Marilyn’s Last Secret

Steven C. Levi
104 min readFeb 29, 2020



* * *





INTERVIEW: June 23, 1962

“Let’s see the paperwork again. Is this OK, George? This is total immunity, right, George? (Pause) (“Yes, it is,” audible in the background.) OK, this is total immunity. (Unintelligible) Yeah, that’s me. For the record, eh? Well, for the record, is this thing on? It is, and it’s recording, right? Gooood. This is, my name is Bernard Spindel and I am speaking with total immunity as to my activities — and only those activities — with regard to the wiretap and listening devices placed in the home of Marilyn Monroe. Like I said before, I’m speaking with immunity, complete immunity, from all prosecution.

First, let me tell you that the bugging of that house was the easiest job, one of the easiest jobs I have ever done. It was like a Cracker Jack box. A bug in each room picked up everything, and I mean everything. I was using my best equipment and I could have done it with nickel-and-wires and speakers.

I remember thinking it was great. Every time I twisted the dial to get a louder recording the thrashing of the two people on the king-size bed would get more animal-like. Hoffa was going love the tape, I remember thinking. In his wildest fantasy, he could never dream he would ever have this kind of dirt on Bobby. Bobby! That man was evil incarnate for Hoffa and here he was, that Father of the Year Award still warm in the hands of his wife Ethel in San Francisco, and, and, here he was in Los Angeles with Marilyn Monroe rutting like an animal in heat. Hoffa was gonna love this, he was, he was.

But there had been some problems. I had spent three hours on my belly in the crawl space under Marilyn’s house and what I saw did not make me happy. Here I was stringing wires and drilling holes for microphones and I knew I was not alone. Not by a long shot. Who else was listening I don’t know but at least two other parties were just as interested in what was going on in that house as I was. The wires, some of the ones I didn’t put in, had been there for quite some time, maybe a year or more. How do I know? They had dust on them. The ones in the attic were recent because the white of the wood was still visible where someone had missed when pounding in a nail. The wires with the dust had been done by a professional, probably a government man looking at the way that the stretches where looped. You know, how they train you to string wires in the military? You run the wires over the top of the screw and then loop it around the shaft before securing the screw into the wood. But the recent ones in the attic, well, that was done by an amateur for sure, someone who didn’t know what they were doing.

Whose? Well, guys, that’s a good question. Maybe the Russians, you know. Or the CIA. You never know about the CIA. It could have been the Cubans or maybe it was someone in your department, the FBI. Hoover wasn’t a big fan of Bobby’s. Maybe you guys outta check out your own tape collection.”

* * *

He adjusted his whiskers again as the plane’s tires squealed as they hit the tarmac. Concerts were great but travel was hell. No matter where he went, he was mobbed. That was the trouble with being the King. You couldn’t even go out and have a beer. Sunglasses didn’t work. That’s why he wore the beard and glasses. And he read a novel the whole trip into Los Angeles so he didn’t have to talk to anyone. His voice was too recognizable. He could color his hair and “grow” a beard but there was not way to hide the telltale Mississippi twang.

* * *

Personal Notes: Gerald P. Whittaker, III

April 29, 1976 — — MEMOIRS, My 38 years with the Department

To the best of my knowledge, this was the action and conversation in the office of the Director as I witnessed it on June 25, 1962.

“JUST what I need, don’t you think, Clyde?”

Tolson was slumped way down in the Director’s chair. He might have been ramrod straight on the firing line but when news broke that was good and his way he liked to slide way down in the one of the leather chairs. The only place the FBI had leather chairs was in the Director’s Office. The rest of the chairs in our building — and the field offices for that matter — were strictly government-issue. Hoover didn’t want us relaxing in our offices. His chairs in his office, however, were a different matter.

“No doubt about it, Director. . .” Tolson always called him “Director” at the office. Here he was official. Elsewhere it was Jay or Edgar but here it was “The Director” or just plain “Director.”

I remember watching the Director almost dancing with joy. “We’ve got that son-of-b&%ch by the balls, ha! By the balls, eh? By the balls! That’s the only pun I’ve ever made. Ha! And do I love it.”

“You want me to leave these tapes here, Sir?” I was standing ramrod straight, at attention, my hair so short I looked bald from a distance. I had just flown in from the Los Angeles field office and here I was standing in the Director’s office, and me, barely a year in place in Los Angeles.

“Oh, yes, yes!” The Director looked at me beaming. “I’ll see that these are filed properly. You’ve done your assignment well.”

It was only after he rose and I realized how short he was. He stepped out of his chair and looked me squarely in the eye. Later I was told he had a small, black, wood box hidden beneath his desk directly in front of his chair to bring him to eye level with the agents. But for a moment it was horribly humorous. Here was the Director, just a shade over five feet tall, looking me in the eye, a six-foot-four farmer’s kid from Kalispell. His waist was so high above the desk that he appeared to be flying. But I didn’t laugh.

“That will be all.”

I carefully stacked my reports in my briefcase. Tolson rose and dusted his knees as if it was out of habit. The Director was still gloating over the tapes, and chortling in kind of sing-song tune: “We’ve got him! We’ve got him! We’ve got him! On tape with that lesbian hooker actress moral pervert! That man has no morals at all. How’s that gonna play for the f%$#ing Father of the Year?

Just before I closed the door on my way out I saw Tolson put his arm around the Director’s waist. “We’re not going to see a budget cut in six years,” he said.

* * *

[Verbatim transcript from Marilyn’s diary, August 10, 1962. Author’s note: As Marilyn died on August 5, 1962, this date is obviously incorrect. In the reading of the diary it becomes clear that Marilyn did not keep a diary in the traditional sense. She wrote when she wished and for as long as she chose without regard to the day on the printed page. Some entries were a line or two, others went on for pages. This one is modest in length but was included because specific last names were mentioned. In other selections, only first names or an initial were used. In the interest of space, only selections of the passage were used. The line of “. . . .” indicate that sections of various lengths were excised.]

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I called Peter after dinner, my dinner, not his. The Lawfords always ate late. Going to the Lawfords for dinner is a drag. They ate so late that by the time you got to the table you were weak from hunger. And Peter is such a worm. He won’t take your phone calls even though you know he’s there and he knows you know he’s there. Here I was, the best and worst week of my life and Peter isn’t taking my calls.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Everything is coming up roses. I’ve just cracked the biggest deal of my life. Now I’m like Liz. No more $100,000 per movie! I’m into the big time now, a million a movie. THE BIG TIME. Starting with this one, SOMETHING’S GOT TO GIVE. My salary is going to jump TEN TIMES. TEN TIMES!!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Those politicians are making me sick. Those Kennedy brothers were a pair of degenerates. Movie people are bad enough, undependable, flaky, but the political people are worse. Real bastards. They actually care what newspapers out of Los Angeles say. I can’t believe that. In the movie business, we don’t pay that much attention to anything except Variety. But who cares about the Los Angeles Times. Those guys do. They really care!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . and that Peter Lawford is the worst weasel I’ve ever encountered — at least since my last agent. He is a real twerp. He’s one of those guys who thinks he got it made because he’s got one foot in Hollywood and the other in the Kennedy family. He’s related to the President, married Jack and Bobby’s sister, and he thinks he’s royalty. When I finally got him on the phone he gave me a song and dance about Bobby not being in town. Hell, he must think I don’t watch the news.

“No, No, No, don’t give me that, Peter,” I told him when I finally got him on the phone. “I KNOW Bobby’s there at the house. He’s not in San Francisco with Ethel and the kids so he’s here in Los Angeles. Peter, I told you before, I just want to talk to him.”

Peter was stalling me, that worm. But I knew how to get his attention. A worm may not have a spine but you can still break its back. So I did. I just told him I was keeping a diary. And the most amazing thing happened. Right after that, Bobby came on the line and said he’d over tonight, by helicopter, no less. Right into my neighborhood. Imagine that?

* * *

Conversation reported by Chester Maleonovitch,

Inmate #5549991944

San Quentin.

RE: Salvatore Christianai “Needles” Gianola

DATE: April 13, 1969

“Needles said he hated Vegas. Not just hated, but HATED. It was packed with feds, see. Bugsy may have had a good idea about money but when it came to feds, well, Bugsy didn’t know diddly. Vegas drew feds like honey drew flies. Chicago, now that’s my kind of a town. Needles liked it too. Dirt, smell, paper blowing down the streets, great Italian restaurants, fettuccini that didn’t come in a plastic package from California.

Needles said when he visited Sam he walked through the office lobby and down a hallway that had four identical doors. Giancana wasn’t dumb. He made himself a moving target even when he was sitting down. With four identical doors, anyone coming in would have a hard time figuring out which one led to Sam. Hell, Needles didn’t know which one led to Sam. He told me he stepped into the hallway and looked at the four doors wondering what he should do. He never got a chance to try any of the doors because one of ’em just opened and some guy that looked like a gorilla in a three-piece suit beckoned him inside — but only after he’d been frisked.

Soon as Sam came through the door, Sam had him strip down and put on a bathrobe. Sam didn’t trust anyone. That’s why he held all his important business conversations in the steam room. There was no way to hide a wire if you are buck naked and sweating.

Sam was in a fit. “Did you bring two passports?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Needles. That was a long conversation for him. In his kind of business he didn’t do too much talking.

Sam had this problem, Needles said. See Sam wanted Cuba. That’s where the money was. Drugs, prostitution, enforcement, Las Vegas, hey, chicken feed; I mean CHICKEN FEED compared to Cuba. Sam had it all figured out. After Castro got bumped, Sam would be back in Cuba. He’d build so many hotels with gambling casinos that the island would sink under their weight! That’s what he wanted the Kennedy’s to do, John, that is. That’s what he wanted John to do. Get that damn Castro out so’s Sam could get back in. He’d been in before, you know, before Castro. Now he wanted to be back and JFK was gonna do the job for him.

But that all changed with the Bay of Pigs. Kennedy could have gone in — but he didn’t. And that’s what killed him. That’s what Needles said anyway. “The day JFK didn’t send in the air support at the Bay of Pigs, his death warrant was signed.” I ain’t sayin’ Needles is wrong; but I am saying is Needles believed that — and he was in a position to know. ‘Course he’s dead now so you can’t ask him.

Anyway, Sam figured he had an angle. Least that’s what Needles said. Sam had Marilyn and Marilyn had Bobby and Bobby was the brother of the President who had the power to pick up the phone and call the CIA and say, “Get that son-of-a-b&%ch Castro out of there. But a diary or a tape recording, well, that wasn’t going to be enough. Not a “powerful enough” incentive, Needles said. “Not powerful enough,” I can still hear him saying that, over and over, before the blood gurgled out of his chest from the shiv. Those were the last words he said — ha, maybe he’s talking to ol’ JFK right now, sh&t, wouldn’t that be a laugh.”

* * *

Double step. Side step. Double step. Twirl. Was she ever going to get this dance? Another damn dance out of South America. If Harry wasn’t such a night owl they could spend time at home instead of traipsing around to every God damn night club in Los Angeles. I mean, what was wrong with staying home, here, in Brentwood? North Helena Street might not be Broadway or Sunset Boulevard but, hey, it didn’t have any white picket fences either. It was a nice quiet neighborhood. Except when that son-of-a-b&%ch government guy came by in the helicopter.

It had been pretty quiet until Marilyn moved across the street. Not that Marilyn was a bad sort. S-U-R-E she had that movie image but, from looking at her around the house you sure couldn’t tell she was a vamp. She was like any other neighbor here is suburbia, just a little more famous. She wasn’t out front that often but she did a little bit of yard work and walk around the house occasionally.

But her friends were a real pain in the road curb. It wasn’t that they were that noisy; it was just that they kept coming during the night. “Those Hollywood people are real night owls,” she kept telling Harry. “And that damn helicopter keeps us up all night long. But whoever’s coming over in a helicopter has got to be one important guy ’cause it isn’t legal to fly a helicopter that low, much less land in a neighborhood.”

* * *


Internal Memo

Eyes Only

August 1, 1962

TO: Director, National Security Agency

From: Director, FAA Los Angeles

FAA-LA continues to make strenuous objections to the President’s frequent, unorthodox and unannounced use of air space in an unmarked helicopter over Los Angeles and the continuous communities thereof.

FAA-LA continues to make strenuous objections to the lack of security that these flights incur. FAA has now way of complying with Secret Service demands for clear air space in the vicinity of the President’s helicopter if the FAA is not given advance notice of at least 2 hours. Air space cannot be cleared in a shorter period of time. Current demands by the Secret Service average 15 minutes, not enough time for FAA-LA to clear air space within 5 miles of President’s helicopter.

* * *

Conversation reported by Chester Maleonovitch,

Inmate #5549991944

San Quentin.

RE: Salvatore Christianai “Needles” Gianola

DATE: April 14, 1969

“Why was Needles talking to me? We was buddies, see. He was gonna be here a long time. He was never going home. He knew he was gonna be taken out. It was only a matter of time. ‘Sides, he was almost 70, an old man in his line of work. He was about to become a client of his own line of work if you know what I mean.

Needles hated helicopters the way he hated Vegas. No matter where you sat, you had to look d-o-w-n. It wasn’t that he had a fear of flying or any other stuff like that. It’s just that he felt so helpless. If anything went wrong, well, that was the way it was. You were through. When he had the choice, he stayed on the ground. Hell, he even liked the jungle! He’d even been in Cuba. Poisoning cigars. Now that was one for the books! Needles told me all about it. He went into this cigar factory in the middle of the f%$#ing night looking for a certain brand of cigar so he could jam some heat-activated poison in it. It was kind of a farewell gift for Castro. Thanks for the Bay of Pigs! Here’s a cigar and I hope you choke. “JFK’s next,” that’s what he said.

Anyway, he left LA International and hopped over to some guy’s house he wasn’t supposed to remember. He knew who it was, had seen the guy’s pictures. I mean, who the hell did he think that guy was trying to fool — no, I ain’t gonna tell you his name ’cause he’s still alive and I want to stay that way. Hell, if this guy didn’t want Needles to know who he was, that was OK with Needles. His whole life had been meeting people he wasn’t supposed to remember. That wasn’t a problem. After he was through, a lot of people didn’t want to remember him either.

A lot of them couldn’t.

This was going to be a “special job,” Needles told me. That’s what he called it, a “special job.” He knew it was a special job because Sam told him it was. Jobs like these were dangerous because if you succeeded, you might just disappear. If you failed, you would disappear. But whoever it was, it was certainly important for Sam. And nobody, and I mean f%$#ing nobody, ever told Sam no.

* * *

Unedited transcript of tape

Date: undetermined,

Labeled as Tape III, August, 1962



“You son-of-a-b&%ch, why haven’t you called?! I’ve been calling you for days.”

“Marilyn. We’ve got to talk.”

“What the hell are we doing now?”

“Marilyn, there’s no easy way to say this, but we’ve got to end . . .”

“END?! What is this END crap?! We had an agreement!”

“No. We had an arrangement.”

“Like the arrangement I had with your brother?”

“Marilyn, it’s got to stop. It’s finished. I can’t leave Ethel and the children.”

“That’s not what you were saying two weeks ago when you were ramming me and calling out to God.”

“Marilyn, now be sensible. There’s Ethel and the kids. It’s my career. I’m going to be president.”

“You aren’t going to be sh&t. If you don’t follow through on your promise to marry me, you won’t be anything. I’ve got, I’ve got, tapes and documents. What’s the American public going to think about that, huh?”

“Now, Marilyn, you can’t hurt me that way.”

“I can’t! Who the HELL do you think you are?! You and your brother, if you were women you’d be called tramps. You just follow where your dick leads.”

“Now, Marilyn, Jack and . . . “

“Your god damn brother! I’ve been treated better by Hollywood directors and that’s saying quite a bit! What’s it going to be like when all those tapes on the CIA and Castro and Sam come out? Where’s that going to leave you and that Father of the Year award?”

“Now, Marilyn . . . “

“Don’t ‘Now, Marilyn’ me. I know when I’m being rolled. Who the HELL do you think you are anyway. Now, let me make myself crystal clear. If I’m not going to be your wife, you’re not going to President, and neither is that slimy brother of yours. Am I making myself clear?”

“Okay. Maybe there’s a way.”

“Don’t give me this maybe crap. You’ve heard it from me. Now make your choice. Ethel and the kids and never making it the White House or me and the White House.”

“That’s not much of a choice.”

“It’s not any kind of choice at all, Bobby. This is Hollywood, baby. That’s the way life is here, e-v-e-r-y d-a-y of the week. You guys in D. C. figure you have it rough. Not a chance, Bobby.”

“Ok, Ok. I’ll, I’ll, tell Ethel. It’s not going to be easy.”


“When am I going to tell Ethel?”


“When the time is right, I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week.”


“Tomorrow? That’s just not possible.”

“Tomorrow, Bobby. If it’s not tomorrow, you’ll be reading fascinating stories in the Los Angeles Times.”

“Tomorrow, tomorrow, Ok, tomorrow.”

“And we can seal the deal tonight.”

* * *

“Babe, I’m here. Gotta bit a time between planes, but babe I AM HERE. Let me get out of this whiskers and b-l-u-e suede shoes while you come to papa!”

* * *



Verbatim Transcript of Conversation

Date: August 4, 1962

“She’s got to go. I mean SHE’S GOT TO GO. No, don’t talk, I just want you to listen. Yes, this is a clear line. It’s been swept. Of course my people know when a line’s bugged.

“This is not just another floozy. We are talking about an out-on-the-limb bimbo and we don’t know what the hell she’s got recorded or written down. What did you tell her anyway? Hell, I don’t care. She has just got to go. Just do it. Take care of it. Tonight. No mistakes and tonight.”

* * *

Peter didn’t like it at all. Being connected to the Kennedy family wasn’t supposed to have a downside. Social ladders were to be climbed; not something you were forced to slide down. Sure, there might be a rung or two missing, but the reason the word ladder was used was because it was something you climbed up to another level.

The strange man was in a funk, walking back and forth beside the pool and muttering to himself. Just like Lady Macbeth, he was unconsciously wringing his hands. Then he would be on the phone, again, the long wire dragging along the tiles as he talked sharply and then slammed the receiver down. He’d put the phone on a glass table and start to pace again, like an animal in a cage before feeding time. Back and forth, back and forth, wringing his hands, wringing his hands, until the phone rang and the process started over again.

The sun was an hour from setting, hovering over the Pacific like a red-hot frying pan, when the chopper came in from L.A. International. Some guy Peter had never seen got off and walked across the beach to the mansion. He was dressed like a hit man from Chicago. As soon as the inference hit him, Lawford shivered with sudden realization. The gorilla in the three-piece walking in from the chopper spotted his contact by the swimming pool. It was a short conversation, no handshake, and the gorilla went into the mansion.

Peter was off the chaise lounge in a flash and stopped the strange man before he could start to pace again.

“This is different, man. This is not like hitting someone on the freeway. This is Number One, Uno. This is gas chamber time. And don’t give any of the ‘Pete, Pete, Pete talk.’ This is the big time. Too big for me.”

The little man didn’t bat an eye. He was as cold as a labor leader’s heart. “Pete, you are IN until we tell you you’re out. Got it? You are in this as deep as the rest us. Deeper. They don’t call your place the California Whore House for nothing.”

* * *

“Not a chance, George. Not a chance. Look at it this way. We are the first line of defense in the United States, the good guys who keep bad guys away from the President of the United States and his family. We don’t have the option of choosing which guy is good or bad when it comes to someone in a crowd or in an elevator or sitting in a car on the motorcade route. We are in charge of the whole shebang, all of it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know you’ve got a problem with the women. But that’s not your problem. If the man wants a little extra in his life, that’s his concern, not yours. You are not his mother. You are not his father. You are not his priest. You’re his bodyguard. If the man takes a fiddle for an hour, that’s not your concern. He’s got the right to do it because he’s President. After all, he’s not using your dick.

“Or is that a problem? I mean, the man has access to the best flesh in the country. The world, actually. He can have any woman he wants. And he wants them all. That’s his right. He’s President of the United States. Your job is not to judge him. Your job is to protect him. That means from his wife as well as from some loony tune with a .45.”

* * *

Los Angeles Post-Intelligencer

July 1, 1962

“Marilyn’s Strange Guests”

If Marilyn Monroe expected to peace and quiet when she moved into her North Helena Street home, she was sadly mistaken. At least that’s the way her neighbors see it. The sudden appearance of an international celebrity of Monroe’s stature has changed this sleepy neighborhood into a hotbed of nosy neighbors and henpecked husbands who yearn for the day when the only traffic on the street at night was a tomcat.

“There’s a helicopter landing in the cul-de-sac three, maybe four times a week,” Phyllis Cornblach complained to Los Angeles Police. “You’d think some of these celebrities would have the decency to remember that working people live here. WE have to get up and go to work in the morning.”

Others were impressed than distressed. “It’s like watching the cover of Time,” Douglas Oggle said. “A lot of the people I see walking down the street have been on the cover of Time. International people, you know, like what’s-his-name, the Prince of Monaco and the King of Siam or wherever, high government officials, movie stars. One night I even thought I saw the President of the United States!”

But whether they approve of what Monroe’s presence has done to their neighborhood or are testy when asked, everyone agrees that there is a certain charm to having Marilyn Monroe living just down the street.

“It’s almost like being a star yourself,” Cornblach said. “At least that’s what my friends say.”

* * *

Sam Giancana was on the phone one last time. He was “tightening faucets,” as he liked to say. “Tightening faucets” meant that he was making sure those who owed him knew they owed him.

Tonight was a night to celebrate, though that was a crude way to put it. Actually, that was a great way to express it. He was going to solve three headaches with one action and make a profit at it as well. That was the kind of deal he liked, turning expenses into profits.

Marilyn was out of control. Absolutely out of control. She was tapping her own bedroom, keeping diaries, hinting at blackmail and a lousy lay. On top of that, she was slapping his face. Had this little mutt, the kind that pisses on sofa legs, poodle, maybe, and named it Mafia. Now that wasn’t smart.

Then there was John. Sam needed a wedge. John had Bobby and Marilyn had Bobby. Sam had his wedge. Now Sam had Cuba. Wide open with the backing of the United States military. There was only one bearded bastard between Sam and billions and billions of American dollars.

“Just a last call. My man is in place, in California. Now I expect full cooperation and a green light in Cuba. I mean I expect a military force in there before the end of your term. I don’t mean another Bay of Pigs. I mean air power and sea power and man power — and I want a blind eye when I go in. Got it? Right. Before the end of your administration. When we get the casinos up, you can come visit. I don’t want any slip-ups on your part. That would be very dangerous to all concerned. You get my point?”

There was a mumble on the other of the line. Sam just smiled and half-listened while he looked through the glass walls of the telephone booth in the First Class Waiting at Idlewild. No one sitting on the leather couches was paying any attention to the lone man in the telephone booth. Sam listened until the billboard snapped up the 7:30 United flight to Paris. Then he just hung up and walked out of the lounge.

Old habits die hard. He settled into the First Class compartment. He’d bought four seats so no one would be by him. When the stewardess brought him a glass of red wine, he gave her a hundred dollar bill. “For the wine,” he said. “Keep the change.” Just in case, he thought, just in case anyone wants to know where I was tonight, I want to make sure I’ve got someone who I don’t own who’s going to remember me for a long time.

* * *

“Harry, it’s that damn helicopter again. What time is it?”

“I don’t know, after eight and before midnight.”

North Helena Street was bathed in light for an instant, the chopper looking for the cul-de-sac and vacant lot. She walked into bedroom just as the whine of the engine faded to silence. Harry could have cared less about the helicopter. He had his dancing shoes out of the box and was polishing them with hand towel

“Harry!” She snatched the towel away from him. “What do you think you are, a movie star? Now I’ll have to throw away this soiled towel. Use an old rag.”

Harry didn’t hear a word. He had slipped on his black loafers and was doing a twinkle toes impression across the bedroom carpet. An hour later, tapping his feet on the floorboard of the Packard, Harry drove down the street just as the helicopter took off, burying his conversation. All Harriet heard, as she looked up in annoyance as the chopper disappeared, “ . . . and then we’ll finish at the Soriano’s, be home ‘bout midnight. You don’t have to work tomorrow. Can you handle that, babe?”

* * *

Conversation reported by Chester Maleonovitch,

Inmate #5549991944

San Quentin.

RE: Salvatore Christianai “Needles” Gianola

DATE: April 15, 1969

“Needles hated LA worse than Vegas. Hell, neither of them were Chicago. He kind of laughed when he told me how he could stand Los Angeles for a few hours but that was it. I think that was kind of a joke because when Needles flies into a town, he doesn’t stick around too long.

As soon as he got to this beach house he got stuck in a room with mirrors on the walls and ceiling. He said it had a bed about the size of a baseball field with these huge knobs on its four corners. When he lay on the bed he could see where the camera was hidden behind the glass. That’s the kind of a guy Needles was, always seeing the small sh&t that made the difference.

Where did he get the stuff? I really don’t know. All I know is that Needles said it was delivered. Some pharmacist from God-knows-where met him at the door to his bedroom. Needles didn’t like that at all! I mean, not at all! That wasn’t the way he did business. He kept telling me that over and over again. He did not do business that way! Here he is, on his way to a hit, in a strange house with a camera and this little twit comes knocking on the door sayin’ “Here I’ve got this poison for you.” We are talking real brains here. The guy even had his pharmacist uniform on with a name tag! A name tag!! Needles just couldn’t believe it — and he’d seen plenty in his life.

Naw, I don’t know the name of the pharmacist. All Needles said was that the twit had his name tag on. So he pushed this guy out into the hall, took the suppositories and left the guy standing in the hall by himself.”

* * *

“Harry, it’s that chopper again. Again! What time is it anyway? Harry? HARRY! Sometimes I think you’re asleep when you don’t answer me. What time is it, close to midnight? What is that helicopter doing back in the neighborhood? Maybe we should have a talk with Marilyn, I mean really.”

* * *

“We are going to have some real problems with the whirlybird, Chief. If mean, we can’t keep landing on roadways and cul-de-sacs and not suck up some stones. We’ve been lucky so far but that’s not going to last. I don’t feel comfortable flying these guys into dangerous situations.

I also don’t like flying under the radar. That is very bad news because we are so dammed low a kid with a BB gun can bring us down. I’m not the hotshot cowboy I was in Germany. I’m older, slower and got kids to think about. We are just asking for trouble. The FAA can’t clear the flight space fast enough, we’re too low to choose an emergency landing spot if we need it, running hot which means someone sneezes and we’ll be a ball of fire. I mean, Jesus Christ! Chief, we’re talking about the President of the United States and the Attorney General of the United States! Any one thing goes wrong and our lives are through in this business.

* * *

Needles didn’t know who she was. He didn’t care. She was just another stiff-to-be. He didn’t know if he would ever know; not that he cared. He was getting old, maybe too old for this kind of work.

Needles went in with two thugs from Vegas. He didn’t like working with amateurs, punks who dressed to attract attention and talked. Probably fruits too. One was wearing a light purple shirt with a black tie. The other was dressed like a guy who should have been riding a motorcycle. They had come from Vegas and rode the chopper in with Needles. Real smart, thought Needles, dressed like that in a neighborhood like this.

The two torpedoes from Vegas went in first followed by Needles who appeared to be the only one being careful not to touch anything. He’d been doing this long enough to watch his own fingerprints.

By the time Needles was through the door the torpedoes had the woman, a blonde, by the hands and feet and were holding her stretched out, face down on the carpet. She didn’t scream at all. Maybe she thought they were playing.

Needles lifted the back of her bathrobe. She didn’t have any panties on so he didn’t have to worry about damaging the fabric. Needles grabbed her right leg and pulled it sideways, to loosen up her buttocks. With precision born of experience, Needles reached into his pocket and stripped the suppositories out of their plastic shells. In the next instant he slipped both of them inside the struggling woman.

Then she started cursing, saying that Needles must be some kind of a faggot. But as soon as the poison numbed her anus, she knew better. Then she knew who they were.

The blonde woman didn’t put up much of a struggle. She didn’t scream either. Her body just relaxed and she died. Not one of his better jobs, he thought, but good enough. The minute the body stopped flopping, Needles and the torpedoes stood up.

That was it for Needles. He was out the door heading for the helicopter. The torpedoes had to make the scene, work for punks starting out in the business. Needles just hoped they watched for their own fingerprints.

* * *

There weren’t that many downsides to being a mogul he mused as he pulled on his trousers and zipped up his pants. The starlet of the moment was Andrea Tiffanini, God knows where they get these names! Tiffanini! It sounded Italian but the way she spelled it looked like Brooklyn trying to be Milano. She had a fake accent she probably thought was Italian, or sound Italian anyway. Tiffanini! Well, who knows what small part she might get? That was one of the perks of being a mogul.

But he had other problems to worry about. This was the kind of a problem that gave a mogul a peptic ulcer! Why couldn’t the b&%ch keep her dress down and her knees together? Jesus! And with the President of the United States, of all people! The God Damn President! And his brother! Catholics! Both of them! CATHOLICS! What kind of a mess had she gotten herself into?

Herself? Screw that! She got the studio caught with its tit in a wringer. Joe Kennedy’s kid! JESUS! There are some people you cannot say “No” to and live to tell the tale. This was definitely not good news. This was not going to be easy.

He snatched up the phone before it finished its custom designed whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. “Yeah?”

“We’ve got some big problems.”

“I know,” he said, recognizing the voice. “Call me back in five minutes. I’m a bit busy.”

“Love them blow jobs.”

“I prefer to call them interviews,” he said as he smiled. The phone went dead.

Andrea Tiffanini came out of the office bathroom still adjusting her top. She wasn’t bad as starlets go, top heavy, the way he liked them, and someone who could keep her mouth shut. Except on select occasions.

He smiled at his own double-entendre.

“Now you are going to be calling the studio soon, aren’t you?” The voice had a tinge of anticipation in it. “I’ll move my calendar around for them. I’ve got nothing but time.”

I’ll bet you have, he thought.

“Thursdays are best.”

“I’ll have someone give you a call. Probably by the end of the week. I keep my word.”

“And I keep mine,” she said as her hand brushed his crotch. “Let’s get together again some time.”

“Oh, count on that,” he said and he ushered her out the door.

Once alone in the office he opened the locked file cabinet hidden behind the wet bar. There were a half-dozen files there, the most explosive written material on the planet. This was human fodder. Hell, the public didn’t give a hairy rat’s ass about the Russians and the missiles; they cared about the Hudsons and Deans and Monroes. It was very expensive keeping the Hudsons and Deans and Monroes pure as the driven snow. But it was worth every dime he spent, he mused, and spent a lot of dimes.

The phone whirred again.

“I’m here and alone now,” he said into the receiver as he spread the Monroe file out in front of him.

“We’ve got a problem,” said the voice.

“No kidding! I’ve got the file here and I’ve got to say we’ve got nothing but problems.”

“This is a big one.”

“Really, how much bigger can it get. Is the Pope involved now?”

“Bigger than that. Sam’s involved big time now. He’s not a man you can take lightly.”

“Giancana is not a man to cross, yeah.”

“Don’t even say his name on the phone. That’s how big he is. He is a nasty sort and he does not take no for an answer.”

“Can’t he keep the President’s trousers zippered?”

“Come on, Boss, he don’t give a sh&t as long as he’s the one what’s got his hand on the zipper. It’s good for business having the Prez with a big fat secret.”

“Seems everyone knows about the secret,” he said as he flicked through the file sheet by sheet. “I know because I’ve paid ’em all.”

“Well, get a lot of cash because you are going to need it this weekend. “

“Oh! No!”

* * *

Los Angeles Police Department

Statement by Phyllis Cornblach

August 6, 1962

I, Phyllis Cornblach, hereby assert that late on the night of August 5, 1962, and early in the morning on August 6, 1962, I witnessed an ambulance pull up to the home of Marilyn Monroe at 12305 North Helena Drive. The ambulance remained there for approximately 20 minutes before I went back to bed. I believe I saw the ambulance drive away but I am not sure. But I do remember that I woke up a little later and saw the ambulance moving in driveway. I do not know if it was just leaving for the first time or returning for a second time. The first time I saw the ambulance it was about midnight. The second time it was about three in the morning.”

* * *

“Marilyn! Jesus Christ, Harry! I mean, Jesus Christ! This is not something that you can hush up.” Jerry the lawyer/publicist for the studio was shaking his head as he talked to Harry the Mogul. “This isn’t some drug bust where we can talk to the Police Chief and deliver some Scotch downtown. This is very big time.”

“Jerry, you are paid very large dollars by the studio. You have a very impressive degree from UCLA and a law degree from Yale. You are smart and you are clever and your butt is in the frying pan right along with the rest of us.”

“Now, Harry, . . .”

“. . . with the rest of us, Jerry. So make it good. I don’t care how you do it; just do it. We don’t need any wild speculation as to what happened here. It’s a simple matter of suicide. That’s it. She was depressed. She was taking pills. Too many. Sleeping pills. Those over there, as a matter of fact.

“Are you sure those are hers? I mean, all we need is one snoop and it all comes apart.”

“But that won’t happen, will it, Jerry?”

“Harry, this is a, a, a . . .”

“. . . difficult assignment. Yes, I am aware of it. I am also sure that your successful completion of the assignment will be amply rewarded above and beyond what you are currently making and your Christmas bonus.”

“How amply?”

“Trust me. Besides, if you don’t succeed, we will all be sitting in the gutter outside the unemployment office.”

* * *

John F. Kennedy impromptu comments

Rose Garden, August 6, 1962

Forward to Los Angeles Metro Editor: August 6, 1962

“Marilyn? Oh, I knew her, but just casually. Sad, you know. Such talent. Will you excuse me for a moment? Jackie, can you get Caroline and John John out of the garden. I’m talking to the press. I can’t watch the kids and talk to the press at the same time.

(Children were removed by Jackie to the laughter of reporters.)

“I know there are many rumors circulating around Washington and, uh, I want to deny all of them, (laugh) whatever they are. I do not, uh, know about any relationship between President Sukarno and, uh, Marilyn and I never asked. I know Peter Lawford, yes, that’s right, Mary, but I have not talked with him this morning. Bobby is still on the West Coast and I am asking him to pay his respects. Marilyn Monroe was a friend and asset of this administration, as you are all well aware.”

[(handwritten notes) John, this is absolute hogwash. Everyone knows the President has been dipping his wick with Marilyn and Jayne. There are even rumors, well placed rumors, that Bobby is — or now, was — having an affair with Marilyn. Treat this story with discretion, it’s an election year, remember, and November isn’t that far off.]

* * *

“Let me make this absolutely, crystal clear. None of those Hyannis Port slimes are welcome. I don’t want them stinking up this place. Those two bastards are the reasons she’s lying there. May they rot in their own filth!”

DiMaggio towered over the ancient woman who was standing by the door at the funeral home. She didn’t care, didn’t really know who he was talking about. She knew who the woman was, had seen her movies. But she didn’t know who Joe was until someone had told her. She hadn’t been impressed; she’d been in this business too long. People came, people cried, people left. Only the music changed.

Somewhere over the rainbow

Way up high

There’s a land that I dreamed of

Once in a lullaby

“No Hollywood stars either. They’re not here for her; they’re here for the press and the TV cameras. This is a private ceremony, a moment of grief and dignity, for those who really loved her, not for the vultures and slime to pick at the corpse.”

This Joe guy was getting to be a real pain. She understood what she was supposed to do. Every time someone signed in, she looked at the name. If a “Kennedy” signed in, they didn’t get in. That was easy enough. When a Kennedy checked in, all she had to do was look at him with a pair of cross hair eyes and tell him to leave.

Somewhere over rainbow

Way up high

There’s a land that I dreamed of

Once in a lullaby

* * *


Michael T. Probster, M. D.

A Professional Corporation

4335 Eucalyptus

San Leandro Hills, California 90035


Baker, Norma Jean

aka Monroe, Marilyn

DATE OF BIRTH: June 1, 1926

DATE OF DEATH: August 5, 1962

DATE OF AUTOPSY: August 6, 1962



It is stated that this subject was involved in a suicide. The involved drug was Nembutal and chloral hydrate taken orally. The subject arrived at Los Angeles Memorial Hospital at approximately 2:15 am where she was declared D.O.A. No resuscitative methods were employed. The subject was received with no clothing.


The remains are those of a Caucasian female bearing finger bruises around the ankles and wrists. All fingernails are intact. There are abrasion on both knees and a rug burn on the right elbow. Five fibers were removed from the burn area and placed in envelope marked Exhibit A. Body length is 65 inches. Body weight is 110 pounds. Blond hair with brown roots are present. A slight amount of blood-tinged fluid is present within the nose. The mouth contains natural teeth in good repair. The chest has a normal anteroposterior diameter. The breast are normal female; no masses are palpable. The external genitalia are those of a female adult. The extremities are intact and symmetrical and unremarkable. The hands and forearms have no evidence of injury. The back is unremarkable.


SECTION: The body was opened with the traditional Y-shaped incision. Subcutaneous fat of the anterior abdominal wall measures up to 3.4 inch in thickness in the midline of the abdomen. The body’s organs are present in their usual positions and occupy the usual relationships to one another.

CARDIOVASCULAR SYSTEM: The heart has normal contours. Both right and left ventricles are intact and unremarkable and have a meaty red brown myocardium. The coronary arteries are widely patent. The endocardium and valves are unremarkable. The aorta and great veins are unremarkable.

RESPIRATORY SYSTEM: The lungs bilaterally are normal in color and consistency, save in their lower dependent portions where there is atelectasis. No focal lesions are identified on cut section. The larynx, trachea and bronchi are unremarkable.

HEPATOBILIARY SYSTEM: The liver is unremarkable. The parenchyma is reddish-purpose. No lesions are identified. The gallbladder and extrahepatic biliary duct system are unremarkable.

GASTROINTESTINAL SYSTEM: The esophagus, stomach, small and large intestines each contain an intact musca having the usual pattern for the various segments. No focal lesions are identified. There are five (5), partially-digested Nembutal tablets and three (3), undigested, capsules of chloral hydrate. (Tablets and capsules were identified by Los Angeles Police lab report, see Appendix I.) The pancreas has the usual lobulated pinkish gray surface. Stomach and intestines were devoid of contents indicating a lengthy fast.

RETICULOENDOTHELIAL SYSTEM: The spleen and lymph nodes are unremarkable.

ENITOURINARY SYSTEM: The kidneys bilaterally strip with ease revealing smooth cortical surfaces. On cut section the cortices are normal in thickness and well demarcated from medullary regions. Calyces, pyramids, and ureters are unremarkable. The uterus, Fallopian tubes and ovaries are also unremarkable. Approximately two (2) fluid ounces of sperm are extracted for forensic examination. Victim was pregnant, possibly in her second week.

ENDOCRINE SYSTEM: The adrenal, thyroid and pituitary are unremarkable.

CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM: The central nervous system is unremarkable.


HEART: unremarkable

LUNGS: unremarkable

LIVER: unremarkable

KIDNEYS: unremarkable

BRAIN: unremarkable

INTESTINES: There is a slight discoloration of the rectal region indicating the insertion of a suppository.


BLOOD: Alcohol: 0.67

Nembutal: trace

Chloral Hydrate: trace

Tubocurarine chloride 7.0

Urine: Drug Screen: negative for barbiturates, opiates,

Amphetamines, cocaine and cannabinoids.


Death was caused by tubocurarine chloride, a relaxation of the central nervous and autonomic system to the extent that neuromuscular activity ceased. Drug most likely introduced by a suppository.


Michael T. Probster, M. D.

Forensic Pathologist

* * *

FROM THE DESK OF Harriet Halberstrand

Metro Section, Los Angeles Post-Intelligencer

“Serving Los Angeles Since the Statehood”

August 7, 1962


I can’t made n’r tails of the ambulance story. I called the owner of the ambulance company and here’s what he said, verbatim. But Hall does work for him!

“Who? James Hall? J-a-m-e-s Hall, you said? No. No. He’s never worked for us. Nooooooooo, we didn’t send an ambulance to, to, where? Where was that? 12305 North Helena Drive? No, our records don’t show that we ever went there. I guess this Jim Hall guy is trying to make a quick buck on some scam. But no, he’s never worked for this ambulance company.”

* * *

“The FBI? I am impressed. Well, what can we here at the Brentwood telephone ticketing terminal do for you? You want all the phone logs for local and long distance for what number? Not a problem. Anything for the FBI.”

* * *

“That’s correct, officer. I am from the studio.”

“Well, you can’t be here. This is a crime scene.”

“Actually, no. It is not a crime scene. It’s a suicide scene. But you are correct. If it had been a crime scene that I would not be, technically, allowed to remain. However, as this is a suicide scene it is not a crime scene. Speaking as lawyer, which I am,

“I know who you are.”

“Good, good. Since the studio is making the payments on this unit, this house, this structure, and I am the lawyer for the studio, in reality, since this is not a crime scene, you actually have to have my permission to be here.”

“I don’t think that . . .”

“Oh, no! no! I’m not implying that you cannot be here or that I am denying you access to the premises. In fact, I and the studio are happy that you are here. We want to make sure that no one misunderstands what happened here.”

“Seems like it’s pretty obvious what happened here. We’ve got a dead body, Counselor, which usually means a death has occurred.”

“Oh, no question about that. I was thinking more in terms of what the Police Report was going to say was not here.”

Not here?”

“Not here as in pools of blood, a revolver, a blunt object with hair on it. That sort of thing.”

“Not everyone is killed with revolvers and candlesticks, Counselor.”

“That’s true. That’s true.”

“We usually get to go to the crime scene right away, Counselor. Seems we had to spend a lot of time in the Chief’s office before the crime team could come out here. Like three hours, Counselor.”

“Well, politics, you know.”

“I know. I know. Have you been here the whole time, Counselor?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I wanted to make sure that no newspapers entered the structure before you did.”

“You did.”

“Yes, that’s true. But I have a legal right to be here.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. After all, we’re not sure what happened.”

“Well, it’s quite obvious. She took all those sleeping pills over there. That’s what did it.”

“So you say.”

“So the evidence says.”

“Well if she took those pills and passed out, how did you get in? I don’t see that the door was forced. Do you have a key?”

“Actually I don’t have a key. The landlady does and I had to wake her.”

“How did you know to come up here so early in the morning?”

“The studio was notified by the ambulance company. Then I was called.”

“But the ambulance driver that was supposedly here does not exist.”

“Well he had to. How else would I have been called?”

“That, Counselor, is a very interesting question. Another interesting question is how you got in if you didn’t have the key.”

“Like I said, I got the landlady to let me in.”

“Why didn’t you knock on the door?”

“I did. When the landlady came over, I broke that window over there to move the curtains aside to see if could see Marilyn inside.”

“Humm, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You came up here because the studio got a call from the ambulance company that they had picked up Marilyn and when you got here Marilyn was locked in her room so you got the landlady to break a window so you could see inside if Marilyn was really there?”

“Well, you are mixing apples and oranges.”

“Maybe you can explain it to me.”

“An ambulance was called to this residence. That’s when I got the call. The ambulance left without Marilyn. I arrived and got the landlady . . .”

“So the ambulance did not pick her up?”

“Obviously not, she’s still here.”

“Maybe and maybe not. She could have been in the ambulance and taken to a hospital but been DOA.”

“Then her body would be at the hospital.”

“Not necessarily. The studio might not want her body there. The ambulance might have taken the body back here and this scene set up.”

“Well, the door was locked from the inside. If the body was brought back here and the scene staged, how did the stagers get out of the room and lock the door from the inside.”

“They didn’t. I only have your word and that of the landlady that the door was locked.”

“Then why did we break the glass to look in?”

“I think that happened afterwards. I don’t see that much glass on the inside of the room. That means the window was broken outward, not inward.”

“When a window breaks, glass falls inside and outside. It’s a myth that glass only falls in the direction of the break.”

“I’ve never seen it otherwise.”

“If you are talking about a break that is caused by a moving object like a bullet or a baseball, you are correct. That’s because the force of the blow transfers to the glass which shatters and its shards continue to move with the object. But if you press or tap a window to break it, some glass will move inward, of course, but other bits will fall backwards. That’s because some shards are left in the frame and will fall where they will. Further, if the window is broken with a rock, like we did, as the rock is withdrawn, some pieces that should have fallen inside are pulled outside and then fall outside.”

“Is that what happened?”

“What happened is that the landlady and I broke the window with a rock to look inside. When we pushed the curtain aside with a stick . . .”

“Where’s the stick?”

“Behind the couch by the window.”

“I see it. Yes. This is the stick you used?”


“It looks long enough.”

“If it wasn’t long enough we couldn’t have used it.”


“And . . .”

“And I’m sure that the landlady will back up your claim.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I will. Now I’m going to take the body down to the morgue. Is that going to be OK with you, considering that you are claiming to have the legal authority to release material from the premises?

“Of course, suicide is a dreadful.”

“Counselor, I got the message. I’ve got the body. I’ve got the pills. I’ve got the photographs. I’ve got your statement. Now, is there anything else?”

“Well, here, if you need anything — and I mean anything — you give me a call.”



* * *



Interoffice Memo: August 15, 1962

From: Chief of Police

TO: All Staff

RE: Marilyn Monroe

There have been far too many leaks to the press. The coroner has clearly stated that there is evidence of foul play. As there is no case, there is no reason for any member of the force to respond to any inquiries from the press. If a member of the press has any questions, refer them to the Public Affairs Office.

ALL personnel must return personal items owned by the subject to the coroner’s office. Any individual failing to return any item will be subject to dismissal.

The individual who removed the diary of the deceased is specifically ordered to return that property to the evidence room. We know who you are and will give you 24 hours to return the item.

The original coroner’s report by Michael T. Probster, M. D. is missing as well. It has been reported that copies of the report have been seen scotch taped to the back of toilet stalls in the restrooms — both men and women. This is not authorized use of public property.

* * *


Central Intelligence Agency


FILE: Hoover, J. Edgar

FILE NUMBER: #56784332-JEH

Date: April 3, 1960

Source: Bruce Pander aka Flambeau aka Brucie aka Jerry the Faggot aka TV Teddy.

Verbatim Transcript:

[[Note: This section of the transcript was NOT part of Pander’s plea bargain.]]

J. Edgar Hoover is the ugliest TV I have ever seen. I don’t just mean ugly. I mean ugly. He is so ugly that he would be alone at a gay bash. The only reason he got any dick was that he was the Director. There were a lot of the guys who dicked him for that reason, kind of doing to him what he was doing to them.

But he made us all nervous. After he had a few belts he would start talking dangerous. Real dangerous. Enough to make a lot of us back away — and let me tell you, with the kind of clientele we had and what they came for, not a lot of them backed away from much. There were generals, Fortune 500 execs and even a few senators. These were top of the line, Prime, A-1 clients and queers, dig? These people order people killed. And Penelope, uh, that’s what the Director wanted everyone to call him, would say things that frightened these TVs. No, no, I’m not going to repeat any of them but I will tell you this. One night Penelope was shooting his mouth off and this call came in. I don’t mean the call came in through the main switchboard either, I mean the call came right into the Flamingo Room — that’s the socializing room. There’s a phone on the table there and even I didn’t know it had a number. I thought it was just one of those phones you dragged around the house and just plugged in anywhere. The call came in and it was “Sam” for “Penelope.” You coulda heard a pin drop. Everyone knew who Sam was. Penelope knew who Sam was too and I’ll give that crusty TV credit, he didn’t shake. He just picked up the phone and said “Hello” in this falsetto. But that was all he said. He listened for a second and then hung up. But he didn’t talk about the Kennedys any more, that night or any other night. I was told, and get this straight, I was told that Sam was Sam Giancana and Penelope was told to stop talking about the Kennedys or Sam would, and this is a quote now, “Have your balls sewn up inside your mouth.”

* * *


August 6, 1962


CORONER’S VERDICT: Probable Suicide

CAUSE OF DEATH: Overdose of sleeping pills



* * *

“This is one helluva list, Jerry! I’m paying more for that b&%ch dead that I did to her alive.”

“This is not going to be cheap, Harry. There are lots of people who have their hand in the till. This is not your run-of-the-mill cover-up . . .”

“DON’T ever use that term!”

“Harry, we are on very thin ice here. And it’s not from the people who have their hands out. It’s from the people who don’t have their hands out.”


“Sam, Harry. Sam. He’s tied into this somehow. He got the diaries. At least we think he got the diaries. No one else has ’em. They disappeared out of the Police Station with all of her other personal effects. Just, poof, gone.”

“Is there anything there for us to worry about?”

“No, actually. It’s more of a Democrat and Kennedy problem. Besides, in six months no one will care. I don’t see anyone releasing them any time soon.”

“I hope not.”

“About the money?”

“Yeah, we’ve got it.”

“And my incentive?”

“It’ll be there too.”

“What about the coroner’s report? Do you still want me to take care of it?”

“Yeah. But not right now. Let’s see what happens. That’s one thing that cannot just, poof, disappear.”

“But it can be sealed.”

“And that’s exactly what you are going to do. If it can’t be sealed, then we’ll think of something else.”

* * *

“. . . at least three shots and possibly four. No one knows what has happened here at the Plaza except that someone took a shot, several of them as a matter of fact, at President Kennedy. Once again, there are reports of firing at the Presidential motorcade here in Dallas. Three or four shots were fired at the President and the motorcade sped off. We have no further news at this time. We will keep you updated as more news comes in. Now, back to GREAT COUNTRY MUSIC!! Here’s Johnny Horton’s BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS!!

* * *

“Listen, it is going to be hard to bury this one. We’re not talking about some Sunset Boulevard low life, we’re talking about Bobby Kennedy. This is the former Attorney General of the United States we are talking about, the man who might have been president. And you want me to bury this case?! Commander, do you know what the hell you are telling me to do? You’re telling me tell the press that some rug merchant with a double name and a six-shot Saturday night special sprayed Bobby Kennedy with at least 10 bullets without reloading. Now how am I going to explain that?”

* * *

Surveillance Report: July 23, 1970

Client: 74–3453

Subject: Peter Lawford

As per instructions from Client, operatives Washburne and Higgins, established surveillance of subject, Peter Lawford. Subject’s presence was detected at 6:30 pm, July 22, 1970, in apartment #237, 45378 La Cienega. Subject appeared in the window momentarily to draw curtains. Subject was naked from the waist up. Apartment is owned by Tower Enterprises, Inc. a small talent agency at 345 Sunset, Suite #3407. (This is a mail drop.) Sheila Nichols is the President and five percent owner of Tower Enterprises, Inc. and is the resident of the apartment. The incorporation papers list Rafael Francisco St. Maria Medina Velasquez, Roger F. Kennedy, Samuel F. Fish and John Doe as the other incorporators. The “John Doe” is listed as the last name is illegible but appears to be and is believed to be Samuel F. C. Giancana. Shelia Nichols is approximately 25 years of age, blonde, 5' 6" in height and weighs an estimated 100 pounds. She has a striking frame, approximately 38–24–36. She was wearing a red skirt, blue silk shirt with a plunging neckline and sandals. Her hair was in a ponytail.

Subject appeared at the window again at 8:05, this time dressed in formal wear. A woman later identified as Sheila Nichols appeared with him. The couple left the apartment at 8:15 and entered Subject’s silver, 450 SL. Subject was driving. Subject appeared to be in an inebriated condition. His car weaved erratically and he was stopped twice by Los Angeles Police. Both times he was given a sobriety test and appeared to fail both tests. At neither stop was he detained. The second time, one of the officers appeared to ask for his autograph — that is, for an autograph collection.

Subject and Shelia Nichols stopped for a drink at the Golden Apple, 234 Pico, and then proceeded to a private party in Hollywood at 2346 Briarwood at 9:35. Subject had to be assisted from the Mercedes by Nichols and assisted up the steps to the party. Door at the Briarwood home was answered by a man in his 60s, gray hair, 6' tall and a woman with straight black hair. Both man and woman were naked. Couple and Sheila Nichols assisted Subject into home and began to pull off Subject’s clothes. The door closed before the stripping process was complete.

At 3:17 am, Subject and Sheila Nichols exited the Briarwood home. Both were dressed. Subject appeared to be intoxicated and sat on the curb for a moment. Sheila Nichols reached into her purse and handed Subject small object. Subject inserted finger into vial and then ran his finger in his mouth. A few moments later, he appeared to be energized.

At 4:09, Subject and Sheila Nichols arrived at after hour’s club at 567 Pico. They entered the club and then came out immediately, before operatives could exit their car. Sheila Nichols hurried Subject into passengers side of the car — previously Subject had been driving — and car sped away. Operatives followed. After operatives had left the block, two Los Angeles Police Department squad cars passed going in the opposite direction and parked on the lawn of the after hours establishment.

Subjects continued to drive hurriedly in a westerly direction, apparently without destination. At 4:47, the car entered the Santa Monica Freeway headed west and then changed to the San Diego Freeway headed north. The car then headed east on the Ventura Freeway and exited into Van Nuys. The car wandered through Van Nuys until 5:26 when it pulled up to a bar named the Phoenix — no address was visible on the structure, the street on which it is located had no name and there is no listing or the bar in the phone book or at City Hall. The Phoenix had a clientele which appeared to be totally black. Sheila Nichols left the Subject in the Mercedes and entered the bar. She returned to the car at 5:37. Before she entered the car, she handed Subject a small bottle. Subject was opening bottle as car pulled away from the Phoenix.

Mercedes returned to La Cienega apartment at 6:15 am. Subject was lively and appeared sober. Couple entered apartment. All lights extinguished at 6:22.

Attachments: 27 black-and-white photos


* * *

June 22, 1975


By Dolly Madison, the Hollywood Insider

There was great reason to celebrate in Hollywood last night, though most of the celebrating was done quietly and behind closed doors. Sam Giancana is dead. Giancana, the notorious Mafia overlord, had a stranglehold on many Hollywood personalities — not to mention politicians, governors and other government figures. Good riddance to bad rubbish is general response of many stars — though none wanted their name used in this column.

While the words “ruthless,” “scum,” and “filth,” are used frequently to describe Giancana, the most widespread word given to the Hollywood Insider was “heartless.” Giancana owned people the way MGM owns costumes. Powerful he was. Ruthless he was. Deadly he was. But dead he is. No one can replace him, is the word on the streets of Hollywood, and there is a general removing of shackles that have bound some stars for years.

If there was any one incident that shows the power of Sam Giancana it was the death of Marilyn Monroe in 1962, when Giancana was at the height of his power. No one in Hollywood with an IQ higher than room temperature believed that our own sex goddess committed suicide. It is generally believed that she was killed on orders from Giancana. Why makes little difference at this time. But only Giancana could have pulled off a murder of that caliber. Only a Sam Giancana at the height of his power could have blackmailed the Los Angeles Police into silence, threatened the studios with strikes and disasters nationwide. At the time of Marilyn’s death, no one took up the cause of the actress. She passed from the Hollywood scene like a dead leaf floating down a trickling gutter and disappeared into the sewer of the Hollywood underworld.

The Hollywood Insider made two dozen phone calls last night. Though she reached and talked with 33 separate individuals, many of them stars of the first rank, not a single star was willing to go on record as to Giancana’s legacy. And only one star had a pleasant thing to say of Giancana. The baritone crooner said that he credited Giancana with “breaking him into the business” and “guiding his career.” Then the star of dark lounges where fat women bring bald men who are not their husbands to slurp down Mai Tai cocktails said that “Sam was an inspiration to us all” though he never did say who “all” was.

But there is no question that Giancana was dead though many stars refuse to believe the good news. When one star was asked how he felt now that Giancana was dead, the star replied “How do they know?” Another suggested that Giancana should not be considered dead until “he had a wooden stake driven through his heart at noon in Hollywood Park.”

* * *

Western Union

December 25, 1970

Maria Gianola

Waldorf Astoria

New York, New York


Needles dead in Q. Went into solitary two weeks ago and was found dead this morning. Stabbed but died quietly. Face appears calm.

a friend

* * *

“Peanut butter and bananas? Not a problem. Like ’em, eh? Naw, not me. I’m kind of a PB and J man. Peanut Butter and Jelly. Peanut butter and bananas. Is that some kind of a Southern dish? No, you just sound Southern. I’ve been blind for years. Why do you ask? Your voice does sound familiar but this is Los Angeles and, hey, we’ve got, what, three million people here — and sooner or later everyone comes to my sandwich shop. Blind Al’s, that’s me, Blind Al.”

* * *

“Sperm? What the hell are you talking about? Sperm? What is this, some kind of fairy tale? Oh, fairy tail, that’s rich. What the hell do you mean sperm?”

“From the corpse of Marilyn Monroe. It’s been here for thirty years. Frozen.”

“Who is this really? Don’t you know that calling the police department with a false report is a felony?”

“That may be, Sergeant, but I’ll tell you again. After Mr. Fitzhugh died — he was the owner of the Abercrombie & Fitzhugh Sperm Bank — we tried to pull the records together and found the sample.”

“A sample of Marilyn Monroe’s sperm? Give me a break!”

“No. Not of Marilyn Monroe. In Marilyn Monroe. It was part of the autopsy report. We don’t know whose sperm it is. All we know is that it’s been here in the vault for 30 years. Now what do you want us to do with it?”

“Call the press, hell, I don’t care.”

“Then you don’t believe me?”

“Frankly, no. Thirty year old sperm from Marilyn Monroe? SSSuuurreee, buddy.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“I’m sorry you called in the first place.”

* * *


LA’s Answer to Rolling Stone

All the Underground News

Interviewer: Peter Levinson (Int)

Interviewee: Nellie Balls (NB), Bertha Nutts (BN) and Joan Wanger (JW).

Int: Before we start this interview, I want each of you to acknowledge that you are aware that this interview is taped and that I have your permission to use this tape for RAMBLING ROCK.

NB: Yes.

BN: Yes.

JW: Yes.

Int: For the record, you are all members of the Lesbian Liberation Front here in Los Angeles. Is this an international organization?

NB: Absolutely, we are the Los Angeles leg of the Lesbian Liberation Front. We call it a leg because we’re proud to be Lesbian and the term “wing” makes us sound like some kind of a political party.

BN: Or a chicken.

JW: Which we are not. We are activists in the positive sense of the word.

Int: What exactly does being an “activist” mean to you?

NB: Well, it means that when we find an issue that has anti-Lesbian overtones, we participate. Suppose a Lesbian couple is denied an apartment on the basis of her blessed sexual preference, we spring into action.

BN: Right On!

JW: We take action is a better way to put it. We organize resistance to the forces of bigotry and intolerance.

Int: But you have to admit that your point of view is no quite mainstream, even for lesbians. Most lesbians, like most gay men, would rather be allowed to enjoy their sexuality without a lot of publicity. What happens if you have a case where there has been discrimination against a lesbian but the lesbian in question prefers to allow her sexuality to remain anonymous?

NB: F&§ her. The cause is more important than any one person. She was born lesbian and that makes her just the same as the rest of us. God, in her righteous might, does not want any woman to avoid her responsibility. .

BN: . . . her obligation . . .

JW: . . . as a lesbian. I think you’re missing the point, Phil,

Int: It’s Peter, but that’s ok.

NB: Hey, Phil is better than what we usually call men, so be flattered,

BN: limp dick . . .

JW: As I was saying, the point here is that lesbians have been unfairly discriminated. We don’t have the people power the way the gays do. We can’t generate the enthusiasm for a nationwide parade for instance,

BN: Or even a city-wide parade . . .

NB: But we can make our point. Sure, you can say we’re bra burners or female chauvinists or

BN: feminazis . . .

JW: Or whatever, the fact of the matter is that we are here, we are not going away. We have our sexual agenda and we intend to move forward with it.

Int: What exactly do you mean by “move forward with it?”

JW: I mean that we look for issues where lesbianism is a clear-cut issue and we get involved. We are willing to take the risk . . .

BN. . . take the hit . . .

NB: . . . to deliver the message that we are human too and that we have the right to our sexual lifestyle.

Int: Do you have anything in the planning stage that I can report?

BN: Well, Phil, er, Pete,

NB. . . limp dick . . .

JW: When if something does come up, we’ll give you a call.

* * *

“That’s right, Mario. There is quite a crowd out here at Abercrombie & Fitzhugh Sperm Bank. I’ll bet that 90% of this crowd never even knew there was a business like Abercrombie & Fitzhugh until the bank went public with the sperm story. As you can see behind me, we’ve got quite a gathering of protestors, something that’s even strange for L. A. We’ve got Pro-Life demonstrators and lesbian protesters next to clerics. There are petitions circulating the crowd from women who want to be impregnated with what is being called ‘Marilyn’s Mystery.’ We’ve heard that bookies are taking two to one odds it’s Robert Kennedy’s with lower numbers for Jack Kennedy, Peter Lawford, Clark Gable, Elvis Presley, Marlin Brando and a whole string of other well-known and not so well-known celebrities.”

“Our viewers can see the crowd, George. But a lot of viewers probably won’t understand what’s going on and why so many different groups are here. Maybe you could explain it.”

“Well, Mario, let me give it a try.”

* * *

Albert Finister was loading the lorry with a dozen cartons of condoms. Why he was doing that was anyone’s guess. Albert was not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he owned the drawer so there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. As a matter of fact, he owned quite a few drawers. And he was in quite a few drawers. And closets for that matter. But then again, when you owned 30 sex shops, the largest chain in Los Angeles, you merchandise was in a lot of drawers. And a lot of closets.

Albert’s story was an odd one, even for Los Angeles. He had started at the top of a musical food chain. He father had been a conductor for the Honolulu Orchestra during the Depression and his mother was a world class cellist. Certain that Albert — named after Albert Einstein, a causal friend of the family who always stopped to see them whenever he was passing through the exotic isle on his way to Japan and the Orient — was destined for a life on stage, there was nothing that was beyond his parents connections. He had acting lessons at an early age because his parents expected him to be spending quite a bit of time bowing after his –to-be-expected-from-his-family-tree concerts.

But Albert had a problem. Or, at least from his parent’s perspective he had a problem. He hated music. Not disliked music. Or disdained music. He hated it. More than that, he did not have an ounce of talent for it. Clams had more of a sense of musical timing than he did.

So Sam jumped a freighter to Los Angeles half an hour ahead of the last piano recital he was ever going to miss. The gypsy was well out to sea before Albert was missed and he was on the streets of Los Angeles before his parents made it back from their concert sweep of Southern Europe. If he ever saw his family again, not one in Los Angeles knew it.

Over the next dozen years Albert moved into and upward in the sex shop industry. He stumbled into the industry from a back door, an odd concept as sex shops in Los Angeles in those days had nothing but back doors. He got a job sweeping out a print shop that specialized in pulp and porn magazines. At the end of each month, the extras were tossed. Albert, not one to bypass an opportunity, saw that he could clip the photographs in the magazine and sell them by the handful the pimply-faced youth that frequented the downtown sidewalks but were too young to go inside any of the sex shops. He made hundreds of dollars at a time when a thousand could buy a house.

With two thousand he bought a building and opened a sex shop. Then he squeezed out his competitors through his marketing genius. That’s why he had 30 sex shops. And that was why no one questioned him when he started stacking boxes of condoms in the back of the lorry.

* * *

ADVANCE COPY — Editor’s Eyes Only

August 25, 1993


By Cornelia Babcock

I’ve seen ’em all, every freak, weirdo and hophead in LA. Every dope peddling son-of-a-b&%ch in Los Angeles. Yeah, I’ve seen ’em all. I spent 31 years on the streets of Los Angeles. And I mean on the streets. I dusted six men in my career, busted more than 800 pimps, rousted more than 10,000 drunks and cleared the sidewalks so many times I feel like a street cleaner. It was a tough job, where spilling blood was a daily occurrence, like drinking coffee. But this was LA and I was a cop, a street cop, and I did my job.

For most people, a cop is just someone in uniform who gives out tickets. But these are the middle class people who roll out of bed in the suburbs, drive to work alone and spend their day in offices. They’re home before the sun goes down. They spend the weekends beside swimming pools or camping in the mountains. Or they risk the traffic to go to a ball game. What they don’t see is what happens to the city when the sun goes down, when there’s shortage of Angel Dust, when there’s a gang war, when a white cop has shot a black burglar who turns out to be 15 years old.

Everyone knows a cop; not many people want to be a cop. It means picking up pieces of human bodies at traffic intersections or busting a heroin dealer knowing full well the bastard will be back out on the streets before you have filled out the paperwork. It means saying “NO, NO, NO” to the drug dealers who are handing you envelopes full of one hundred dollar bills, dodging slugs from fleeing burglars, and listening to college students who have never been out of the San Fernando Valley yell “PIG!!” as you go to court to testify against a serial killer. Being a cop is the sh&ts, but it’s one of the few jobs on earth where you are actually making a difference. You are cleaning the streets.

* * *

“May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to file a law suit. Can I do that here?”

“Certainly, is this a civil or a criminal suit?”

“Well, I don’t know that much about the law and, and, I can’t afford a lawyer.”

“I’m not allowed to give advice. All I can do is hand out papers. If it’s criminal you should talk to the police or the Attorney General’s Office. Her office is across the street, in the green building, on the third floor.”

“What if it’s not a criminal matter?”

“If it’s a small matter, you should go to small claims court. If it’s large, you should get a lawyer. Can you tell me a little bit about the case so I can see if it’s criminal or civil?”

“I’m Marilyn Monroe’s sister, her sole surviving heir. I want to sue Abercrombie & Fitzhugh for what is left of my sister’s estate.”

“I see.”

“Is that a civil or a criminal offense?”

* * *

Charles A. Lamponelli, Forensic Pathologist, Ph. D.

Wilshire Avenue and El Segundo

Suite 1704-G West

Santa Monica, California


April 25, 1993

Geraldine Pearce-Blakely

Public Affairs

Abercrombie & Fitzhugh

(Hand Delivered)

Dear Ms. Pearce-Blakely:

Thank you very much for the opportunity to work with Abercrombie & Fitzhugh on this matter. Attached with this letter — and hand delivered — please find the sample you requested that I examine.

With specific regard to the semen sample marked 120–776–62–13 — and keeping my analysis as secular as possible — you are correct in assuming that the vitality of the sperm should have expired. If your records are correct, the sample was deposited in August of 1962. Even under the best of clinical circumstances, the sample should not have had any vitality after five (5) years. There are a variety of reasons for this, many of which have nothing to do with the services of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh.

First, the fact that it was extracted from a woman’s reproductive system makes it hard to believe that the sample survived long enough to reach the sperm bank. Surprising, sperm has a very short life in a female body primarily because it is a foreign body. That is to say, the human body will attack the invasion of any foreign object. Spermatozoa in a woman’s reproductive track, with the exception of the one which fertilizes the egg, have a lifespan that could be measured in minutes. Consequently, to have spermatozoa which survived long enough to be deposited in a sperm bank is surprising indeed.

When I examined the sample, as per your request, I expected to discover merely the primordial remains of a semen sample which had long since eroded to its organic base. Imagine my surprise when I discovered not only that the sperm was still vital but that it retained its original vigor. I examined the molecular base of the serum in which it had arrived at Abercrombie & Fitzhugh as well as the chemical preservative additives which were used to enhance vitality and longevity. I can find no clues as to the unexpected vitality. The serum was of a common stock in 1962 and has changed only slightly over the past 30 years. The chemical preservatives were standard for the era as well and no chemical — alone or in conjunction with others — exceeded the statistical array of average. Spectrographic analysis revealed not unusual conditions of storage or preservation.

In short, Ms. Pearce-Blakely, this is simply a case of nature deceiving the experts. By all laws of nature, this sample should have lost its vitality within minutes of ejaculation. Even if the sample could have survived the transition into the chemical bath, its vitality should have been extinguished at about three years, considering the technology at the time. Even with the technology of today, sperm survival of seven years is rare. But thirty years is as close to a miracle as I as a forensic pathologist with 40 years in the field have seen.

Therefore my conclusion is that the sperm sample is a fake in the sense that it was not deposited 30 years ago but is a relatively recent sample presented in such a manner as to deceive both Abercrombie & Fitzhugh and the public. It would be my suggestion that you treat the sample as a hoax.

Looking forward to doing business with Abercrombie & Fitzhugh again.



Charles A. Lamponelli

Forensic Pathologist, Ph. D

* * *

“There was quite a stir here yesterday, Mario, when the two lesbians were arrested. Seems that there’s a rumor going around that Marilyn was bi-sexual. . “

“Is it true, George?”

“W-e-l-l, Mario, you know how writers kind of stick sensational things into books to sell the books. There was a book that stated that Marilyn allowed other women to use her body so the conclusion that some people are drawing is that she was bisexual.”

“So she wasn’t?”

“Who knows, Mario? The woman’s been dead for 30 years. What difference does it make now?”

“Well it apparently made a difference to the two lesbians who were arrested yesterday.”

“It certainly did. For those of our viewers who don’t know what happened, last night two lesbians from the violent fringe, as they say, broke into the Abercrombie & Fitzhugh Sperm Bank here in Canoga Park. They made it as far as administration, and were going through the records when they were captured by Los Angeles Police who responded to a silent alarm. Since then it’s been absolute pandemonium here.”

“Obviously they were looking for the sperm, but did either of the lesbians say why?”

“Informed sources at Police Headquarters are saying that the lesbians were doing it as an act of liberation. They say that Marilyn was expressing her true sexuality and the sperm is a symbol of her sexual dominance by male heterosexuals. By destroying the sperm they would be freeing her memory of human bondage.”

“They were serious?”

“I think so, Mario. One of the lesbians had an assault weapon on her person when arrested. The police are taking any threat to the livelihood of the sperm seriously.”

“Ok, so much for the lesbians. What are the clerics doing there?”

“The priests? Well, that’s a different story. When our news team talked with them . . .”

* * *

Albert Finister was in his element. The moment the story on Marilyn Monroe broke, he dropped $5,000 into printed condoms. Not your regular, run-of-the-mill condoms but ones with writing on them. It had been an odd request but the condom distributor was used to Albert’s odd requests. Albert paid in cash so there was no reason not to take him seriously.

The condoms were a work of art, which is saying quite a bit when you use both words — “condom” and “art” — in the same sentence. They were akin to Chinese fortune cookies in the sense that he had two dozen adages and slogans stenciled on the condoms. The humor was blue and not black, the lettering was blocked and the undersides — assuming that the condom was worn with the slogan on the upside — was an advertisement for the Los Angeles Sex Arcade and Oddities Emporium and a listing of its 30 locations.

Each condom, when stretched to its limit, was divided into four sections by a series of lines. The first, two inches from the top, was labeled as “Tiny Tim.” Three inches back, the next line was labeled as “Jack Flash.” Seven inches from the tip was a line and the label “Well Driller.” But it was the last, nine and a half inches back that was to draw the greatest attention. It was listed as the “Marilyn Monroe Impregnator.”

* * *

May 23, 1993


Gordon Ripley would have believed it! Marilyn Monroe may have died in 1962 but, UNBELIEVABLY, the child she carried IS STILL ALIVE. Forensic pathologists in Los Angeles, in a secret report to the Los Angeles Police have confirmed that Marilyn Monroe can conceive even after being dead for thirty years.

Though the Chief of Police had not comment, a forensic pathologist on contract with the city who refused to release his name for fear of being fired confirmed that “Marilyn Monroe was pregnant at the time her death and the child is still alive.” Marilyn Monroe’s half-sister, who has been caretaking the late love goddess’ estate, confirmed that Marilyn had been seeing some very important men at the time of her death. “I’m not mentioning any names,” she told the Intruder staff, but one of them was the brother of a president — but I’m not saying which one.” Rose, the name Marilyn Monroe’s sister uses to hide her identify from Mafia enforcers who have a contract out on her life, revealed that she is writing a tell-all book of Marilyn’s last hours.

In Hollywood there has been a mad scramble. Many of the older stars are denying any relationship with Marilyn EVEN BEFORE BEING ASKED. Peter Lawford, long tied to both Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedys and long believed to have been an intimate of Marilyn, refused to comment to the Intruder and remained secluded in his abode refusing to talk to reporters. Lawford’s publicist could not be reached for comment either.

According to the forensic pathologists, Marilyn Monroe’s womanly fluids were far superior to a normal woman. “She was a super woman,” he told the Intruder in an exclusive interview. “She had the body fluids of goddess. She could sustain life virtually forever. It’s not something modern science can explain.”

Still there is the question as to who will raise Marilyn Monroe’s child. “As soon as I can find the right woman, the child will be born,” Rose told the Intruder in an exclusive interview. “I’m too old to raise a child so I am looking for a Marilyn Monroe look alike. She must be the age of Marilyn when she died, be blond and willing to accept responsibility for the child.”

The Intruder, which will carry the full story of the birth of Marilyn Monroe’s child, will also provide $10,000 of medical expenses for the mother and $10,000 worth of clothing for the child. Interested women who look like Marilyn Monroe — shown here in the last photo before she was murdered — and are no older than 28 or younger than 22 should contact the Intruder prior to June 30, 1993.

* * *

“Now, let me say, yes, yes, are there enough seats in the back there?”

The little fat man was as impressive as a pig in a tuxedo. He stood all of five and a half feet tall — maybe — and was just about as round as he was high. He wasn’t that old, maybe in his mid-50s, with a head of hair that was so full it had to be a rug. He had all his teeth too, good genetics.

The little man waddled across the stage and pointed to some empty chairs at the end of the row. Another camera crew walked up the side aisle and wedged their tripod among the rest. It was like a space landing, with all the cameras peering with their eyes at the podium.

“I, I, I am Jeremiah Abercrombie. The Abercrombie in Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. Now I imagine that quite a few of you, all of you actually, are here because of the . . .”

“Cut to the chase!” shrieked an hysterical voice in the back, a blend of male and female characteristics to the point that it seemed a whine.

“Yes, yes.” Abercrombie was obviously distressed. He was wheezing now, trying to maintain his dignity which was quite comical for a porcine man whose body shape could be mistaken for a potato.

“. . . it all started rather suddenly, as you know, two, three weeks ago when Mr. Fitzhugh died. Mr. Fitzhugh, Sandy, we all called him Sandy, had apparently been keeping some secrets from us. We don’t know if we got all of them because, of course, he didn’t keep very good records. But we think we’ve got them all. And, uh, one relates to a sperm sample that was left by an assistant to a Los Angeles coroner in 1963. Well, we’re not sure . . .”

“Whose sperm?”

“When was it deposited?”

“Is it still alive?”

“Who owns it?”

“Where is it now?”

“When can we see it?”

“Has it been analyzed?”

Abercrombie snorted, his broad nostrils flaring so wide they could be detected from the bank of the room. He was like a cornered animal now, his beady eyes shifting back and forth from the emergency exit on his right to the sea of cameras blocking his escape up the other side aisle.

“Now, I know this is difficult — and scientific, of course, because we here at Abercrombie & Fitzhugh are exacting for our clients, you know. But I will try to be brief, and I will be, but you have to stop asking so many questions out loud. I can only answer one at time, you know.”

“Let the man finish,” a British voice boomed out from the center of crowd as wink lights and flash attachments exploded bathing the stage with random flashes of light that gave it the eerie appearance of an old movie on a decaying filmstrip.

“All the records show is that a sperm sample was deposited here in August of 1963. Now, while the vial itself said nothing, er, that is, there was nothing of merit written on the label, it was . . .

“What was written on the label?” The whining voice from the back of the mob made another oral appearance.

“I see, being rude are we?” Abercrombie was clearly at the end of his patience. He shifted sideways inside his suit, his belly still flush with the audience while his head and shoulders appeared to be headed to the right. Then his belly followed, pulling his belt along with him.

But he wasn’t leaving, he was just reaching sideways for the silver shaft of the microphone pole. Gingerly he unscrewed the brake and lowered the microphone to where he could speak into it easily.

“Now, I understand how you all want a story. AND I can understand how you want it quickly. But YOU had better understand that I don’t have to be here. I am not a public figure and I am not criminal — though sometimes those are the same, you know.”

There was a titter through the crowd.

“As long as you are in this building, you are guests of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. For those of you who want to listen politely and ask questions afterwards, you are welcome to remain. To those who want to shout questions, I am advising you to leave right now. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a shocked silence in the room. No one expected a man built like a pig to have a tiger in his tank. There were a lot of shhhhhhhhhhhhs and Abercrombie strained his beady eyes out at the crowd which, of course, he could not see because of the lights.

“Good. Now, I will continue . . .

* * *

Riverside Free Press

Undated because great poetry lasts FOREVER

XEROX this poetry magazine and give it to your friends

Cover Poem:

Ode to Bobby’s Sperm

oh, i am an ouncessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

of bobby’s spermsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

and i live in a house of glasssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

in a pool of serum and my brotherssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

and sistersssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

a family of spermssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

we are, a flotilla of life in tubesssssssssssssssssssssssssss

in nitrogen vaultssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

an epson saltssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

we swim in an ocean as free as we pleasesssssssssssssssssssss

Now marilyn loved bobby’sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

and a lot of other’ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

of all stylesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

and there’sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

not any way to divide ’em insssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

ide ’cause nature’sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss


dictate that only one will run and win the race’sssssssssssss

and the rest will die except for Bobby’ssssssssssssssssssssss

bobby’s, bobby’s, bobby’sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

* * *

Albert didn’t have a problem until he made it to Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. Sometimes one is blessed with good timing. If that was case, being blessed, that is, than this was certainly Albert’s day. There were only two cops at the closest intersection and they were on traffic duty, not keep-out-of-this-area goons. He passed them with a wave and made a legal left into the parking lot of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. The parking lot was packed with cars, primarily because of the new conference inside — and secondarily because protesters had parked in the remaining spaces. That was OK with Albert. He wasn’t planning on parking; he was planning on distributing.

The first group he hit, so to speak, were the Pro-Choicers. They weren’t happy to see a truck on the lawn approaching them. That is, they were not happy until he started passing out the condoms. As the crowd began opening the condoms, they started laughing.

Then a few pro-lifers came over to see what the merriment was on this grave day.

* * *

Billy didn’t pay much attention to the press hype. Marilyn Monroe, Bosnia, deficit spending, President Clinton. It was all too much to absorb, especially around midterms. Chemistry and math took the bulk of his time. Biology, well, that was snap, so he didn’t have to worry about running up electrical bills to study for anatomy or physiology. But chemistry, that was a bear!

“Have any more sperm in the freezer?”


People were certainly strange today. It wasn’t as though he knew everybody at USC. He’d only been here three years but there were a lot of people he didn’t know who were talking to him today. Now that he thought about it that had been the second person today that asked about sperm.

‘Sperm?’ He said to himself softly. Clearly he must have misunderstood what people were saying. ‘Sperm in the freezer.’ What else could it be? His mind rolled through the linguistic possibilities: berm, clerm, derm, ferm, germ until he came to worm. Then his mind’s eye lit up. Worm! Of course, the flatworm for, for, for. He stalled for a moment. Worm! There hadn’t been a flatworm that quarter. What the hell were people . . .?

“Billy, my man, how’s it hanging?”

“Rufus. What’s a brother like you doin’ talkin’ with an Aryan honkey?”

“Being cool, my man, being cool. Been hearin’ ‘bout your old man, Billy. Kinda nervy putting Marilyn Monroe’s sperm in deep freeze.”


“What do you mean WHAT? It’s all over the airwaves. Your old man, the corpse cutter, dig? See he had this sperm . . .”

* * *

ADVANCE COPY — Editor’s Eyes Only

August 25, 1993


By Cornelia Babcock

By the time I got to the sperm bank the street was packed with weirdoes, like they’d opened Patton and let the crazies out on the street. I was still new and had never seen wackos the kind that were out pawing the streets like mongrels in heat. Sure, I’d seen my share of zipped out winos waving the short flag at taxi cabs and the homeless flat faces lecturing on the sidewalk and gesticulating to invisible crowds. But this was the first time I had ever seen white, middle class women walking up and down the sidewalk in front of a sperm bank with protest signs that read “Womb Available,” “Christian Home, Good Family, Highchair Empty,” and “Mothers for Motherhood.”

That would have been strange enough. But there were priests walking in a procession whipping themselves, a litter of lezzies in chains looking for a fire hydrant to which they could chain themselves and a handful of skinheads standing around while some feminazis burned what appeared to be their bras. Then there were the hundred or so gawkers and about that many television cameras and a guy passing out condoms. Condoms for God sake! In the center of the crowd! Both crowds!

For the most part it was a peaceful afternoon, though very different from foot patrol around the La Brea tar pits. But it was like the full of the moon. I and three other officers stopped five women from slamming a paper Mache log into the side of the sperm bank as a symbolic gesture — we didn’t make any arrests — and ordered the television trucks not to double park. It was like a human zoo.

But things really started hopping when Marilyn’s Monroe’s sister showed up with a court order.

* * *

“Mario, I can see that you are there with one, two, three priests. I can’t quite read the sign. Oh, good, yes, now we can. SPERM AND EGG ARE INNOCENT. I guess I don’t understand the sign, Mario, could you . . .”

“I’m Father McManigan, speaking on behalf of the Sperm Fathers, as we are being called by the less than reputable press. We are here, George, to protest the deliberate killing of the Marilyn Monroe sperm.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to provide a little more background to our listeners, Father. Some of them have been working all day and are unfamiliar with what has been happening here today.”

“Certainly. We three fathers of the Orient Star are members of a sect which believes that the sanctity of life begins before conception. Now we know that many good Christians in our community do not feel as we do but that does not relieve us of the chores which we feel we must perform. The Marilyn Monroe sperm has, by the grace of God, been saved in a deep freeze. Clearly someone wanted that sample to live, to create life. We three fathers of the Orient Star are here to protest the possible demise of that sperm. Certainly there is a woman somewhere who will provide it with a loving home.

* * *

This time the crowd in the sperm bank went silent. There was briefly some tittering but then it turned so quiet that the squeak of the video tape in the cameras sounded like a symphony.

“There, that’s better!” The porcine little man leaned toward the microphone.

“As I was saying. With the death of Sandy, er, Mr. Fitzhugh, we did an audit of the records and finances because his wife, er, widow, no longer wished to be an investor in the firm. As we went through his personal records, he died quite suddenly, you know, and we discovered that he was hiding the records on a single vial. At that time we didn’t know much more about the sperm in question, or in vial, so to speak, than it had come into his possession — and ours — in August of 1962.

“Now, before anyone shouts out questions, let me explain a little about this business. First, sperm is a bodily fluid and, like body parts, it has a very limited life span. In other words, you cannot keep sperm alive for an indefinite period of time. This sperm was kept alive a lot longer than normal because of the extraordinary freezing techniques which were available at the time, that is, in 1962. So, technically, we have to assume that the sperm is dead. We don’t know for a fact, of course, because we can’t thaw it to see. But it has been kept under unusual conditions so there is a chance, a very slight chance, that it is still alive. But we won’t know for sure until it has been thawed and that won’t come to pass until a court makes a decision as to who is the owner of the sperm.

“Well, you are probably asking — and I did the same — would an expert in sperm continue to hold a sample that was probably dead. It was an intriguing question and, as we went through the Sandy’s, Mr. Fitzhugh’s paperwork at home, we found a solid link. On the evening of August 6, 1962, a man by the name of Gary Corriander had come to bank on behalf of the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office. He had with him a sample of sperm which he wanted preserved. Sandy, er, Mr. Fitzhugh, obliged the man. But, since sperm is a personal item . . .”

There was a brief titter in the crowd.

“Yes, it is funny, isn’t it? Sperm, you see, on our forms at that time were listed by name only. We couldn’t use the name Los Angeles Coroner’s Department because it was too long and there was no other backup that could be used. So we just used the name Gary Corriander, which was the name on the vial.

“Over the next weeks, as many of you know from your Los Angeles history, there was a monumental cover-up of the death of Marilyn Monroe — and I feel it’s safe to say that considering the books that are out on the subject and let me quickly add that I do believe or disbelieve any of them — and, apparently, Mr. Corriander never returned for the sperm. Through our investigation, we learned that he was transferred to the San Pedro morgue where he worked until his death in 1992. He was a widower at the time of his death and has a son still alive, possibly living in the Los Angeles area, by the name of William.

“From the documents left by Mr. Corriander and those in the possession of Mr. Fitzhugh we were able to link the sperm to the Marilyn Monroe investigation.

“Now, now, now . . .” Abercrombie clearly sensed that the audience was about to explode with questions. “Let me answer some of the questions that have been put to me in writing and then you can ask more from the floor.

“No. #1: We don’t know if the sperm is dead but we have very reason to believe that it is. We believe that Mr. Fitzhugh was saving it because of its DNA configuration. That could be identified — not in 1962 but today, yes.

“No. #2: Who is the owner? Your guess is as good as mine. It could belong to the Monroe’s estate, the Corriander estate, the State of California because Monroe died intestate, or to the IRS for back taxes. Even we have a claim. There has been no payment for the storage of the sperm.”

* * *

“Christy’s, May I help you?”

“Uh, yes, I’m looking for, for, an appraiser, I guess you’d say.”

“Fine, sir. And what kind of an artifact are you looking to have appraised.”

“Well, it’s a bit hard to say.”

“Yes, Sir, well, it is American or foreign.”

“American, but you see . . .”

“Please hold for Sebastian Hastings in our American Division.”

“But I . . .”

“Sebastian Hastings, how may I help you?”

“Well, I hope you can. My name is William Corriander, Jr.”

“C-o-r-r-i-a-n-d-e-r. Yes, Sir.”

“. . . and I have a unique object for sale.”

“What kind of an object is it?”

“That will take some time to explain.”

“I have all the time you need. Are you on our 800 number?”

“No, I’m right here in Los Angeles. In fact, I’m just down the street from your office.”

“Well, if you would feel more comfortable, why not come up to my office? I’m on the 13th floor . . .”

* * *

“There seems to be quite a disturbance over by the entrance to the sperm bank, George. I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave you for a while to go investigate. And there’s a truck in the center of the crowd passing something out.”

“That’s all right, Mario. And now back to you June. What do you make of all this, Marilyn Monroe’s sperm and the protests.”

“I’m not sure, George. Today started out somewhat normal considering the way it finished.”

“Well, it actually hasn’t finished yet, June.”

“That’s right, George. But, for our viewers who tuned in late, let me give you a brief outline of what has happened at the Abercrombie & Fitzhugh Sperm Bank this afternoon. With the death of Mr. Fitzhugh, a vial of sperm was discovered that was linked to Marilyn Monroe who died tragically on August 5, 1963 . . .”

“. . . and there are those who believe that she was killed, June . . .”

“That’s right, George, but the death is still officially ruled as a probable suicide. Since the discovery of the existence of the sperm, the lawn in front of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh has been packed with a lot of Los Angeles residents we don’t usually see.”

“That’s right, June. Just a few of the groups we’ve heard from today include the Lesbian Liberation Front, three fathers of the Orient Star, skinheads, women wishing to be impregnated, an Operation Rescue unit and quite a few others. What else has happened out there, June?”

“Well, things were strange enough when the surviving owner of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh raised the possibility that the sperm had no owner. Marilyn Monroe had no relatives, the coroner who placed the sperm in the bank didn’t own the sperm so to speak, the City and County of Los Angeles does not have an active case on file so this isn’t evidence . . . only the IRS might have a claim because Marilyn Monroe died owing taxes.”

“The IRS, June? That makes this sound like a Science Fiction story.”

“It might as well be, George. But the evening is still young and if today has been any kind of an indication, more strange things are to follow. “

“And the moon will be full, June, the moon will be full.”

* * *

For Albert it was a dream come true. His marketing acumen had been perfect. It was the perfect crowd for seeding. Pro-Life or Pro-Choice, the one thing in common they had was that using a condom was a good idea. Who paid for that condom may have been a matter of dispute but usage thereof was an idea rooted in good hygiene. As the truck approached the crowd, he stopped and jumped over the wood slates and opened the first carton of condoms.

* * *

ADVANCE COPY — Editor’s Eyes Only

August 25, 1993


By Cornelia Babcock

I met the entourage as they hit the front of the police line, the woman in front waving a piece of paper that looked remarkably like a legal writ.

“I am here to take possession of my sister’s property.”

“I see, Miss, Miss, Mrs. Kremen.” I looked to the vs. line to get a name, “Mrs. Gary Kremen.”

“I am here with lawyer to take possession . . .”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Kremen,” I looked up from the paper, “but this isn’t a court order. It’s just a complaint. I’m sorry but I can’t let you through the police line. Abercrombie & Fitzhugh are not allowing anyone into the building without an invitation and, I’m sorry, but unless you have an invitation, I can’t let you in.”

A burly man elbowed his way between the two lesbians chained together on either side of a paper Mache log. “Excuse me. I’m Ms. Kremen’s attorney, Gary Blakely.”

“Well, Mr. Blakely, there’s nothing that I can do for your client. She . . .” Blakely was the kind of a lawyer that had chicken lips, straight lines on his face that made him look like a cartoon character. In this case, that’s exactly what he was.

“She has a legitimate reason to be in that hearing as they are discussing her property.”

“Perhaps, Sir, but I cannot allow you or your client through the police line without a bonafide court order — and this is not a court order.”

You have to keep any eye out for slime like Blakely. There are the lawyers who are hired to break the law — legally. Scum, and Los Angeles is filled with them.

* * *

“George, June, things are getting a little crazy down here.”

“It looks that way, Mario. We can see an ocean of protest signs out there.”

“One of the things we always feared would happen sooner or later has just occurred. A contingent of Operation Rescue arrived unexpectedly and ran smack into a procession of Pro-Choicers. The two were coming down intersecting streets and before either of them realized what was happening, the two protest marches had intermingled.”

“You mean that Pro-Life and Pro-Choicers are now marching in the same parade?”

“Well, not exactly. They’re in the same parade all right but they are not marching.”

“What are they doing?”

“Well, June, I guess the best way to describe it is they are having something more than a political discussion around a vehicle, a truck.”

“Something more?”

“That’s right, George. It all started when a Pro-Lifer called a Pro-Choicer a murderer and the Pro-Choicer responded by telling the Pro-Lifer to get laid more often.”

“Get laid?”

“That’s right, June. That didn’t sit well. There was pushing and shoving and suddenly a man showed up with what he claimed was a dead fetus.”


“No, June, it wasn’t a fetus. After police arrested him it turned out to be an immature dog.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, actually, George, everything happened then. A Pro-lifer calling himself the Vanguard of the Second Coming gave a karate kick into a crowd of Pro-Choice and just happened to connect with the shin of Theodoric Bandifush . . .”

“The tackle for the Rams?”

“The same one, George. Bandifush was calm for a moment and then the man kicked him in the shin again, apparently unaware of who he was kicking. He’s the one with the bad knees, what is it, five operations in six years or something like that?”

“I’ll say. Mario, I hate to ask this, but what happened?”

“Well, George, actually nothing. Bandifush was about ready to level the guy when police arrested him.”

“Arrested who?”

“Bandifush. Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, June, but the police arrested Bandifush because they feared he would do damage to the man who kicked him. They were probably right too. If he had been kicked in the knee I’ll bet they would have had to use an Easter basket to carry the remains.”

“What was the charge? They did charge him didn’t they?”

“Not as far as I know. The police don’t have to charge someone; they can take them into protective custody and believe me, June, there’s one Pro-Lifer out here that is still alive because the Los Angeles police were thinking quickly.”

“Well, is Bandifush still under arrest?”

“Not as far as I know. As soon as he settled down, they let him go.”

“He isn’t looking for the Pro-Lifer is he?”

“I don’t know, why don’t we ask him? THEODORIC!”

* * *

“What’s this?” The Assistant District Attorney picked up the greasy Safeway shopping bag that had been dropped on his desk by an old man. He looked inside and spotted what look like a handful of tapes, a Xerox copy of a diary and some photographs. Then he looked up at the man standing in front of his desk.

There was something familiar about this old man. And old he was, pushing 80 at least. He had the kind of a body that appeared to be melting, clammy skin over an emaciated body. He must have been a handsome man once but now he was skeletal, cadaverous. But he didn’t seem moribund. A lot of these old codgers look like they’ve got a foot in there grave at 80, the DA thought, but the only thing wrong with this guy is that he’s 80.

“Like I said, what is it?”

“Oh, I think you’ll find it very interesting reading. And listening. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble figuring out what to do with it.”

“Do with it? What makes you think I’m going to do anything with it? I don’t take evidence from strangers.”

The DA pushed the paper bag across the desk to the old man. If he expected the old man to leave in a huff with the bag under his arm he was mistaken. The old man just smiled, indicating a chair as if he wished to sit down. One he was seated, he pulled a cigar out his pocket and snapped a match to light on the underside of the DA’s desk.

“Sorry, no smoking in here. City rules.”

“F&§ the rules.” The old man lit up anyway. He drew heavily on the cigar as he shook the kitchen match dead. “Now, Son, let me tell you a story you are going to just love.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for the Vanguard of the Second Coming to understand the import of exactly what had happened.

“They didn’t arrest you?!”

“No. They arrested the other guy.”

“They didn’t arrest you! We get arrested for our beliefs. Get it?! Getting someone else arrested doesn’t do us any good. There’s no press in that! YOU should have been arrested.”

“What difference does it make? We still got the press coverage. And we didn’t get arrested for the fetus.”

“True. True.” The tutelary leader of the Vanguard of the Second Coming thought for a moment as he walked among his flock seated on orange crates and overturned wastebaskets in the abandoned warehouse. He was thinking, as he always did, and when he was thinking, no one was to disturb him.

By outward appearance he was a simple man. His name was Moses — first, middle and last — and everyone knew him by that name. He was an honest man, not a strange breed of Christian like David Koresh but a man who was dedicated to the lives of the unborn even if he had to make them.

The Vanguard of the Second Coming were a motley crew, a peripatetic band of pilgrims headed nowhere in particular but where they could express their belief in the rights of the unborn. A quasi-independent arm of Operation Rescue they acted as the outlaw band of extra-legal activities. Operation Rescue didn’t claim them but somehow, support from the organization oozed into the Vanguard of the Second Coming.

Moses thought long and hard, testing his faith and balancing his options. “We need a moment,” he kept saying to himself softly. “We need a moment.” Then he suddenly stopped and looked at his band, the fire of righteousness blazing in his eyes.

* * *

Abercrombie was beside himself with grief. The fat man, literally, rolled in his own fat as he laughed. Ever since that wretched vial of sperm from Marilyn Monroe had appeared his life had been nothing but a living hell. First it had been the police, then the news cameras, then the FBI. After that the players were too numerous to comprehend. An unknown sister of Marilyn had come with a court suit, the son of Corriander had shown up with an appraiser from Christy’s, a guy in a truck was passing out condoms and bringing pro-Lifers and pro-Choicers to the same square footage and now the Vanguard of the Second Coming had sealed off the building. The only good news was that the IRS hadn’t shown up yet — but he was expecting them at any moment.

Seated in his black leather chair, Sandy’s actually because he was in Sandy’s office, Abercrombie mentally pieced together the bizarre chain of events since the end of his press conference that afternoon. A lot had happened between six PM and midnight. But the moon was still full and the sperm bank was surrounded by a band of extreme Pro-Lifers who were holding prayer and candlelight vigil at the four corners of the bank.

Abercrombie dug into Sandy’s bottom drawer and pulled out the bottle of Scotch. Sandy had been a lush but he had maintained his vice well. He was always been pleasantly pickled but it was never so obvious that anyone could have sensed it. It didn’t kill him, anyway, thought Abercrombie to himself. That had been done by some drunk driver. Hit-and-Run the police report said. Hit-and-Run; what a hell of a way to die. Left to die in the shattered hulk of a Mercedes. Well, at least he went in style.

Abercrombie took a nip and then a swig. But before he could drain the rest of the glass, he heard footsteps in the outer office. Then his office. Assuming it was Harriet, he yelled to her. “I’m in Sandy’s Office, Harriet. And why are you here so late?”

When the door opened he saw instantly that it was not Harriet. It was three of the Lesbian radicals who had publicly threatened to invade the sperm bank. They had T shirts over their un-brassiered breasts which read “Free Marilyn of Male Domination.”

* * *

Moses didn’t have any trouble making it past Operation Rescue without being seen. It wasn’t that he wasn’t seen, in the sense that no ocular nerve registered his passing; it was as in the sense that he and his flock were recognized as not being there. Operation Rescue continued their plans for passing out fetuses the next day without so much as nod of acknowledgement of Moses and his band.

Stepping into the shadow the sperm banks sidewalls, Moses went to the corner and looked. Then he waved and the Vanguard of the Second Coming slunk into the shadows and waited silently until the lone policeman moved around to the far side of the building. When the policeman disappeared, the Vanguard of the Second Coming rushed silently up to the front door. Moses was on his knees in an instant, his fingers picking the lock.

“You never know what police work can teach you,” he said as he grimaced with the tumblers.

“Shouldn’t we worry about a burglar alarm?” One of the band was looking around nervously.

“On a sperm bank? No really. Who would want to rob a sperm bank? Besides, so what if there is? The world is going to know we’re inside in about 15 minutes anyway.”

There was a bleating of approvals from the band.

Then the door snapped open.

“That’s funny. It wasn’t even locked.”

* * *

Theodoric Bandifush was not in a good mood. He had two sore shins from where he had been kicked by some Pro-Life wacko and his wrists hurt from handcuffs. That he had been whisked away from the scene for protection of the wacko galled him. But what was he going to do? Sue the police? For what? Using good judgment? That didn’t make any sense. But he did have another idea. Somewhere out there in the night, hanging around that sperm bank, was that wacko. Bandifush was out too — with a half dozen of his team members — around the sperm bank.

* * *

Albert was up to his knees in empty condom cartons when the truck began to rock. At first he just put the movement to the press of the crowd — crowds actually, both of them, on different sides of the truck. He was standing in the center of the truck tossing condom packages in all directions when he felt a distinctly uncomfortable movement. He could see the police running toward him.

* * *

“Now let me get this straight.” The DA was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “What you are telling me is that these tapes are from Marilyn’s Monroe’s last hours, the photos show her with Bobby Kennedy and with Elvis Presley, and the diary, the copy of the diary is Marilyn’s. Did I miss anything?”

“No. You got it right.” The old man was still chewing on his cigar. There was so much smoke in the room that it covered the ceiling like a woolen blanket and leaked out through the transom. At least one person had opened the DA’s door to make certain that his files weren’t on fire.

“And you want me to open the investigation on Marilyn Monroe using this documentation as evidence.”

“That’s right, too.”

“And you’re not going to tell me who you are or how you came into possession of these items.”

“That’s right. Now I still have the originals of everything, the photos, tapes and diary. Those will be released at the proper time. You go to trial, the real material will show up. You don’t go to trial, the newspapers get the originals.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“Listen, twit. I may be old but I’m not stupid. Next time you walk down to Records, take a look at the file for Sanderson Fitzhugh. I’m sure you’ll find he had something like this in his coat pocket.” The old man pulled a Xerox sheet out of his pocket.

The DA looked at it carefully. It was half of a note. “What’s this?”

“It’s the missing half of the note from Fitzhugh’s pocket.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No sh&t, Sherlock! It takes you law enforcement boys a while to get the message. Where the hell did you get your education?”

“I ought to have you arrested right now!”

“For what, bird brain? No wonder you were elected. You couldn’t get this job with the IQ you’re sporting.” The old man smashed his cigar dead on the top of the DA’s desk as he stood up. “Now let’s get this straight. You open the Monroe case, subpoena the sperm, and get a DNA match. Boom! You’re a hero. Bang! You discover corroborating evidence. Slam! You’re a lock on State Attorney General.”

“And if I don’t?”

* * *

“Well, for those of our viewers who are up this early, there has been a night of activity, hasn’t there Joan?”

“Yes, indeed. The moon was full, as you said, George, and the last twelve hours have given us a spat of rumors. We’re tracing down as many as we can.”

“That’s right. June and I will go through a few of them for you. First, there is no truth to the rumor that Saddam Hussein has offered $10 million for the sperm. Mommar Quadaffi, however, has offered $15 million with no questions asked. However, the State Department feels that Quadaffi is simply, in their words ‘making a mockery of the situation in Los Angeles.’”

“Maybe, George, but there are a lot of people taking the sperm seriously. A childless couple in Malibu is stating that the sperm should be used as a fertility charm and is offering to test the specimen. There was also a power failure in the San Fernando Valley and scores of people showed up that sperm bank with bags of ice they had bought along the way. A truck passing out condoms was overturned this morning and one man was injured. He was the driver of the vehicle and he’s being held for trespassing. “

“What about the truck?”

“It was hauled away. It seems that the crowd began to get ugly when he ran out of free condoms.”


“There’s more, June. This just in from the courthouse. Not only is there a battle between Marilyn Monroe’s sister and Gary Corriander’s son over the ownership of the sperm, the City and County of Los Angeles is suing for custodyship and, we have been told but cannot yet confirm, that a law firm out of Boston has filed a MOTION IN LIMINE to forestall the use of the sperm in any legal proceedings. Cedars of Lebanon has offered to join with the UCLA Medical School to examine the specimen — and the numbers of women offering their bodies for impregnation has climbed to, what is it now, June, 35?”

“That’s right, George. And there’s more. Claiming that Marilyn Monroe still owes back taxes, the IRS has ordered a lien on the sperm until those debts are cleared. Twentieth Century Fox, which had a contract with Marilyn, is claiming the sperm to compensate for her unfinished contract and the FBI is supposedly ready to serve a writ so their lab can do a DNA scan — even though, supposedly, no crime has been committed.”

“And here’s Mario! Mario, you don’t look so good on the monitor. We know you’ve been up all night. There seems to be quite a bit of activity there in the gloom, at, what is it, 5 am?”

“Good morning, June, George. Yes, things have been somewhat quiet most of the night — except for the condom truck. Other than that and the Operation Rescue vigils it was quiet until about an hour ago when the fire alarm went off inside the sperm bank. There were only two patrolmen on duty — actually patrolpersons because one of them was a woman — and when they made it to the front door there were met by members of the Vanguard of the Second Coming what had just broken into building.

“Excuse me, Mario, but you said it was a fire alarm. Wouldn’t that have set off a burglar alarm?”

“Good question, June. I asked the policeperson the same thing and she had very strange answer. The sperm bank has a silent security alarm which did not go off. But the fire alarm did and it is located in the interior of the building. But it’s not a fire alarm in the usual sense of the word. It’s an alarm that warns when there is danger of the temperature in the storage vaults rising above 50 below zero.”

“So what does that mean, Mario?”

“I’m not sure, George. All the police could say was that it was not the work of Vanguard of the Second Coming because they were at the door when the alarm went off.”

“What about people inside the building?”

“We don’t know if there is anyone inside. The police have tried to reach Jeremiah Abercrombie but his wife says he never came home. She assumes that he’s still in the building but no one knows for sure.”

* * *

ADVANCE COPY — Editor’s Eyes Only

August 25, 1993


By Cornelia Babcock

I pulled off my riot helmet for the third time in five minutes and rubbed my eyes. Hell, I’d been on duty for almost 36 hours now and the stress was showing. Being a female patrolman, or patrolperson as everyone kept calling me on the news, it was important that I stay on duty. When I asked the watch commander why, he had said “Because.” When you wear a uniform, that’s as much as you can ask. But I knew why I was there. Because I was a woman. Ha! I thought as I snorted. Maybe there’ll be a riot of women around the sperm bank!

Two hours later, I wasn’t snorting.

* * *

Special agent Williams wasn’t sure what he was hearing. It was an Assistant AG from Los Angeles asking for the Marilyn Monroe files.

“What Marilyn Monroe files? We don’t have any Marilyn Monroe files.”

There was a long discussion on the other line, most of which he didn’t understand. Finally he cut the Assistant DA off.

“Yes, Sir. Now the FBI will be more than willing to cooperate and I will assign someone to look for the documentation immediately. H-o-w-e-v-e-r, as I am sure you can understand, there will be a bit of a problem. First, you can get everything that falls under the Freedom of Information Act off the Internet. Those documents that were not released are still considered confidential.”

He paused for a moment while the angry DA bit his ear.

“ . . . no, Sir, the point I am making is that the documentation we would be sending is unweighted. In other words, there was no federal investigation, at least not as far as I know, so there was no reason to selectively weigh the field agents’ reports. They were just filed.”

Again there was a pause.

For several minutes, all he said was “Yes, Sir” and “Apparently, Sir.” Finally the Assistant DA ran out of steam — and demands.

“Well, Sir, as I told you. I will put a priority on the documentation that was denied and we will have copies sent to your office as soon as it is cleared by our people. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.”

With the last “Yes, Sir,” Williams hung up politely. “There must be really be something wrong with the water out there L.A.”

* * *

It was not one of the best of Abercrombie’s days. It had started off with a call to the police and ended up with him being hogtied on Sandy’s couch while a band of three Lesbians made a shambles of his records. They wanted the Marilyn Monroe’s sperm sample and he wasn’t going to tell them where it was. Then they said they were going into the vaults and start looking at every sperm sample and threatened to “drop a few” because women didn’t need to be impregnated. Abercrombie still refused and the next thing he knew the temperature alarm went off.

That, however, was the good news. Just as the alarm went off, a band of badly dressed men dashed by his office. He could hear grunting and crashing in the other room as bodies collided. Then there was the sound of something, or several things, being dragged down the hallway. Then someone came to Sandy’s office and untied Abercrombie.

* * *

“Well, June, George, there has been a break, so to speak. We have found Abercrombie. He’s in the sperm bank all right, but he’s a hostage.”

“Do they know who’s holding him?”

“Not really, it’s a strange message. It’s says that the coalition of Lesbian L.A. and the Vanguard of the Second Coming are holding Abercrombie and the sperm as hostage and they have made some rather bizarre demands.”

“Well, bizarre is certainly the word to describe events here this Thursday, Mario, so let’s here them.”

“Ok, there are three. Let me read them:

l) All sex education classes be canceled in all Los Angeles schools.

2) Lesbian lifestyles shall be included in the California Culture classes.

3) Marilyn Monroe’s sperm is to be turned over to Operation Rescue for safekeeping.

“Those are certainly different, Mario.”

“But there’s more bizarre news, George, this time from outside the sperm bank. Remember the rumor yesterday about the power failure and the people who had arrived with bags of ice?”


“Well, apparently there was a wild rumor that the Los Angeles District Attorney was looking for someone to impregnate with the sperm so that the child’s DNA could be matched to find the man who had last been with Marilyn.”

“That’s a rumor we hadn’t heard, Mario.”

“Well, June, it may be a wild rumor, but if you’ll look over my head you’ll see something you won’t believe.”

* * *

The old man hacked and coughed as he walked through the park. God didn’t he love those cigars but they were killing him. Actually, they had killed him. It had taken them more than 60 years to do it but they had finally succeeded.

If it hadn’t come to this, he might never have released the tapes, photos and diary. They were his, trophies of the hunt, so to speak. They had also been his insurance policy for more than 30 years. But he didn’t need that policy any more. Sam, Needles, Bobby, John, Bernie, Sandy, they were all dead. He beat them all. But there was still Marilyn.

He didn’t feel sorry for Marilyn. He could have given a sh&t. What he did care about was the scum who had pushed him aside. The way he had been treated. The life he had led. The only things he had left were the tapes, photos and diary.

But he wasn’t going to take his secret to the grave. He made three packages, each with a complete set of duplicates. Then, into each of three packages he put one of the original items: tape, photos and diary. Each was addressed to a different newspaper, men and women whom he knew would not pass up a great story and who would probably work together to win a Pulitzer. But they would have to move fast. If the sperm was damaged, that could end the story there.

A fit of coughing grabbed him again, worse than ever before. It wouldn’t be long now. He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the corners of his mouth: blood. Red blood now. He was bleeding internally. Suddenly there was smashing pain in his chest, unbearable.

Struggling, he raised himself off the park bench and then stumbled the half-block toward the post box.

He never made it. Seventy hours later he would be identified as Jerome Bernard Spindel II, a close relative of the wiretap king.

* * *

To say that Abercrombie was confused was an understatement. His day had been one long trip down wacko lane. For someone who spent most of his time buried in paperwork or surrounded by human secretions, he was absolutely lost in this new world of strange people with bizarre demands.

Dragged stumbling back to his own office he was thrust into his office chair by one of the lesbians. There was a band of men he had never seen before and they were a sorry lot. Most of them were pretty badly bruised, one of them had a mouse the size of child’s fist swelling on his forehead and two others were holding their arms gingerly. One of the lesbians was limping.

“Here,” snapped an older man with a beard, as he handed Abercrombie the phone receiver. Abercrombie took the receiver and noticed blood from the man’s nose drying in the grey hair of his mustache. Abercrombie took the phone receiver from his hand.

“Hello.” Abercrombie’s throat was sore.

There was a pause while Abercrombie listened to the other end. Then he looked up, from the man in grey beard to the lesbian hovering over him.

“They want to know what we want now. What did we want before?”

“Do what you’re told, fat man, or we’ll have your balls in the freezer, got it?” The lesbian leaning over the back of his chair clearly meant what she said as far as Abercrombie was concerned and he slithered as low into the chair as his porcine frame would allow.

“What do we want now?” The man with the grey beard asked, cupping the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand.

“Out of here, A%%*#@!”

The lesbian was clearly in charge.

“Ok, here,” the man with the beard said as he handed the phone back to Abercrombie. “Tell them we want a van gassed up and ready to go and . . .”

“Two vans, A%%*#@! We’re not going anywhere without you!”
“. . . two vans, both gassed up and ready to go in front of the sperm bank. We want $100,000 in cash in both vans and a freezer full of ice and 7-Up in both vans.”

Abercrombie blinked in surprise. “7-UP?”

“Caffeine makes me nervous, OK?!” The lesbian grabbed Abercrombie by the collar and pulled him into a seated position.

“7-Up it is. Not a problem.” He took the phone from the man with the grey beard.

“Yes, this is Abercrombie. That’s right, the very same one. My captors are demanding two vans, both gassed and ready to go, with $100,000 in each van and a freezer in each van full of ice and 7-Up.”

There was a pause for moment.

“That’s right, 7-up.”

There was another pause.

“Yes. 7-Up, as in the drink with no sugar and no caffeine.”

Again there was a pause.

“Apparently it makes them nervous and, believe me, you don’t want to make these people nervous.”

* * *

“Ramon, I thought I told you to stay out of here.”

“No. You told me to stay out unless I have somezing to sell, no?”

“‘Somezin’ to sell. Do you have ‘somezing’ to sell, Ramon?” He was being mocked.

“Oh, yes. It iz an old family treasure.”

“Uh, huh. Let’s see the ‘somezing’ you have to sell.”

Saul picked up the paper bag and looked inside. There were some tapes, yellowing photographs and what looked like a diary along with a lot of copies of the same thing. He flicked open the diary and saw the name “Marilyn Monroe” on the inside. He snorted. Everybody was trying to make a buck on the sperm.

“‘Somezin’ isn’t worth anything, Ramon. All I can give you is $20.”

“But these are old, Mr. Saul, very old.”

“Ramon, you can’t even read. How do you know it’s old?”

“Because, my mother, she. . . .”

Saul rolled his eyes and punched the cash register with his middle finger.

“ . . . God rest her soul, she told me, on her death bed, Mr. Saul, on her deathbed . . .”

Saul handed him the $20 and he was out the door before he could finish his sentence. There, on the sidewalk, he divided the cash with two other teenagers and they waddled down the sidewalk toward the 7–11.

Saul looked at the bag and shook his head. He put the bag on top of the used book counter with the rest of the photograph albums and autograph collections. He was sure he could recover the $20. He did. Right after he called Peter Levinson of the Rambling Rock. Peter was always looking for stuff like this. And he might even make few bucks.

* * *


LA’s Answer to Rolling Stone

All the Underground News

Internal Use ONLY

Date: Today

Time: Now


First of all, get these god damn memo headings changed! The heading is supposed to read “All the Underground News that the Los Angeles Times WON’T print!”

And I’m getting tired of the “Date” and “Time” lines. Let’s do a search and destroy mission and get rid of ALL of this kind of letter head.

Yes, you are correct. This Marilyn Monroe package is dynamite. We’ve got a real find here. Yeah, yeah, yeah, there’s a lot to corroborate here but we’ve got a great lead — particularly with the riots over at Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. But we have to be careful. We are treading on very thin ice, not because of what we print but because we are likely to have the FBI show up and demand the originals.

Here’s what you should do:

  1. Get our high priced shyster lawyer over here to tell us how to dance around the FBI when they do show up.
  2. Get phone numbers of Teddy Kennedy in DC and Hyannis Port. Let’s see if we can get a juicy quote.
  3. Get phone numbers for Peter Lawford’s ex, Ethel.
  4. Find a good sound man who can listen to the tape and forensics — I’m assuming that’s what it’s called — to make sure these tapes are at least as old as they are supposed to do.
  5. Call UCLA and see if you can find an historian with credentials in the field of the 1960s, preferably a film historian.
  6. Call USC and see if you can find an organized crime historian.
  7. Call the Film Library on La Cienega and see what they have on Marilyn.
  8. Call the FBI and see if you can find the phone number for their retirement office. Then call that office and see if you can find a retired FBI agent who worked in Los Angeles in 1962, 1964 and 1964.
  9. Find out which studio had Marilyn’s last contract. See if you can find their lawyer at that time, I’m sure their legal department will know.
  10. Get a complete list of everyone that worked on or was associated with that film, right down to the groupies.
  11. Get a hold of the dailies and see if they have an index to Marilyn Monroe articles. Then get someone over to the public library to copy the crucial ones.

That’s all I can think of right now. Let’s move on this quickly!

* * *

ADVANCE COPY — Editor’s Eyes Only

August 25, 1993


By Cornelia Babcock

The only thing that was normal today was that the sun was up. Operation Rescue was still outside the sperm bank praying, some wackos were inside and then, marching four abreast, down the road came a line of women. It was an orderly procession, almost as if they had been trained for this. Some had quickly-made signs saying “This Womb Available” and “Marilyn Deserves Better.” As they descended on the sperm bank, the Operation Rescue vigil dispersed and their members lined up on both sides of the procession, cheering as the entourage approached the front door of the sperm bank.

At first I took the parade for just another moment of lunacy but when the parade didn’t stop at our police line, I was up and running toward the leader of the march. The leader had been marching backwards and had not seen the yellow tape of the police line and marched right on through it. The women behind her, possibly believing that she knew what she was doing just marched on. I stopped the leader about twenty feet from the front door of the sperm bank. Though it meant nothing at that moment, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tall, muscular black man rubbing his shin as he stood on the far side of the police yellow tape with four or five other men, each over 250 pounds.

Then all hell broke loose. As the women approached the two vans parked in front of the sperm bank, the doors to the bank broke open and wild melee of individuals came out. It could only be termed a riot. The evacuates were having a tug of war with what appeared to be a small ice chest while, at the same time, they were beating at each other with what appeared to be bed pans.

* * *

“Mario, if we didn’t know better, we’d say you’d been in a fight.”

“Thanks, June. I guess I’m the only guy in the world that can say he was the casualty of a battle between the L. A. Rams, Operation Rescue, Lesbian Liberation Front and extreme right wing Christians. I don’t whether I should be buying tickets for a game or going to church.”

“Ha, look at it this way, Mario. When you go home tonight you can’t come up with a better story for your wife.”

“Thanks, George. That’s if I still have a wife after being gone for two days.”

“Mario, don’t worry about it. You’ve been on television for two days so everybody in Los Angeles knows where you are.”

“That’s right.”

“I know this is going to be tough, Mario, but while we are reviewing the last 20 minutes of tape, to develop clips, could you tell us what happened.”

“Well, June, I’m not even sure I know what happened. Actually a number of things happened at the same time. There was an unexpected march of Operation Rescue matrons. These are women from the radical arm of Operation Rescue who have sworn to take babies rather than see them aborted. They formed up just around the corner and no one knew they were coming until, well, they came.

“At the same time, the police had negotiated a settlement with the people inside, an odd coalition of lesbians and an extreme right wing of Christians calling themselves the Vanguard of the Second Coming. They had demanded two vans, $100,000 dollars in each van and freezers full of ice and 7-up. Then . . .

“Excuse me, Mario, did you say ‘7-Up.’”

“That’s right, George, 7-up.”

“I hate to ask, Mario, but why 7-Up?”

“The only answer I could get, June, was that, and I’m quoting now, ‘caffeine makes them nervous.’”

“‘Makes them nervous,’ OOOOKKKK, what else, Mario.”

“Well, the police assumed, and correctly as it turned out, that the freezer was going to be used to spirit Marilyn Monroe’s sperm away. But greed apparently got the better of the two groups and as they tried to make their way to the vans, they fell to fighting among themselves. Then, in the fight over the sperm, a collection of vials fell onto the ground. As they were scrambling to pick them up, the police closed in.”

“Where do the LA Rams fit in?”

“That’s another of those strange twists of the news business, June. I was standing next to Theodoric Bandifush . . .”

“The guard for the LA Rams?”

“Actually, George, he’s a tackle. But I was standing next to him trying for an interview when some of the men from the Vanguard for the Second Coming tried to break out through police lines. Unfortunately for the man that kicked Bandifush yesterday, he ran smack into Theodoric.”

“Ran into Bandifush?”

“That’s right. It was all kind of sudden. I don’t think Bandifush knew it was happening until the man slammed into his legs — again.”

“Oh my goodness!”

“That’s right, June. One minute Bandifush was standing there and the next his arms were full of the man who had kicked him yesterday.”

“What happened?”

“George, I don’t quite believe it myself. Bandifush closed his arms around the guy, raised him off the ground and crushed him to his chest. The guy was kind of flopping helplessly, his shoes about two feet from terra firma and one of Theodoric’s buddies asked if this was the guy. Theodoric said yes and they stripped the guy naked. I mean, like stark naked, and then they chased him up the street.”

“Naked? How far did he get?”

“Well, he was moving faster than the police. The last anyone saw of him he had made it down a culvert into the LA River. I’m sure they are looking for him now.”

* * *


“I said, I have some questions on the death of Marilyn Monroe for the District Attorney.”

“I see, well, Mr. . . .”

“Levinson. As in Pete Levinson, author of DEATH IN LA, MURDER ONE, and INDICTMENT FOR SIN.”

“Ok, Mr. Levinson. You’re a writer. You’re not a wacko with a wild story. What do you have?”

“I have tapes, photos and Marilyn Monroe’s diary.”

“Right. You wouldn’t have gotten them from an old man that smokes cigars?”

“Not unless he worked in a pawn shop.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Well, I don’t really care whether you believe me or not. I’m just fulfilling my obligation as a good citizen to inform the police. Now, do you have any comments?”


“Comments, you know, as in things to say. For my book.”

“If you have evidence of crime, Mr. Levinson, it’s against the law to keep it to yourself.”

“Well, since Marilyn Monroe’s death has been ruled a suicide there isn’t a crime, is there?”

“That case is in the process of being re-opened so we will want all of your evidence.”

“Get a court order. I’m a writer.”

“You’re a freelance writer. You don’t work for paper.”

“Oh, I want you to take me to court. It’ll make my book sell like lemonade in July.”


“I can quote you on that?”

* * *

LOS ANGELES — June 5 — one of the strangest pair of trials in Los Angeles history — one civil and the other criminal — concluded today with a cast of characters that could never have appeared in a Hollywood movie because it would have been too unbelievable. At the core of the dispute was the alleged sperm extracted from the corpse of Marilyn Monroe during her autopsy in August of 1962. In two days of wild activities unlike Los Angeles has ever seen, a vast number of arrests were made ranging from breaking and entering to assault, malicious mischief, littering, loitering and creating a public nuisance all the way to streaking.

The trials were held on the same day in adjacent rooms because most of the defendants were involved in both civil and criminal offenses and, for simplicity, the court wished to handle all of the charges and torts on the same day.

But the strangest twist came last. All of the allegedly illegal and uncivil activity transpired because of the sperm sample which had been stored in the Abercrombie & Fitzhugh Sperm Bank. However, during the siege of the bank and vandalism inside, many of the labels of the sperm vials were ripped off and the exact vial that holds the alleged sperm was lost. The FBI, examining the paperwork that was not burned, agree with Abercrombie & Fitzhugh that while there was “a very good chance” that the sperm in question may well have been that taken from the cadaver of Marilyn Monroe, because it cannot be found, there were no grounds for many of the charges. As the original sample could not be found and most of the samples stolen had thawed and thus lost their vitality, there is little reason to suppose that the original sample exists.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Today’s court handed down a record number of civil and criminal ruling which include

The annulment of the marriage of the former Mrs. Gary Kremen and William Corriander. Mrs. Kremen had divorced her husband last month to marry Corriander to consolidate and strengthen their claim for custodian ship of the alleged sperm. Mrs. Kremen claims to be sister of Marilyn Monroe and Corriander is the son of the Gary Corriander, who formerly worked as a coroner’s assistant for the City and County of Los Angles and was the man who had the sperm placed in the sperm bank. Claiming that their marriage was one of “economic convenience,” and now that the sperm is lost, that “economic convenience” no longer exists, they wanted an annulment. It was granted.

Theodoric “Knees” Bandifush, Raymond “Dr. Death” Taylor, John “Bruiser” Howard, Samuel “Jonesy” Jones and Harrison “Stumble” Johnson were found guilty of creating a public nuisance when they stripped John Moses David naked. John Moses David, a member of the Vanguard of the Second Coming, which had broken into sperm bank, had assaulted Bandifush the previous day. The LA Rams were found guilty and sentenced to two hours apiece community service at the Los Angeles YMCA.

David Moses David, George Moses David, Steven Moses David, Gary Moses David, Heinz Moses David, John Moses David, Brad Moses David, Bert Moses David and an individual simply known as Moses were charged with breaking and entering, disturbing the peace, attempted theft, and destruction of property. They were found guilty of all charges and sentenced to 2 hours of community service apiece and have agreed to pay for half of all damages to the sperm bank. An additional charge of assault was made against John Moses David: streaking. He was found guilty and sentenced to a 30 day psychiatric evaluation.

Nellie Balls, Bertha Nutts and Joan Wanger, all members of the Lesbian Liberation Front were charged with breaking and entering, disturbing the peace, 30 counts of attempted theft, 30 counts of theft, destruction of property, assault, kidnapping, extortion, littering, loitering, spitting on the sidewalk, receiving stolen goods, obstruction of justice, malicious mischief, assault of a police officer, driving with expired licenses, owning unregistered vehicles, failing to pay parking tickets and trespass. They were found guilty and sentenced to a total of five years per offence to be served consecutively. All time was suspended.

Peter Levinson, a freelance writer who claims to have Marilyn Monroe’s original diary, tapes and photos was ordered released from custody with an apology from the District Attorney’s office. Levinson had been ordered arrested by the Assistant to the District Attorney for failing to turn over the alleged documents. Levinson claimed protection under Freedom of the Press and was ordered arrested. But he was only incarcerated for an hour before the Court ordered his release. The District Attorney said that all charges have been dropped. The Assistant District Attorney could not be reached for comment as he was in the process of being promoted to a new position in Compton.

Albert Finister, who had driven his truck onto the lawn of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh and was handing out free condoms, was charged with a violation of the city’s moral statute. It was an odd charge as the statute in question had been passed in 1874 and was designed to maintain the genetic purity of livestock in the Los Angeles Basin. Richard Schanche, biologist with the United States Department of Livestock Genetics in Los Angeles, stated that in the early days of Los Angeles when fences were a rarity, many of the ranchers wanted to maintain the purity of their herds. The Brahma breeders, for instance, had spent quite a bit of money to build up a herd in Canoga Park and did not want stray cows to give birth to half-Brahma offspring or for stray bulls to impregnate Brahma cows. So the Brahma breeders fenced off their herds and made it crime to knowingly do anything to encourage promiscuity. It is not known if anyone was ever charged with a violation of the 1874 statute until Finister was so charged. Finister was also charged with trespass. He was fined $1,000 for trespass and ordered to serve 60 hours of community service for the morals charge.

In a related story, the death of an unidentified derelict in East Los Angeles has re-opened the hit-and-run death of Sanderson Fitzhugh, the deceased partner of Abercrombie & Fitzhugh. Police will not state what evidence they have to link the two but only say that it is “persuasive.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . reached for comment, the District Attorney confirmed that his office had requested all FBI documentation on the life and death of Marilyn Monroe. “If the documentation shows that a crime might have been committed,” the DA stated, “the case should be re-opened.”

* * *

“Dear? Yes! He won, dear! Isn’t that wonderful. Your son placed first of all the elementary schools in San Leandro! Ten years old and he sounds just like Elvis Presley. Of course he’s got the same kind of hair and facial structure as Elvis so that helps. You know, Harry, I’m so happy we decided to have a child, even though it was horribly painful. And that Mr. Abercrombie was such a nice man to give us that sperm at no cost.”

[Steven Levi’s books can be found at, ACX and Amazon. ]