Babylon Confidential: A Memoir of Love, Sex, and Addiction (16 page)

Gary overcame his writer’s block with the help of medication and managed to pay off all his tax debts. He took on a lot of script-doctor work, fixing problems with other writers’ scripts, which pays well but doesn’t earn you screen credits.

As for Gary’s death, there are too many theories to cover them all here. It was reported in the media, private investigators were hired, conspiracy theories started up, and to this day it remains one of the most mysterious deaths in Hollywood history. I’ve been asked to do interviews about it at least a dozen times, and it still crops up in the news and in online reports from time to time. No one knows exactly what happened, but here’s what I do know.

In June 1997 Gary spent a week working with actress Marsha Mason on a remake of the 1949 movie
The Big Steal
, which is about a man who fakes his own death. The movie was going to be his directorial debut. He was driving his Ford Explorer back to his home in Santa Monica when he vanished. His publicist believed he was acting out the life of
The Big Steal
’s main character. Wendy offered a $100,000 reward, and when the story hit the media all sorts of strange folk came out of the woodwork. There was a psychic on Leeza Gibbons’s show who claimed Gary was working in an Alabama Kmart. There were stories of a CIA assassination. Apparently Gary had uncovered secrets about the US Army’s conducting tests on live subjects in Panama using prohibited weapons. There were stories of black unregistered helicopters patrolling the California aqueduct near where he vanished. Wendy was even approached by men in black suits with mirrored sunglasses who advised her to drop her investigation into Gary’s disappearance.

A year later his body was found in his Ford Explorer, submerged in the California aqueduct close to the town of Barstow. That closed the official police investigation, but the autopsy and subsequent private investigation opened doors to more unanswered questions.

I’m normally one for accepting the simplest explanation for things, Occam’s Razor and all that, but there were some odd facts that made it difficult for me to accept that Gary fell asleep at the wheel and drove his SUV off the road into a body of water.

First, it was unlikely that this was an accident at all, given that there was a lot of ground between the road and the aqueduct. Also, Gary was an experienced long-distance driver. He’d grown up in a trucking family, and when we were married he’d go for long drives just to clear his head and resolve script problems. And I mean long drives, thousands of miles. He’d be stuck on a script and then just up and say, “I’m off to Tennessee. I’ll see you when I’ve got this story nailed.”

Also, it was strange that Gary was found in the aqueduct at all, considering that I’d already looked. After his disappearance I’d enlisted the help of a friend who was an ex-marine. He assembled a team of divers and they went down into the aqueduct with infrared equipment and swept the area around Barstow from top to bottom. There was no sign of a car or a body. A year later, in the same area, after the police received a tip from an anonymous caller, the car and body miraculously appeared.

And then there was the Cyrillic I’d seen on his computer monitor. Wendy also reported seeing strange symbols on his computer screen, and when she asked him what they were, Gary had answered “encryption codes.” I don’t know what the ramifications of that are, but it’s certainly added fuel to the stories about the CIA, and since those Russian sleeper agents were found in New Jersey in 2010, I’m sure it won’t be long before someone is talking about Gary’s death being connected to some foreign spy network. Who knows?

Last, Gary had a deformed pinky. It had been broken in a football accident, and he hadn’t had it reset properly. Wendy put a photo of it in the reward notice she posted, as it was the simplest, surefire way of immediately identifying his body. When they pulled what was supposed to be Gary’s body out of the aqueduct, the gun that he always carried with him was missing, along with both of his hands. After Wendy and his family pressed the police about the missing hands, another search of the car was conducted and some finger bones were found in the back seat. Wendy pushed to have them analyzed and the police coroner reported that no deformed pinky was found and that the bones were likely around 200 years old.

Whatever the truth, whatever happened that night on the highway, Gary’s death shook me and brought my own life into sharp focus.

After the funeral, I went to Gary’s beach house and met Wendy in person for the first time. We got to know each other and ended up talking through the night. I had a headache, and Wendy told me to get some aspirin in her bathroom cabinet. It was filled with more pills than there are flakes in a snow globe. I asked Wendy about them and she explained:

“Well, I finally got Gary on antidepressants, and that really helped his mood. He was prone to depression.”

I admired her persistence. I wish he’d taken pills with me, because it might have saved our marriage.

When I left the next morning, Wendy gave me a box of Gary’s unproduced scripts. There was some great material in there, his best work. Schwarzenegger scripts sell, Kurt Russell action scripts sell, but sometimes they sell at the expense of scripts like
Come As You Are
, a story about a female photojournalist. That script did the rounds in Hollywood for years, and came close to being made, first with Kathleen Turner and then Michelle Pfeiffer. But in the end it never got over the line.

Maybe if Gary had lived and made it as a director he would’ve had the influence to push it through. It was a great script, Academy Award material, and it’s a tragedy that it’s just sitting in a box in my attic gathering dust.

Up until Gary’s death, I’d always believed that I would eventually find my Prince Charming to settle down with and raise a few talented, gorgeous children. But after his funeral, when I looked back on the life I’d led since leaving home, on the decisions I’d made, my path seemed clear. If there had been any ambiguity about the meaning of the sign the moon had given me that night in Megève, there wasn’t now. I got it. Family life wasn’t for me.

I had always known that I couldn’t be the kind of dependent woman Dodi had wanted me to be. Losing Justine was unbearably difficult, and she wasn’t even my biological child. After the accident when I’d lost Gary’s baby, after Gary’s death, all I could think about was what if I went and had a child of my own? What if I raised it and loved it and then that bitch fate swept in and things turned to shit again? I couldn’t bear to think about that.

I’d been shaped by my early life. I was made to stand on my own two feet and I was at my weakest whenever I relied on another person for reassurance and validation. I was convinced that I had the answer. I was my own woman. I would enjoy men, but I didn’t need them. This realization was like donning a suit of armor, a power that I’d accumulated through my own efforts, and I would set about making it stronger.

That inner voice continued to drive me forward. It told me that I could reach a larger audience and touch people’s lives. I would be immune to criticism, self-doubt, and fear. I was going to be a film actress, the next Katharine Hepburn.

When I got a call from my agent telling me that I’d landed a role on a sci-fi show that Warner Brothers was producing, I said to her, “You know I’m working on my movie career. Are you sure I should be committing to a TV series and a five-year contract?”

My agent laughed.

“Honey, there’s never been a sci-fi series that wasn’t a
Star Trek
spin-off that ran more than a couple of years. Trust me, you’ll be lucky to last for one.”

It turned out that my agent couldn’t have been more wrong. And it was lucky for me that she was.

The photo I used for my Variety ad announcing my role in
Berrenger’s

With Don Ameche and Bob Hope on the set of
A Master Piece of Murder
in Vancouver, Canada, 1984

At the Carousel Ball with John Davis, 1984

Lunch on the
Sakara
with Dodi, 1984

Pregnant with Patrick in Megeve