Latest / The Evidence Room: True Crime, Investigations & Justice / The Silence in Brentwood: The Tragic End of Marilyn Monroe | The Evidence Room
Transcript
- The window was broken, but the silence inside was heavier than the glass. She had locked herself away from a world that demanded too much, leaving behind only an empty bottle and a question no one could answer. Let’s look closer at who she was before the door closed. For years leading up to the early sixties, Marilyn Monroe was not just a star; she was a phenomenon. Her films had grossed two hundred million dollars by the time she died—a staggering sum that equals over two billion dollars today. But behind the glamour, there was a fracture. She suffered from mental illness and substance abuse, a private war fought in the shadows of public adoration. She hadn’t completed a film since The Misfits, released on February first, nineteen sixty-one. That movie was a box-office disappointment, and it marked the end of an era for her career. Instead of working, she spent nineteen sixty-one preoccupied with health problems. She went under surgery for endometriosis and a cholecystectomy. She spent four weeks in hospital care, including a brief stint in a mental ward for depression. It was a year of retreat, of trying to heal while the world kept spinning without her. In early nineteen sixty-two, she moved back to Los Angeles after six years in Manhattan. She purchased a Spanish hacienda-style house at twelve thirty Fifth Helena Drive in Brentwood. It was supposed to be a fresh start. She received a World Film Favorite Golden Globe award and began shooting Something’s Got to Give, a remake of My Favorite Wife. But days before filming began, Monroe caught sinusitis. The studio, Twentieth Century Fox, was advised to postpone production, but they didn’t listen. Filming began on schedule in late April. Monroe was too ill to work for the majority of the next six weeks. Despite confirmations by multiple doctors, Fox tried to pressure her, publicly alleging she was faking her symptoms. Then came May nineteenth. She took a break from filming to sing Happy Birthday on stage at President John F. Kennedy’s birthday celebration at Madison Square Garden. Ten days before his actual birthday. It was a moment of triumph, perhaps the last time she felt truly seen by the masses, even if it was fleeting. But the triumph faded quickly. In early June, Fox fired her. They blamed her publicly for the production’s problems. This wasn’t just a job loss; it was a rejection of her very presence. In the weeks preceding her death, she attempted to repair her public image by giving several interviews to high-profile publications. She also began negotiations with Fox on being rehired for Something’s Got to Give and for starring roles in other productions. There was hope, fragile and thin, like a thread holding back a tide. She wanted to return. She believed she could still contribute, still shine. But the industry had already turned its back. The truth has a texture, and this texture was rough, unforgiving, and isolating. She was alone in that house in Brentwood, fighting to piece together a career that had slipped through her fingers. Monroe spent the day of her death, August fourth, at her home in Brentwood. She was accompanied at various times by publicist Patricia Newcomb, housekeeper Eunice Murray, photographer Lawrence Schiller, and psychiatrist Ralph Greenson. These were the people closest to her, the witnesses to her decline. At Greenson’s request, Murray stayed overnight to keep Monroe company. It was a gesture of care, of ensuring she wasn’t entirely alone in the dark. But the night deepened, and the isolation returned. Around three a.m. on Sunday, August fifth, the house was quiet. Too quiet. Eunice Murray noticed that Monroe had locked herself in her bedroom. She looked inside through a window and saw Monroe appeared unresponsive. The silence was absolute. Murray alerted Greenson, who arrived soon after. He entered the room by breaking a window, shattering the peace he had tried to maintain. And there, she was dead. Her death was officially ruled a probable suicide by the Los Angeles County coroner’s office. The evidence was stark: information about her overdosing, combined with her history of mood swings and suicidal thoughts. Dr. Ralph Greenson had noted that Monroe recently wrote a note to him expressing feelings of depression and fear of being abandoned. Empty pill bottles were found at the scene. Toxicology reports confirmed lethal levels of barbiturates—sodium pentothal and chloral hydrate—but found no evidence of foul play or external administration of the drugs. There were no signs of physical trauma, no struggle, no defensive wounds. It supported the conclusion that she had not been attacked. She had taken her own life, overwhelmed by the weight of her existence. The coroner’s ruling was clear, based on the facts present at that moment in time. But clarity is often harder to accept than mystery. Despite the coroner’s findings, several alternative theories suggesting murder or accidental overdose have been proposed since the mid-sixties. Why? Because the idea of a beloved icon simply ending her life in despair was too painful for some to accept. Many of these theories involve U.S. president John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert F. Kennedy, as well as union leader Jimmy Hoffa and mob boss Sam Giancana. The media latched onto these possibilities, weaving a tapestry of conspiracy that obscured the human tragedy at the center. Because of the prevalence of these theories, the office of the Los Angeles County District Attorney reviewed the case in nineteen eighty-two. They found no evidence to support the murder claims. They did not disagree with the findings of the original investigation. However, the report conceded something important: factual discrepancies and unanswered questions remained in the case. The silence around her death became a canvas for projection, for fear, for imagination. We don’t forget. We remember the woman who struggled, who sought help, who was fired when she was sick, who tried to come back. We remember the house at twelve thirty Fifth Helena Drive. We remember the broken window and the empty bottles. The official story stands: acute barbiturate poisoning, probable suicide. But the questions linger because the pain of her life was so visible, yet so ignored. She had an FBI file open since nineteen fifty-six due to her relationship with Arthur Miller. She had trouble remembering lines. She delayed productions. She was labeled difficult, when really, she was drowning. The system failed her long before the pills ran out. Now, decades later, we are left with a legacy complicated by grief and speculation. But beneath the rumors, there is a simple, devastating fact: a woman died alone, afraid of abandonment, in a house that once promised safety. We honor her not by inventing new endings, but by acknowledging the truth of her suffering. Thank you for listening, for staying with me in this quiet space. We honor the dignity of those lost by seeking the truth, however painful it may be. This story is drawn from public records and widely reported accounts. Our thoughts are with everyone affected. Until next time, take care of each other.