Five Stories

"Three hours?" I ask. Kenneth Taslim made it sound like the third take was filmed immediately after the second.

"Give or take ten minutes. To keep it going, I film all her scenes with her stand-in. Use camera angles, long shots to make it less obvious it isn't her. We film her costars dialogue with the back of her stand-in's head in view. Oldest trick in the history of film. You'd be amazed how often dialogue between two actors in the same room are filmed at separate times because of schedules or petty drama."

"How long after the second take, was the third, and last, take filmed?" I ask.

"When she left her trailer at the end of those three hours. We couldn't keep filming the way we had to indefinitely, we still needed her close-ups. I relented. She strapped herself in, jumped off the building, and fell five stories. The mat was misaligned, and that's that."

"Did she take off the harness between the second and third takes?"

"Maybe, I don't know. She went into her trailer with it on and walked out with it on. Same harness as far as I could tell."

"Were you aware of her receiving threats?" I ask.

"Not until after. Justin played me the audio not long after the investigation with the police wrapped up."

"What do you make of it?" I ask.

"Of the tape?" he replies, and I nod. "Five stories, right?" I nod. "I don't think that was about the fall. Meg had a reputation."

"What do you mean?"

"The Hollywood casting couch is real. Some women are given false promises. Others initiate the exchange proudly. Meg had been on the couch a few times if rumors were true. The most common story she was on the couch for a producer named Mike Tillman."

"What's the story behind that?" I ask while writing down his name.

"I never asked her, most of what I knew came from tabloids, so take that with a brick of salt and a gallon of tequila. Rumor was, Meg only got her first credited role because she bent over a couch for Tillman. MeToo took over, and suddenly you have dozens of women with the same story. Didn't matter some of them were provably false."

"Her father wasn't influential enough by himself to get her work?" I ask.

"Meg hated her father. If she had sensed she got a role because of him, she would have quit."

Meg hated her father? Justin is seeking answers like any father would, but that seems like an awfully big piece to not tell me. I've barely started this investigation, and I'm already getting jerked around in every direction. No one person has told me a story that stays consistent across all the interviewers. It's a jumbled mess.

"Any other rumors about Tillman making this a habit?" I ask.

"Plenty, but again, tabloids."

"Why did Meg hate her father?" I ask.

"Never asked, but girls with daddy issues isn't the exception in this town."

I ask questions for another half hour or so, but I'm not getting anything valuable anymore. I thank him for his time and leave. When I get back to the car I look at my notes, make sure the recorder did its thing, and call Jo for an update.

"Just finished with the on-scene medics. Nothing we didn't already know. Want to compare notes?" Jo asks.

"I'll send you the address. I'd recommend walking if possible, parking is tight."

--

It takes me an hour to get back to Bunker Hill, and it takes Jo two hours. By the time she arrives I've already settled myself into the coffee lounge on the third floor of Emmie's building. Jo gives her name at the front desk and the doorman lets her in the elevator. All my notes are organized into who said what, what is the same, what is unique to that person, and what the contradictions are.

I've poured myself a coffee from the complimentary K-Cup, but Jo declines coffee upon request. She places her purse on a chair and pulls at the folder sticking out of it. Her phone has the audio recordings when needed and adds her notes to mine. It takes us another thirty minutes to divide hers the same way. Consistent, unique, contradiction. We're ready to start the analysis part. Gather, organize, analyze, theorize, confirm or deny, repeat.

Jo ties her hair behind her head and pushes her bangs over her ears. Her emerald earrings swing as her green eyes scan the information. When I first met Jo she dressed professionally, if somewhat plain. Grey or black colored suits without an iota of personality aside from her earrings. Now she's more relaxed in tennis shoes, jeans, and a cream-colored blouse. She has a wedding ring but isn't married, but I haven't asked her why she wears it. Jo is like Jenn, in the sense she's the most attractive when looking at a case. Their hands rest on their hips, they shift their body weight every so often, swaying their ass hypnotically. Both don't realize they do it. Only one will slap me for looking.

"Okay, consistent," Jo says after a few minutes of rehearsal in her head. "Meg Fontaine gets frustrated a stunt isn't going her way and demands a third take. She doesn't take off the harness between takes, but then goes splat when the harness that held her twice, snaps." She's blunter than my friend Midge sometimes. Midge is twenty pounds of profanity in a five-pound bag.

"Mostly on film," I say. "Let's move to unique." I point to the notes for Fabian Prince. "Says Meg had a reputation of willing casting couch participation."

"A Hollywood starlet was boned by a producer, shocker," Jo says sarcastically. "Anything on this guy? Mike Tillman?"

"He was a big target during the MeToo movement. Not Weinstein big, but he was in the crosshairs. About three dozen women made claims. I ran most of those down while I was waiting for you. Over half of them don't pan out. Some weren't even in the same state. Guy couldn't be in two places at once. Some of the others have serious believability issues."

"Like what?" Jo asks. I look at her, and she's laser focused. She's in the 'believe the woman until proven otherwise' camp. Maybe that's why she resigned, because that's not how the law works. She could have lost too many cases on lack of evidence.

"Major financial debts, history of frivolous lawsuits, prior dismissed lawsuits," I list. Even she has no comment to that. It's obvious why a woman in debt would lie about a producer sexually assaulting her at a time when the media will pressure a settlement for you.

"Does he have any family?" she asks.

"Two daughters and an ex-wife. I know the wife," I say, pulling out an article I printed and stick it to the board. It shows Tillman walking the red carpet during the premiere for a film he produced. He's locking arms with a woman I've already met. She's in a charming little sapphire dress, unlike the no-nonsense suit she usually wears. "That's Holly Rolland, the RHD detective who conducted the initial investigation."

"You're shitting me," Jo says, and I shake my head to confirm. "You gonna talk to her again?"

"Without a doubt."

Jo nods and looks over to the board to resume.

"Inconsistencies. The time between the second and third take."

"Kenneth says minutes. Fabian says hours. The rest of the stunt crew says about twenty minutes with an asterisk? What's the asterisk for?" I ask. It's in her notes, and she drew an asterisk next to their statements.

"They're very wishy washy on the time."

"Either way, big disparity, but I think I have an idea," I say and find the video on my laptop. I pause the third take and look for metadata. 3:17:12. "If we get the tape for the second take, we can compare the time and get a better answer."

"Good idea. We're going to the set tomorrow, right?"

"Ten in the morning," I reply.

"Did she have an assistant?" she asks, and I shrug. "Every one of these actresses has a PA, right?"

"Nothing that the PIs have. Maybe it's in the interview notes from Detective Roland," I say. A PA could tell us about her emotional state in her trailer, assuming the three-hour story is true. "Worth asking about. If she did, we'll find out."

"Her PAs name was Julia Hou," we both hear, and turn to the voice. Detective Holly Roland is standing at the doorway with a binder tucked under her arm. It's the complete case book for Meg's death. I wonder if she overheard me talking about her. "She quit a few days prior, so wasn't there when she fell. I talked to her, but Meg was a diva, she went through a PA every two months or so."

"Why are you here and how did you know where to find me?" I ask. Detective Roland extends the book to me, letting me know it's a copy so not to worry about getting it back.

"Called the number on your website. I talked to who I assume is your wife dealing with a fussy baby. She told me where you were," she explains. "You got a minute?"

"I was about to ask you the same, but sure," I say, and ask Jo to leave so we can talk. We exchange looks so she knows I'm going to hound her for an explanation. "What?"

Detective Roland waits a moment for Jo to exit the room. She's clearly a veteran officer who has more experience than I have sense. She's older, nearing fifty I'd wager, but the milage of the job has pushed her to over a half century. Age shows in her eyes, but she's taken care of her body, which remains thin and athletic. Her shiny brown hair is thick and curly, sitting on her shoulders. Black suit, no tie, with the top button undone, but no cleavage to show. Unlike that dress.

"How'd you know?" she asks. I'm confused.

"Know what?"

"My vic today, her vaccination record had notes she was petrified of needles. Puts into question her suicide. How'd you know that'd be there?" she asks again.

"I didn't," I admit, and she smirks.

"You knew something."

"When you audit cases, you look for something that challenges the easy answer. What's the first thing that challenges an intravenous drug overdose from heroin?" I ask.

"Lack of prior drug issues. People rarely start with heroin."

"And if they had the gumption to do it themselves in the first place," I summarize.

The detective sucks her lower lip under her top teeth in thought. She's debating how much she tells me.

"Before you say whatever you're going to say, I got a few questions of my own," I interject, before she gets too comfortable. "When were you going to tell me that your ex-husband was accused by Meg Fontaine?"

"Whenever it was relevant..."

"...it's relevant," I get ahead of her. "She arguably destroyed your marriage, and you investigated her death. How the hell did RHD let that slide without concerns of conflict of interest?"

"I tried, but they said I could be impartial, so I had no choice. Four days after I started, I get a call from higher telling me I had twenty-four hours before they'd rule it an accident. I couldn't find a credible perp and that's that. Do you want my honest opinion on Meg Fontaine?" she asks, and I nod. "The accident is a little too perfect. If she lets go of the rope, belay has her. Rope breaks or harness snaps, the mat has her. Too many things needed to go wrong in perfect sequence."

I believe in coincidences. I don't believe in a dozen of them.

"What about the voicemail?" I ask.

"I couldn't track it. The call came from a burner phone, but the voice synthesizer was computer generated, and I noticed something else about it. Brought it up to my Lieutenant, but he told me to kick rocks and close it. You got it on you?" she asks. I lead her over to my computer and pull up the audio and play it.

You had your chance. People will tell five stories about you. Which one is true? Mind the gap.

"Listen to each sentence, separately," she says, and I play and pause. Play and pause. "Notice it?"

"What am I listening for? Background noise?"

"Listen to the cadence of speech and pronunciation." Play and pause, play and pause. Play and...holy shit.

You had your chance is said at what most would consider a normal cadence. People will tell five stories about you is said slower and less organic, like some is reading a script for the first time. Which one is true, the U sound at the end of true is pronounced differently than the word you in the proceeding sentence. Mind the gap is deeper, and it's noticeable even with the distortion.

"Hear it now?" she asks, and I nod.

"More than one voice made this."

"And more than one accident needed to happen."

--

-Chase Kramner-

Sunday - September 20, 2020

The production company had bought a mostly gutted building on the outskirts of North Hollywood. The production was run out of a trailer they put on the side of the building. All the other smaller production companies and contractors had their own vans, busses, cars, and trailers scattered in the back parking lot. Contractors included the stunt coordination team, first responders, a retired FBI Agent who consulted, and demolition team just to name a few. They were planning on destroying the building and selling the lot once production wrapped. The building is honestly an eyesore in this neighborhood. It's either one or two-story buildings and then this five-story behemoth.

Most of the contractor's cars, busses, and trailers were no longer here. Production had been halted indefinitely due to Meg's death. Terry had no choice but to let them seek other projects due to a clause in their contracts if production was halted for X number of days. Now it's just the one production trailer and the building.

Jo and I drive over in one car to the production site. We left at eight in the morning to make sure we got there before ten. The building isn't hard to find. It has construction fencing around it to hide and secure the production site. The gate was left open for us, and we drive right through. It only took us an hour to get here, so we're an hour early.

I park next to another car outside of the trailer. A sign on the door says the production is for something called Blue Ball Beach. Is that a porn without a happy ending? The door of the trailer swings open, and a man I don't recognize walks down the wooden stairs. 5'11 pants, boots, a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and biceps the size of truck tires. The high and tight hair cut is only frosting on the private security cake.

He taps on my window with one knuckle, and I roll it down two inches.

"Private property, turn it around sir."

"I'm Terry Opal's ten o'clock," I reply.

"Kramner?" he asks, and I nod. He pronounced the N, but I don't correct him. "ID."

I hold up my Ohio driver's license.

"You're a little early," he says.

"Better than being late."

He kind of shrugs and makes room for me to open the door of the Jeep. I swing my legs out, check the fake one, and step down.

"Vet?" he asks.

"No. Used to be a cop though. Long story. You a vet?"

"Navy SEAL," he replies. Because of course he was. Why not? "Investigating something for Mr. Opal?"

"More like in spite of him," I say. The other car door shuts, and Jo is stretching out her muscles. "This is my partner, Jo Zielinski." She gives him a nonchalant raise of her hand in place of a full wave.

"Gabriel Cohen," he says, offering out his hand for a shake which I accept. "Head of security."

"While we're waiting for Mr. Opal, you got a few minutes?" I ask. Gabriel pauses for a second but understands what I'm asking.

"Sure. I'm only telling you what I told the other investigators."

"That's fine," I say, and look over at Jo who is already getting the equipment ready. "Mind if we record?"

Gabriel wasn't near that part of the set when the cameras were rolling. He was near the front gate when he heard screaming. Meg had already fallen, and he saw the medical crew having difficulty pushing their way through the crowd forming around her body. He pushed and shoved his way to Meg, clearing a path for the medics. If I play the video, you can see him at the last second shoving his hand toward the lens of the camera.

"Did you ever hear about the voicemail she received?" I ask, and he shakes his head. I look at Jo who is already buffering it up on the laptop. Jo is good at keeping up. She turns the volume all the way up and hits play. We play him the voicemail a few times, and he exhales deeply.

"Meg received this?" he asks, and I nod. "Before?" Nod. "Jesus."

"Head of security didn't know?" I ask.

"I can't exactly know something someone doesn't tell me."

"No other investigator let you hear that? None of the previous two private investigators showed you that?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"I only talked to LAPD over the phone, and one investigator in person. Blake something?"

"Drake Rose?" I ask.

"Maybe, sounds familiar," he says with a shrug.

What the hell were these other investigators doing? Cashing an easy check without doing the work? At least Drake Rose seems to have tried doing something. Gabriel was likely not high on her priority list, so Holly never got the chance to do any follow ups.

"What's your take?" Jo asks.

"Freaky for sure. I always thought it was an accident, but, now," he says slowly, and asks to hear it again. We oblige. "Goddamn."

"You ever talk to Meg?" Jo asks.

"Not really. We're told specifically to minimize our interaction with the talent. Half don't even make eye contact with us. I made the mistake of wishing her a good morning once. She told me to go fuck myself."

Meg was nice to Kenneth. Is that because Kenneth is somewhat important and well known? Gabriel is just a dime a dozen ex-SEAL Hollywood security contractor. Fabian didn't have many nice things to say about her either, and he was arguably the most important person there.

"She was a diva?" I ask, borrowing the term from Holly.

"She was just a bitch to everyone. Walking with a cloud of 'don't you know who I am' everywhere she went. She was famous, don't get me wrong, but she wasn't Angelina Jolie. When people didn't recognize her, stand back, because Ms. Hyde was coming. I'd been with the production since the beginning, so about five, six months. She went through three PAs in that time."

"She was a bitch, got it," Jo says while pretending to write something down. "Bitch enough to anyone in particular they'd make an accident happen?"

"Julia got it the worst. Or, at least she put up with it for the longest."

"Her last PA, Julia Hou?" I ask, and he nods. Pronounced like the gardening tool.

"Yeah. Meg once threw an iced coffee at her for messing up her order. Here's the thing, she didn't mess up the order. I was there, Meg just forgot what she asked for and then got angry because, reasons, I guess."

"Was Julia here that day?" Jo asks.

"Not that I saw. She finally quit a few days before the accident. I can check the sign-in roster. Keeps track of who's on the set. More to help inventory thefts."

"If you wouldn't mind," I say, and watch him walk into his trailer. I lean against the front of the Jeep while Jo opens the murder book provided by Detective Roland last night. The sign-in roster is here as well, I think I remember it from Rose's packet as well. "What do you make of all this? Is her being a bitch a strong enough motive?"

"You were a cop long enough to know motives don't have to be compelling or rational." True. I had a case where someone shot into a drive-thru window over their order. People are petty and stupid. Start there, and everything is much simpler and easier to explain. Some people just suck.

"Anything in the book stand out to you?" I ask.

"Looking at Gabe's statement from when Roland talked to him. Consistent at least," she explains. "I'd like to see the mat set up. I got a theory."

"Care to share?"

"I'll save it for when we're there."

Gabriel comes back with a small binder and places it on the hood of the Jeep. Inside are several sign-in sheets meticulously organized by date in document protectors hooked to the rings of the binder. He finds the date of the accident, June 15 of this year, and turns it toward me.