A Case For Murder: Brittany Murphy Files

A Case For Murder:

Brittany Murphy Files

Bryn Curt James Hammond

Series Editor: Paul Knappett

Copyright Miami Fox Publishing 2016

Published by Miami Fox Publishing at Smashwords

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0-9933509-1-7

www.miamifoxpublishing.co.uk

+ 44 (0)7731 881254

All testimony and interviews in this book are reproduced verbatim. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at the time of going to press, the author and publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. Brittany Murphy and Simon Monjack’s deaths have been classified as being from ‘natural causes’ and their cases have been closed. Any theories proposed herein are no more than conjecture until proven otherwise.

Contents

About the Series

Introduction

File 01 - A Death at 1895 Rising Glen Road

File 02 - Calm before the Storm: The Aftermath

File 03 - Simon Monjack’s Loaded Gun

File 04 - The Autopsy Report

File 05 - Across the Lobby

File 06 - The Final Act

File 07 - Happy New Year

File 08 - Abandoned to DVD

File 09 - Death Returns to 1895 Rising Glen Road

File 10 - No Marriage, Or Was There?

File 11 - Was Her Unconventional Family to Blame?

File 12 - Angelo Bertolotti’s Story

File 13 - Who is Julia Davis?

File 14 - Arturo Globenfeldt, Kidnapping, Ransom and Murder

File 15 - A Case For Murder?

About the Series

A Case for Murder features unsolved murders of celebrities and includes some of the most notorious crimes in history. Some of these celebrities were filming at the time of their death, while others were in their own homes and their death appears to be of natural causes, although murder hasn’t been ruled out in the public’s eye. The series will feature a look at the celebrities’ last days, the people in their lives and official papers which have not previously been available in popular form.

Most of these murder cases closed after years of fruitless searching for suspects or substantial evidence with leads coming to dead ends. However, some of them remain open, and even decades after the murders authorities are still attempting to identify what actually happened. For now, though, they remain a mystery.

Each book has been fully researched and offers the reader an educated look into the mind of the star, with brand new interviews and illustrated with contemporary story-telling for the selfie generation. Some of the subjects are familiar, others less known.

Further details are available at www.miamifoxpublishing.co.uk

Miami Fox Publishing welcomes views and ideas on the A Case for Murder series. We can be e-mailed at submissions@miamifoxpublishing.co.uk

Introduction

It was a typical Tuesday morning, when I would be left a coffee at the side of the bed as my partner dashed off to work, Mimi, my princess, would avoid using the cat flap to get back into our home and climb the exterior to the property to knock on the balcony door, while Beannie, my other princess, would be playing ‘Amazon woman’ hunting for a present to bring back to me, which I didn’t relish. After grumpily letting Mimi in I’d slowly get ready just in time to hear the staff arrive. I’d pop out to the offices on our premises to see them, have a quick coffee and catch up and then retreat to my private home office to work.

At around 11:00 am the mail would arrive, which was always a delight as we were sent hundreds of check discs from studios all around the globe to review in our publication; it was pretty much like Christmas every day! Over the recent years we had noticed Brittany Murphy’s film output decline and bypass the multiplex; in fact I hadn’t seen a decent Murphy film since Sin City back in 2004. It was a sad demise of such a promising artist. Visually Murphy had undergone a very dramatic change. Her lips had been enhanced, which made her unrecognisable. Instead of watching the feature film you would be trying to spot if she was drooling or not. Her weight had diminished and it was like watching Montgomery Burns in a wig with collagen-filled lips.

Just to explain how disheartened I was with her recent crop of films we often built a package for the studios when they took out advertising and we would give them four pages of editorial and a review. If we had faith in the title we would give them a cover on the condition that we could have control over the photoshoot.

One title, which will remain nameless, was handed to us and they wanted to take a full page advert. The studio gave us exclusive images and access to a couple of the film’s cast.

That very Friday, after the kids had gone to bed and I and my ex-partner had finished our takeaway and were consuming our alcoholic beverages, I checked out the film they wanted us to cover. It was unwatchable, and by the 30 minute mark we turned it off. It was uncomfortable viewing and Murphy wasn’t suited to the role. It was as if she was just going through the motions to pick up her pay cheque.

I handed the check disc over to a member of my staff. I declined the exclusive coverage offer made by the studio as we didn’t feel the title would sit well with our readership, and no other magazine picked up the editorial either. I was actually hopeful that the colleague I had given the disc to would give it a favourable review; after all, this writer had given Killer Tomatoes Strike Back! a 4 out of 5 star review! To my surprise the 180 word review landed on my desk with a nil rating.

Now I had three options: don’t include the review, print the review, upsetting the distributor and losing the advertising spend, or lie and bump up the rating.

Then it dawned on me – the distributor had placed the spend with an agent, a London-based company that was difficult on the best of days, and the studio’s account handler was a total novice who didn’t know his arm from his elbow. The account handler made contact with us at the request of the distributor, and after much toing and froing he decided to put the spend elsewhere, giving me the satisfaction of pulling all coverage on the title and consequently burying the film well and truly. When the DVD was finally released it flopped and died a fast death, erasing it from Murphy fans’ memories.

It would then be a further year until I had the pleasure of meeting her as she faced the heavy glare of paparazzi lights at the flawless vodka premier of Across the Hall in December 2009 at Laemmle’s Music Hall in Beverly Hills.

FILE 01

A DEATH AT 1895 RISING GLEN ROAD

Well, there were three of us in this marriage, so it was a bit crowded.

- Diana, Princess of Wales

There were significant aromas in the Murphy residence – the stench of perspiration, espresso long past its enzymatic browning, cigars and damp rotting wood. Brittany Murphy’s 8,000 square foot home with 0.75 acres was a large multi-storey Mediterranean property situated in a built-up residential neighbourhood in the Hollywood Hills, at the tail end of Rising Glen Road, a stone’s throw from West Hollywood.

Murphy and her husband’s bedroom was located at the southern portion of the residence; darkness leaked from the room, gone was the property’s heart, and death, deception and secrets echoed silently down the halls, creeping like a fox in the night. Microscopic plant-like organisms were spreading inch by inch in the makeshift prison. Hyphae were among the unwanted guests remodelling the home, turning it into their very own kingdom of fungi!

Through the over-cluttered sitting room was Murphy’s final place of rest, which would have been otherwise spacious if it wasn’t for the mountain of clothes, make-up, perfumes, an oxygen machine and medical supplies; it was a ready-made drugstore. The large bed was stained and the sheets twisted and drenched in sweat. Flanking each side of the bed were nightstands covered in personal items such as Murphy’s journal, half-drunk bottles of water, prescription medication bottles, some open and some empty, and used tissues were strewn alongside the bottles. Magazines were piled up, with pages ripped from them. It was a mess! Not even the scent of Coco Mademoiselle, ginger and lemon could cut the deathly scent that was starving the home of oxygen. Then the silence was broken...

My daughter’s passed out, a panicked Sharon Murphy screamed down the telephone, trying to catch her breath while describing to the dispatcher the dire circumstance. Her wailing was like a knife to skin, the pain could not be described. Clara, Murphy’s white pooch, looked on in confusion; she would never again get to chase the ball her mommy would roll for her. Murphy lay on the tiled, peach-coloured bathroom floor, which was just adjacent to the doorway leading into the second bathroom and walk-in wardrobe containing racks and racks of designer clothing. Some items hadn’t even seen the light of day, and probably now never would.

Simon Monjack was kneeling over his wife Brittany following directions that the dispatcher was feeding to the grief-stricken mother. The overweight Monjack, wearing a food-stained T-shirt and sleep pants and by now profusely sweating, continued CPR. He had placed the heel of his hand on her breastbone at the centre of her hollow chest, with his other hand on top and the fingers of each hand interlocked. He had positioned his hulking body over the diminutive 5ft 2in actress with his shoulders above his hands. Using all his 23-stone body weight he pressed straight down by 5-6cm on her chest, trying to pump life back into her flaccid body.

Her wavy dark-brown hair, damp from the shower, clung to her shoulders, which were covered by her pink-orange, floral patterned pyjama top spattered with yellow and brown emesis. Murphy’s body had become completely relaxed, her skin had turned a greyish white and waxy-looking, but for the first time in a long while she looked at peace.

Monjack industriously continued with CPR like he saw Dr. Sanjay Gupta perform only a week before on the Larry King show. Murphy’s skin was slowly becoming cool to the touch, her lips, now blue, were gradually fading to a paler colour as the minutes went by. Her brown eyes were glazed over, fixed and lifeless, and mildly bloodshot. They appeared to be nothing more than icy, coloured marbles.

The doorway to her soul had closed for the final time. Murphy wasn’t coming back, and no attempt at revival would save this lost star who stumbled along in the dark as the studio lights began to be shut off and the cameras she became accustomed to stopped flashing. She had reached her chapter’s conclusion; the director had called, That’s a wrap! It was over; she was no longer in the body that made her a household name and tabloid fodder.

Brittany, please come back! screamed Sharon, but sadly Murphy was no longer listening.

Press and media swamped the tail end of Rising Glen Road, cameras, microphones and spotty jotters at the ready. These pen-pushers were after blood. A blonde lady with a distinctive British accent, desperate for screen time, wearing a brass top busy with hearts, was on standby to report what she had witnessed, her eyes hidden behind her LA shades. She gave a moment-by-moment breakdown of the incident with dramatic pauses and gulps that would have been more fitting for the TV soap Days of our Lives.

They had her by the fire truck and they were obviously trying to put tubes down her throat and resuscitate her and I think... She was fairly...Obviously already dead at that time!

Clare Staples* was Murphy’s neighbour, and she repeated the same story like a scratched record, over and over again, gaining a hefty amount of press coverage. She fed them what they needed to spice up their headlines, regurgitating the moment she saw Monjack, wearing his vomit-stained pyjama bottoms and no shoes, stumbling around appearing dazed as firefighters tried to save his wife. Staples added the buzz words they wanted. It’s just tragic, she said, sounding insincere. If there was a Razzies award for worst bystander interview Staples would have won hands down.

The tragic part about it was that it took Murphy’s death to revive her status as a Hollywood actress. Until December 20 she was considered a washed-up has-been and a joke. Her talent and dramatic performances had long been forgotten in favour of blind items and headlines implicating a lifeless ordinary.

Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was attempting a task that was unachievable, even with their world-class care; bringing Murphy back from beyond the grave was never going to happen, and her cold body was now simply taking up one of their 958 beds.

Murphy’s blood was drawn at 9:24 am and tests revealed she had decreased haemoglobin levels and hypochromic, microcytic anaemia. Her platelets were severely decreased but her white cell count was normal. Her coagulation, liver, potassium and magnesium levels were also elevated. After multiple ECGs the results showed changes consistent with acute myocardial infraction. Murphy was still not responding. Rigor mortis, a recognizable sign of death, had slowly begun to set in as chemical changes in her muscles and limbs caused stiffening.

Only days before the now lifeless corpse had spent time watching Academy screeners as she huddled up to her dog in a soft, pink, fluffy Beverly Hills robe, with Sharon waiting on her hand and foot, bringing her soup as she lay sprawled out on the sofa next to her bed with the latest issue of Vogue. Lara Stone, wearing a white tulle corset dress, looked up from the December glossy pages at her. How only days and hours could change a situation.

Sharon and Monjack stood silently in the children’s waiting room; a colourful room with light green wallpaper and miniature red, yellow, green and blue chairs welcomed them. Simon, still in his pyjamas, was staring aimlessly, almost in a trance. Sharon continued to dry her swollen welling eyes. One journalist on hand that day who spoke with me said Monjack’s persona was very much of a middle-aged man with weight issues.

He was visibly on a lot of medication. It was as if he was having a euphoric moment. He was very disconnected from the situation around him, spaced out.

The journalist continued, I’ve seen this a lot over the years with celebrities. He was reacting like it was a storm in a teacup instead of his wife’s life being on the line. He was on something!

The euphoric haze described by the respected freelance journalist may have been down to the amount of prescription medication he was taking. Monjack regularly consumed the antidepressants Citalopram, Duloxetine and Trazodone, the anti-anxiety agents Diazepam and Lorazepam, the analgesics Hydrocodone, Pregabalin and Acetaminophen, and Propranolol, which is an antihypertensive agent. With this amount of pills rattling around inside him and the shock to his system of what had unfolded before his eyes that very morning, he was walking around in a dream state.

As he later said in one of his very few interviews after his wife’s death, "You wake up in the morning and it’s like a rebirth.