some point toward the end of their hangout session, Brynn invited Zander to migrate elsewhere and keep the evening rolling. Zander declined. No problem, Brynn said. She’d call another friend to meet her. Using the public phone a second time, she rang her longtime acquaintance Ron Douglas. His answering machine picked up. Fifteen years earlier, Brynn and Douglas had been lovers and fellow drug users. Since then Douglas had cleaned up and was working as a stuntman. In contrast to the hard-partying days of old, his current relationship with Brynn had more of a brother-sister dynamic. On occasion, and with Phil’s general knowledge of the situation, Brynn swung by Douglas’s place to hang out. When that happened, Phil had only two requests: Don’t let her stay out too late. And if she asks for cocaine, don’t give it to her. Douglas agreed, though sometimes Brynn arrived with her own stash.

  When she bellied back up to the bar, Brynn informed Zander that her “friend”—unnamed—wasn’t home. Thinking this friend might be someone who’d provide Brynn with cocaine, Zander was relieved.

  A short time later, Douglas checked his messages from a pal’s house and called Brynn back at the restaurant. They made arrangements for her to drop by his place in Studio City.

  Around 9:45 Brynn and Zander paid the bill and left. “I’ll be back real soon,” Brynn told the bartender on her way out. “And I’ll be sure to bring Phil.”

  After parting with Zander, Brynn made her way to Douglas’s Studio City home—phoning Phil three times while en route—and knocked on his door around 10:15 P.M. Douglas answered and invited her inside. They sat in his living room and talked. Brynn was cheery and a bit buzzed. When she asked for a beer, Douglas obliged with a can of Schaefer’s. Brynn downed two more after it but, as far as Douglas could tell, she never seemed drunk. At one point in their conversation, Brynn told Douglas about the movie script she was writing. She also carped about her relationship with Phil, and about the precious little time he spent at home. He was always with his friend Britt, she said, and it made her feel like “dirt.” To make matters worse, Brynn said, Phil smoked a lot of pot and was “out of it” much of the time. Douglas could tell she was starved for attention, so they goofed around on the piano and talked some more. The later it got, the more Douglas insisted she go home to her family—in part because he feared an angry call from Phil. But Brynn didn’t want to leave.

  Then, out of the blue, she asked Douglas if he believed in God. Douglas said yes, though he was surprised to hear such a question from Brynn, who had never broached the subject in all the time he’d known her. Perhaps she was prompted to ask it by Neale Donald Walsch’s book Conversations with God, one of many she was then reading. Others included Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian L. Weiss, Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp, and Making a Good Script Great by Linda Seger.

  At 12:36 A.M., still ensconced at Douglas’s place, Brynn phoned her longtime friend Susan, whom she sometimes consulted when struck with the urge to use cocaine. Susan didn’t answer; her phone was off. A couple of minutes later Brynn dialed Phil’s private line at home but hung up in less than a minute, likely having gotten no answer. She then phoned 4-1-1—directory assistance—though it’s unknown what listing she sought.

  At approximately 12:45 A.M., two and a half hours after she’d arrived, Brynn finally left Douglas’s house. He told her to call him when she got back to Encino, just so he knew she’d arrived safely. But she never did, using her car phone only for message retrieval as she drove out of Studio City. When Douglas rang her on the mobile line shortly after that, there was no answer. And since calling her at home risked disturbing Phil and the kids, he figured she was fine and went to bed.

  Sometime after Brynn’s return to Encino, likely around one A.M., it is possible that she and Phil argued. About what, no one knows. The troubling escalation of her drug and alcohol use? His paternal and spousal neglect? Whatever the case, Brynn was upset. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” she screeched from behind their closed bedroom doors. Perhaps weary of fighting or just weary, Phil lay down and went to sleep (or pretended to sleep) wearing red-and-white Dachshund-print boxer shorts and a purple T-shirt.

  Chapter 16

  Phil on his boat Anika off the coast of Catalina Island, 1990s.

  May 28, 1998—early morning

  According to police, the most likely scenario for what then transpired is this: Sometime in the next couple of hours, as Phil sleeps with his bent right leg exposed atop the sheet and cover and his left arm extended straight out beneath him, Brynn enters the master bathroom suite. There, on a closet shelf, is the metal lockbox in which she and Phil keep their firearms and gun supplies. Extracting his Smith & Wesson .38, she returns to where her husband lies. From her side of the bed, she takes aim and fires the first shot. A second and a third follow. One strikes the right side of Phil’s neck, just lateral to his chin. Another enters through his posterior right forearm, exits out the anterior, and re-enters his right lower chest. Both are fired from no more than eighteen inches away, the latter causing a fatal wound. The most damaging shot, also fatal, is fired at point-blank or nearly point-blank range and enters just above the bridge of Phil’s nose, passing through his skull and brain before it comes to rest. Death is quick, perhaps instantaneous. Incongruously, he seems to be smiling, as if in the middle of a sweet dream.

  An hour or so later, probably after drinking more alcohol and possibly after snorting cocaine (though she may have done so earlier), Brynn phones Douglas. It is 3:25 A.M. She tells him Phil isn’t home, but that he left a note: “I’m going out for the night. I’ll be back—Phil. Love you.” Brynn doesn’t want to be alone, she tells Douglas, who dismisses the idea of her returning to his house. It’s too late, he says, and she can’t leave her kids unsupervised. Drink a glass of milk, he advises, take some aspirin, and go back to sleep. Irritated, he tries to do likewise.

  Twenty minutes later Douglas hears his doorbell ringing repeatedly, along with banging on his front door. Still aggravated and now bleary-eyed, he walks downstairs and peers out the window. Brynn is outside in a long-sleeved pullover T-shirt, white pajama bottoms, and light-colored argyle socks—no shoes. Her hair is still down, long and straight, and she clutches her Prada purse. When Douglas opens the door to ask her what’s going on, he catches a strong whiff of alcohol on her breath. She’s drunk—he can tell. And Douglas is angry—she can tell. “Don’t yell at me!” Brynn says on her way inside. “Phil yells at me all the time.”

  Stumbling into Douglas’s house, Brynn attempts to sit on the living room sofa but slides off onto the floor. Crying, she blurts out something about having killed Phil. Douglas thinks little of the hysterical statement, assuming she and Phil merely had another fight. Besides, Brynn is obviously inebriated. Still on the floor, she looks as though she is nodding off. Douglas tells her she smells like a brewery and chastises her again. Brynn says her stomach hurts, that she’s sick, and passes out. Guessing she might have taken an overdose of pills, Douglas wakes her. When he does, she runs to the bathroom and vomits. This happens several times: nod off, run to the bathroom, vomit. Douglas decides he should keep her awake until she sobers up. To that end, he serves her water and hot tea.

  At Brynn’s requests, Douglas calls the Hartman home several times. There is never an answer and he leaves no messages. During one of his calls, Brynn starts to root around in her purse. For what, she does not say. Then it tumbles out onto the floor: the Smith & Wesson .38. Douglas is incredulous, asks her what she’s doing with it. Brynn picks it up and doesn’t respond. Give it to me, he demands, and Brynn complies. Upon op
ening the gun’s cylinder and spinning it around, he sees what appear to be all six cartridges in their chambers. Which means, he assumes, that no bullets have left their births. A feeling of mild relief sweeps over him and he stashes the piece in a kitchen drawer. “See?” Brynn says. “I told you I killed Phil!” Douglas remains doubtful.

  A little before six A.M., not long before her kids usually awaken and after two and a half tortured hours at Douglas’s house, Brynn finally seems sober enough to drive home. But she agrees to do so only if Douglas follows her back. He should bring the gun, too, she tells him. Fetching it from the drawer and checking its cylinder again while staring down the barrel, Douglas notices something he hadn’t before: two of the bullets are missing. (In fact, as he’ll later learn, three are gone.) Hoping Brynn might only have fired warning shots into the air, he puts the gun inside a tan plastic SAV-ON shopping bag and rushes out behind his frantic friend. He doesn’t want to, but feels he has to. Placing the concealed weapon in his trunk, he gets behind the wheel of his black Lincoln Town Car and starts the engine.

  Around six A.M., as Douglas tails Brynn back to Encino, she phones her good friend Judy. “Oh, God!” Brynn exclaims when Judy answers. “I think I killed Phil!” Hysterical and sobbing, she is speeding and driving erratically; traffic laws mean little. She blows red tri-light signals at two intersections.

  “Where are you?” Judy asks.

  “I don’t know!” Brynn replies. “I don’t know!” “My life is over!”

  Trying to pinpoint her location, Judy asks Brynn to read off a couple of street signs. Sepulveda and Ventura, Brynn tells her. She is close to home. Judy hangs up, gets dressed, and drives over to 5065 Encino Boulevard.

  Minutes later Brynn arrives there and pulls into the garage. Douglas finds a street spot nearby. He retrieves the .38 from his trunk and follows Brynn through the garage entrance. Once inside, he trails her down a long hallway to the master bedroom at the north end. Peering in, he sees Phil’s motionless body on the bed and soon notices the bullet wound in his head.

  “Oh, my God, he’s dead!” Brynn screams. “I told you I did! I told you I did! I killed him! I killed him! I don’t know why!”

  Douglas just stands there for a moment, the horror before him sinking in. Things seem to be moving in slow motion. Out of her mind with grief and panic, Brynn makes another call—to her friends Steve and Marcy. She tells Steve what she told Douglas and Judy: “I killed Phil!” Steve tells Marcy. They, too, drive over from their house just three blocks away.

  Now Douglas is in the hallway outside the master bedroom. There is a phone nearby. He picks up the receiver and dials 9-1-1.

  Police dispatcher: Emergency operator 614.

  Douglas: Yeah, hi, this is 5065 Encino Boulevard. And, um, I was called over to the residence. I think there’s been a shooting here.

  (Douglas speaks in an unsteady monotone.)

  Police dispatcher: OK, do you see a victim?

  Douglas: Yes.

  Police dispatcher: OK, hold on for the paramedics, OK? One moment.

  Douglas: OK.

  Police dispatcher: I want you to stay on the line.

  Douglas: OK.

  Fire dispatcher: Fire Department emergency operator, how may I help you?

  Douglas: Yeah, hi, there’s been a shooting at 5065 Encino Boulevard.

  Fire dispatcher: How many people are shot?

  Douglas: Just one, and um …

  Fire dispatcher: Do you know what part of the body?

  Douglas: I think around the head and the neck. I just got here.

  Fire dispatcher: The person who shot him, is he still around?

  Douglas: Yeah, she’s his wife.

  Fire dispatcher: [T]he wife shot him and they’re both there?

  Douglas: Yeah.

  Fire dispatcher: Is she hurt at all?

  Douglas: I’m not sure. I’m trying to calm her down. OK?

  (The police dispatcher comes back on the line.)

  Police dispatcher: Hello, sir?

  Douglas: Yeah.

  Police dispatcher: Did, uh, was this on purpose or was this an accident or what, sir? Do you know what happened?

  Douglas: I have no idea … She was drunk. She said she killed her husband and I didn’t believe her.

  Police dispatcher: OK, are they both there right now?

  Douglas: You’re right. Now, can you trace this address because I’m not sure?

  Police dispatcher: All right, where’s the weapon now?

  Douglas: It’s in my hand because, um, she brought it to my house.

  Police dispatcher: What’s your name, sir?

  Douglas: My name’s Ron, Ron Douglas.

  Police dispatcher: All right, sir, we’re going to get the officers on the way.

  While Douglas is on the phone, Brynn closes her bedroom’s double doors and locks them. Douglas tries to get in but cannot. He is still holding Brynn’s bagged gun and wants nothing more than to escape this nightmare. Unfortunately, the front door dead bolt is locked and he can’t find a key. Brynn continues to wail.

  Apoplectic in her shattered state, at 6:21 A.M. she calls her sister Kathy in Wisconsin. First she tries Kathy at home, but there is no answer, so Brynn dials her work number. Kathy’s assistant answers, senses that something is deeply wrong, and immediately alerts her boss. Kathy comes on the line.

  “Phil is dead!” Brynn says.

  “What do you mean, Phil’s dead?” Kathy wonders aloud. “What happened?”

  Brynn is unable to speak. Kathy tells her to take a breath.

  “I don’t know!” Brynn exclaims. “I’m sick! I don’t remember!”

  Then: “Tell the children that I love them.”

  “I know you love them,” Kathy says, and asks if Brynn called 9-1-1. The answer is unclear. Distraught like Kathy has never heard her before, Brynn emits a series of bone-chilling shrieks.

  When she calms down enough to speak, Brynn mentions that she called Marcy and Ron. She also tells Kathy about Douglas.

  “You mean Ronald McDonald?” Kathy asks, using a nickname Brynn bestowed upon him long ago.

  Yes, Brynn tells her. Ronald McDonald.

  Kathy asks if anyone else is in the house. She needs to talk with someone besides Brynn to better assess the situation and to make sure Sean and Birgen are looked after. Brynn’s crying and screaming persist. Then she says, “I’ve got to go. I gotta go,” and hangs up.

  * * *

  At 6:32, Brynn’s bedroom phone rings. She answers: “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is the police department, um, is Ronnie home?”

  “Yes,” Brynn says, “come in.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there someone who’s been shot there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many people are inside the house?”

  “Help me.”

  Crying, Brynn hangs up.

  The police call back.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?”

  “Ma’am, how many people are inside the house right now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “OK, thank you.”

  This time the police disconnect.

  * * *

  Parking on Encino Boulevard near the Hartmans’ front gate, Marcy rings the buzzer a few times but gets no response, so she tries calling Brynn with her cell phone.

  Brynn answers: “Hello?”

  “It’s Marcy. Open the gate.”

  “Over the gate,” Brynn says in a panicked tone. “Over the gate.”

  The call ends.

  Steve succeeds in opening the gate latch. He and Marcy walk up to the front door, through which they can hear a woman screaming. Inside, wanting desperately to split the scene, Douglas keeps searching in vain for a key. As he does, Steve and Marcy see him through a window. He stares at them and they at him—strangers.

  “Who are you?” Marcy asks from outside.

  “Ronnie.�
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  “Let us in.”

  “I can’t open it,” Douglas tells them. “It’s a dead bolt. I need a key.”

  “Get it from Brynn,” Marcy says.

  “No,” Douglas replies. “I can’t. Is there another way in?”

  Marcy looks behind her and sees that police have arrived. One of the uniformed officers motions to them. She and Steve retreat from the house.

  * * *

  Probably rousted by the ruckus, nine-year-old Sean makes his way to where Douglas is standing. (He will later recall that Douglas got him from his bedroom.) They have to get out of there, Douglas says. Fortunately, Sean knows where his parents keep a key for the back door. He retrieves it and they exit. Toting the gun bag in one hand, Douglas ushers the boy outside toward the rear gate and hands over Brynn’s weapon to a couple of waiting officers from the LAPD’s West Valley division. Sean is placed in their protective custody. Douglas also gives the officers a quick rundown of events and informs them that six-year-old Birgen remains inside, possibly asleep.

  Once Douglas and Sean are out, several officers make their way into the house through the open west center door. They pass through the kitchen and into the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Two officers crouch down on opposite sides of the hall. Three more get into similar “positions of advantage,” focusing their attention on the home’s north side, where the master bedroom is. From behind its doors they can hear a female’s moaning and muffled screams.

  Brynn is again on the phone with Kathy.

  “Take care of my children,” she tells her sister.

  Kathy asks what Brynn means.

  “Just let them know how much I love them,” Brynn says, inconsolable and sobbing. “Tell Mom…”

  She cuts her sentence short as officers announce their presence. One of them calls her by name: “Brynn!”