DISGRACELAND - Brittany Murphy: The Suspicious Death of a Starlet or an Unsolved Murder?

Episode Date: August 13, 2024

When actress Brittany Murphy died of pneumonia at the age of just 32 years old, it seemed that all of Hollywood had questions about her death. All but her husband, who did not find his wife’s death suspicious in the slightest. Then, shortly after, Brittany Murphy’s husband died of the same highly suspect cause of death, pneumonia, and then, things really got weird.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court.

On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about Brittany Murphy, an incredibly charismatic actress who shined in numerous roles and left an acting legacy that is perhaps outshined by the questions surrounding her suspicious death of supposed pneumonia at just the age of 32. And this is also the story about a controlling and abusive husband. It's about drug abuse, poor health, two parents with very different agendas following the death of their daughter, and about highly suspicious details surrounding that death. Toxic mold,

anemia, and poison. Dramatic details surrounding an actress who participated in popular works of drama, Eminem's film Eight Mile among her best work, a film that, of course, featured great music. Unlike that music

I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from Amelotron called Hysteria Dance mk1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Empire State of Mind by Jay-Z featuring Alicia Keys. And why would I play you that specific slice of New York cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 1st, 2009. And that was the day

that Brittany Murphy walked the red carpet for the final time. On this episode, A controlling and abusive husband, drug abuse, toxic mold, poison, a highly suspicious cause of death, and an actress gone too soon. Brittany Murphy I'm Jake Brennan in this. It's an experimental treatment. I'm sure you've never heard of it. Smoke trailed from Simon Monjack's cigar as he spoke. The dinner guests gathered around the table leaned in, hanging on his every word, until each person,

was suspended in an unflattering slouch. The clinking of crystal champagne glasses quieted the murmurs of side conversations long since trailed off. A selection of cheesecakes were plated and ready to serve. And no one seemed interested in cheesecake at the moment. So you're telling me a shark saved your life, one guest challenged? Cells from shark fins, yes, Simon answered. Very expensive, but it cured the cancer, so who might have complained? He chuckled with an air of false modesty,

and the girl sitting beside him rubbed his arm affectionately, soothing him from the potential sting of the memory. It wasn't even Simon's party. It was the turn of the century, and the fledgling filmmaker was a special guest in the home of established filmmaker Alison Burnett. Allison had heard things about the new Brit on the block, that his grandfather founded British steel,

that he was worth a billion dollars. And now he learned that Simon was apparently a cancer survivor too. But there was more. Simon locked eyes with everyone in the room as he unveiled each new detail of his story. And no one dared interrupt him. Simon kept regaling. And for starters, his so-called gripping debut film in Two Days, Nine Lives, was receiving the best reviews in the history of independent filmmaking in England.

He also dated supermodel El McPherson. And then, Madonna, or was it the other way around? Didn't matter. He boasted a collection of 17 Ferraris. Better yet, he owned more pieces by Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer than anyone in the world. You know the girl with a pearl earring? That's the guy. Simon's tales were unreal.

But this was Hollywood. Holly weird. At the time, there was no fact-checking websites to summon no Wikipedia that other guests could glance at during a quick smoke outside between courses. Hell, nobody could even reach into their phone and ask Siri yet, because smartphones were still a few years off. Simon's Googly-eyed girlfriend remained glued to his side, hanging on his every word like she was hearing these tales for the first time, too.

Simon had every guest spellbound. Alison Burnett had forfeited control of his dinner party, but he didn't care. Didn't care until an email hit his inbox roughly a month later. It was from Simon's girlfriend. now ex-girlfriend. She wrote Allison to inform him that every word of Simon's tales had been false. He had lied through his cigar-chomping teeth, the cancer, the car collection, the art collection, all bogus.

She had believed him too, believed him so well that she never saw their breakup coming, nor did she see his subsequent hookup with her best friend. It's what Simon Monjack did. He lied, he schemed, he conned people. And that's exactly how he found his way into Britney Murphy's life. He didn't screw it up at all. He didn't screw it up at all. He didn't screw it up at all. Brittany Murphy repeated the line in her mind over and over again, so she couldn't have the chance to forget it. She spat it out right on cue. He didn't screw it up at all, she recited aloud, trembling through tears.

A sniffle made her button nose wrinkle. She locked her big brown eyes. with her co-star Mike Vogel, her lips pursed into a pout. Then, her perfect delivery was broken. Shit. Line! Brittany maintained the perturbed look plastered on her face as she barked for her next words. By now, the production staff working on the film across the hall was used to it. It had been a tumultuous time on the set with Brittany.

Perhaps it was more accurate to say it was a tumultuous time on set with Brittany and her husband, Simon. Monjack. As the crew fed Brittany her line, she struggled to retain it. Her thoughts slogged. Her mind moved in its lowest gear, fumbling with what emotion she should evoke next. Fuck, she was tired. Simon kept her up late last night again. Her husband of one year had a tendency to push her boundaries, both mentally and physically. He'd often deprive her of sleep for activities like late-night photo shoots for her career he promised and that's what he always said their formal relationship began in early 2007 when brittany first clutched the script for the white hotel slated to be simon's second movie she was so intrigued by the project that she phoned simon from tokyo straight from the set of

the cornball comedy the ramen girl when they met in the states to discuss the movie simon promised her the leading role. Except the White Hotel never opened, never materialized. What Brittany got instead was a new relationship, followed by a sudden proposal, and after two failed engagements with two separate men before the age 30, Brittany Murphy was beyond ready to play the role of a bride. She and Simon tied the nod at a private ceremony that spring. No big media announcements, no press coverage, private, quiet, intimate. In the third, fact that their marriage came on the heels of a nine-day prison stay for Simon's American visa expiring was merely a coincidence, Britney Swar or so anyways. Just a very unimportant detail

in the life of her new filmmaker husband. Simon's own credits at the time were limited to two days, nine lives, and a credit for a 2006 film called Factory Girl, all about the life of Yiddie Sedgwick and her entanglement with Andy Warhol. Upon its release, Simon sued the filmmakers, claiming they stole his script. The filmmakers had never heard of a quote-unquote industry professional named Simon Monjack. They dismissed him as a nuisance, but granted him a writing credit for the sake of shutting him up. In 2008, that unearned credit remained Simon's biggest claim to fame, while Brittany's biggest successes slipped farther and farther into the rear view.

Eight Mile felt like eight eternities ago. The teen dream of Clueless was over ten years old now. In fact, Brittany hadn't starred in a major studio production since 2004's Little Black Book. That made two careers teetering on the brink of obscurity. In Britney Murphy, teetering on the brink of losing her mind. Simon's so-called helping hand was his excuse for the late nights for hovering on set for micromanaging the final fragments of his wife's career. Simon's behavior ran Britney down and kept her rundown,

kept her in a tizzy calling out for his help. Right now, on set, it kept her calling up for lines she knew damn well she should be able to memorize. What was she some sort of mentally challenged airhead? Fortunately, across the hall director, Alex Merkin, could handle repetition. He could handle reminding Brittany to get back in the frame. He could even deal with the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches crust cut off, cut diagonally, that she requested every hour, on the hour, and inevitably barely touched. What he couldn't handle was the resistance.

Today, Brittany wasn't getting in bed for across the hall's love scene. She was beyond that kind of acting, she insisted. How could she shine when the low-budget sets and low-brow scripts didn't give her room to when she had to bring her acting skills into a prop bed? Alex sensed a stale mate. He sighed and waved everyone off set, no sense prolonging the inevitable he thought. As the staff dispersed, he meandered outside with select members of his crew for a private conversation, about the situation.

Alex spotted Simon milling about outside. He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. We're going to just have to go with somebody else, he said a little too loudly, hoping Simon's ears would perk up. But Simon's ears were already perked up. They always were, especially when he lingered awkwardly on set, waiting for Brittany to take a break or glance in his direction for some sort of guidance. And that's what he was there for.

to guide her, to nudge her back on the right path in her career, to make sure she nailed this role so well that the rest of the industry wouldn't be able to turn their backs on her anymore and by association on him either. Alex had a fight off a snicker when he saw Simon rushing over. We can work this out. She'll do whatever you want, he said at Alex, failing to hide the panic in his voice. Let me go speak with her and we'll get this all worked out. He darted over to Brittany.

Alex observed them from afar, whispers a distraught frown from her, some stern words from him. In the unspoken truth, she couldn't afford to lose this role. In the unspoken agreement, she'd do the scene and she'd like it, or at least she'd pretend to. And that's what acting was all about, right? After the break, Brittany shimmied under the sheets and glanced at her co-star. Her do-eyes went glassy. Only for now, she thought, only until my next big break. She didn't know that the next big break would never come.

There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.

I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson. a host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters.

He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do.

You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the exactly right network. Listen to wicked words on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets.

And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything. And me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move.

And he went out of the front door, and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. A shiver shot up Britney Murphy's spine. It started in her abdomen and then crawled up to her chest, where it hammered on her rip cage and clawed at her lungs.

She tried to breathe through the sensation, but she could barely breathe at all. She knew the feeling well by now over a week into a mystery illness that left her shuddering in the sun. The December weather in Los Angeles wasn't warming up her thin frame, no matter how long she lingered near the rays of the sun pouring into her private bathroom. A breeze cut through her skin. She pulled a towel over her shoulders like a blanket and called out for her husband, Simon Monjack, through chattering teeth. A blanket, please, she just needed a blanket.

She knew she wasn't strong enough to fetch one herself. Short walks weakened her. Anything more adventurous, like climbing a single story of stairs left her gasping for air. If Simon had heard her request and the death rattle of her clicking teeth, he didn't acknowledge it. He was off in his own little world, thinking about his own dreams of being famous, no doubt. And she turned the page of a fashion magazine from her crouched position on the floor.

Her chilly hand shook so fiercely that it ripped the bottom page. Brittany grimaced and pulled her knees tight to her chest. One last attempt at salvaging any body heat. She could be at the beach right now or by the pool, flagging a pool boy for another lemonade, sweating off her suntan lotion, instead of begging her husband for a fucking blanket. Only a few days earlier, Brittany was all smiles overseas

alongside Simon and her mother, Sharon. She had landed another leading role, this time for a thriller titled The Caller, set to be filmed entirely in Puerto Rico. Her hopes were high. Simons might have been even higher. She landed safely in Puerto Rico in November of 2009,

and those high hopes for the collar crashed and burned, shortly thereafter. Brittany had lasted no more than two days on set, and that's all it took for her to sever herself from what she saw as a B-movie horror catastrophe. That, in Simon's helicopter mentorship, accelerated her departure. Her sole souvenirs from the trip

were dashed dreams and wounded pride. Simon and Sharon, on the other hand, departed Puerto Rico with a nasty case of pneumonia, which they passed to Brittany after their return to California. As if losing the role wasn't enough, now she had more reasons to sniffle. How many more hits could she take? She wouldn't be returning as a member of the voice cast for Happy Feet 2.

Her much-anticipated role in the expendables was written out of the script, and she lost her role as Tinkerbell for a straight-to-d-d-D-D Disney movie. And now, now she couldn't last two days on set for a movie she didn't even want to be in. This was an unprecedented low for her. an unprecedented lo that directly contradicted everything else Simon demanded from her. Simon says she needs to make a real Hollywood comeback. Simon says she needs to be thinner. Simon says these roles are better than those roles.

Simon says he'll always take care of it. Simon says. Simon says. If Simon spoke it, Brittany absorbed it as gospel. She assumed it was the truth because there wasn't anyone else around her to tell her otherwise. In 2009, Brittany had no direct access to her email, no direct access to her personal cell phone. Anyone who wished to speak with Brittany had to go through Simon first, and then speak with her on Simon's terms. Friends and family couldn't even reach her via landline.

Simon cut the phone service in her house that she bought with her movie star money. Brittany thought Simon was just good at taking charge. Her friends thought he was downright controlling. There were some things that he legitimately assisted her with. Simon had a set of simple life skills that Brittany lacked, the price she paid for spending her adolescence on TV and movie sets. She couldn't balance a checkbook. She couldn't drive.

No driver's license meant Britney relied on Simon to get out of her house. A tri-level Mediterranean mansion nestled in West Hollywood. But Simon wasn't keen on joy rides. Upon their marriage in 2007, Britney Murphy's life shrunk to a claustrophobic 8,000 square feet. But that didn't stop the tabloids from talking, from typing their nasty nitpicking headlines. Brittany devoured them all.

Often crouched in her private bathroom as she was now. She basked in the warm comfort of its pink-peach walls as she absorbed each article's criticisms. The one suggesting she had an eating disorder cut the deep. just, ha, what happened to the days when she was hugable, not fuckable. That's what a powerful anonymous figure in Hollywood once told her she was. She wanted to be a leading lady. Those same powerful types advised her to lose some pounds.

So she trimmed herself down. Clipped in hair extensions upgraded her appearance. She made herself, quote, unquote, fuckable in no time flat. And now people had the audacity to question it. Bullshit. It was all unrealistic beauty standards bullshit. But it was bullshit that weighed on her nonetheless. When Brittany retreated to her bathroom, she did more than indulged in tabloids.

She tested out hair treatments and perfumes, skin creams, and lip tints. She tore pages from fashion magazines, pinched skin between her thin fingers in the mirror. A little voice in her mind repeated what she read in the papers, repeated what Simon said to her, change yourself, shrink yourself, make yourself smaller so you can make your career bigger. Brittany was sick of the superficial life out west. 2010 would be different, it had to be different, for her own sanity.

She'd pack up with Simon and jet to New York and rehabilitate her reputation by starring in some independent films, maybe even start a family. Six years in her current living situation sandwiched between Simon and her mother Sharon have been more than enough. Brittany purchased the home for $3.9 million

from Britney Spears in two years. 2003, six years ago now. One Brittany had moved on from it already. It was time for another Brittany, herself, to follow suit. Except Britney Spears was still hot in 2009, and Britney Murphy was not. Britney Murphy was cold, ice cold, colder than her skin, even as she tried to warm herself in the California sun. Brittany Murphy needed to nurse herself and her career back to health.

Immediately. Brittany Murphy's body laid limp on the floor. Cold water from the shower head pelted her face. Droplets collected on her face and in her hair. And Brittany didn't so much as flinch. Her blue lips remained slightly parted, indifferent. That's when Sharon really started to panic. She clasped her daughter's icy body with one hand

and used the other to dial 911 with her thumb. Please, get here quick. Please, she's not moving. Simon helped Sharon hoist Brittany out of the shower and onto the bathroom floor. As they maneuvered her body, bottles in Britney's private bathroom tumbled over. Hairspray, skin cream, face mask, lip mass, perfumes, some jars fell into shallow pools of vomit on the floor. And Brittany had been throwing up all morning, expelling water like it was poison. Tons and tons of it, Sharon informed the dispatcher.

She was dizzy, she couldn't walk right, she's had a cold, she explained through tears. The dispatcher asked. He heard Simon relay the message to Sharon in the background. No. Then Sharon's answer, more of a blubbering howl than a word. No. As an ambulance raced to 1895 Rising Glen Road in Los Angeles, the dispatcher explained how to do compressions,

a last-ditch effort to get Britney breathing again. Simon placed the heel of his hand on Britney's breastbone. The dispatcher, calmly but sternly, ordered him to pump her chest, hard and fast. at least twice per second. Simon counted his compressions out loud, pushed down hard on her dainty ribcage like her life depended on it because it did. Simon wasn't fast enough.

Eight, nine, ten. That's too slow. The dispatcher said. Too slow. He scolded again when he heard no change in Simon's pacing. Brittany, please come back, Sharon howled over the phone. But Brittany didn't come back. After an ambulance brought her to Cedar Sinai Medical Center,

it wasn't long before doctors delivered the grim news, and there was nothing they could do. Brittany Murphy died just after 10 a.m. that morning on December 20, 2009. She was 32 years old. The media swarmed around 1895 Rising Glen Road. They had pressing questions, questions that were somehow bolder than their previous queries, asking if she was addicted to drugs

or if an eating disorder lurked under that limber frame of hers. Now the question was, how does a 32-year-old seemingly die from a cold? Everyone wanted to know. Everyone except Simon Monjack. Simon publicly and unabashedly opposed an autopsy. He didn't want his wife to be carved like a Thanksgiving turkey for some science experiment.

The idea of his wife's body being sliced up was too much to bear. It was curvy in all the right places, he told Larry King, about his dead wife on national television. Fortunately, what Simon said didn't have any sway to the Los Angeles coroner's office. To halt the autopsy, Simon had to either send the coroner's office a court order or a religious reason, and he provided neither. Over the course of a few months, the Los Angeles coroner's office and so-called Hollywood's coroner Ed Winter searched for answers. to the public's pressing questions about Britney's sudden death. And while they did their medical digging,

there was plenty of time for things to get even weirder at the Murphy Monjack residence. When investigators searched Britney's mansion in the days after her death, they uncovered roughly 90 bottles of prescription pills in Simon's nightstand. Some in his name, some in Britney's name, some of the names of unidentified third parties. Investigators all noticed that Simon and Britney's

bed appeared to have been recently disturbed by two people, except Brittany was already long gone. When questioned, Simon confessed that Sharon would often climb into bed with him so they could tearfully console each other and share the burden of their grief. Simon's truth-telling track record wasn't exactly stellar, and Sharon vehemently denied this gross version of events. Simon raised eyebrows again when they sent out invitations to a memorial for Brittany scheduled for February 2010. The event launched the Britney Murphy Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping children pursue the arts. Simon requested a thousand dollar donation from each attendee or a sum of $10,000 for organizations to attend a memorial service. Sharon was Britney's sole beneficiary.

It wasn't a secret that Simon had an inherited assent, but many were unaware of that. that Simon had spent $3 million of Britney's money in three years, effectively draining 80% of her assets. Coincidentally, at the time of the memorial, the Foundation's official status as a charity had yet to be approved. Those donations weren't going to a non-profit. They were lining Simon's pockets, in the interim at least. Hollywood got wise.

When attendees started asking for more information, Simon pulled the plug on the event with only one day to go. He blamed a family illness for the sudden cancellation. The Britney Murphy Foundation evaporated before it could even be deemed a legitimate nonprofit. By February 2010, it felt like there couldn't possibly be any more peculiar angles to the Britney Murphy story. Then, her autopsy results came back. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There's two golden rules that end up.

any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.

I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves.

Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast. Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories

and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says she's gone. She's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you'd do.

you know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened. Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro.

And these are just a few of the stunning, stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door and he jumped

in a car and drove off and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Pneumonia. The answer was so anticlimactic that it didn't even sound real. An affluent 32-year-old woman had succumb to fucking pneumonia. The LA coroner's office ruled Britney Murphy's death accidental on February 25, 2010, citing pneumonia as the culprit, along with two smaller contributing factors. Tess revealed that Brittany had life-threateningly low levels of hemoglobin, far worse than a quote-unquote regular case of anemia.

There was also a loaded cocktail of medications in her system at the time of her death. Migraine pills, cough medicine. Over-the-counter nasal spray, antibiotics, Prozac, Clonopin, an anti-inflammatory, a beta-blocker from Simon, the painkiller, vicaroprofen prescribed by her doctor. It was a long list, but a legitimate one. None of the drugs were illegal. There was no illicit substance-a-ha moment,

no prescription pill smoking gun. For a destitute vagrant living outside in a tent, the cause of death made perfect sense. For an actress living in a $3.9 million home with two loved ones, it was nearly unheard of. At long last, the public had their unsatisfying answer to what? Now came the follow-up. Why?

Why didn't Sharon and Simon take her symptoms seriously, as she gasped for air at the top of the staircase, or wobbled around the house like a newborn fawn? Why didn't they rush her to the hospital themselves the moment she struggled to breathe days before her death? Why did they think hot tea with ginger and lemon was all they needed, soothe her parched blue lips as she gassed for air and pleaded for oxygen. Why would a mother and a husband wait so long to call 911? And would they be foolish enough to make the same mistake twice?

It seems so familiar that Sharon thought she was dreaming. From across the bedroom she could hear it, the sound of silence, more specifically, absence of breathing. Simon Monjack's chest wasn't moving. It wasn't rising and falling, not even for the most shallow breaths. Instead, he lay motionless in bed, while a brown foam-like liquid spewed from his lips. A gurgling sound erupted from his mouth. Sharon's sight nearly went dim. This couldn't be happening. No way, not again. Five months after her daughter gasped for her final breaths, her son-in-law was doing the same. And just like,

Brittany, Simon was sick with some mystery illness that left him coughing, sweating, shaking. Pain radiated from his lungs and into his chest. At times, his fever reached a frightening high of nearly 106 degrees. He was tired. His body was leading, lethargic. The illness weighed him down with an intensity that even trumped the burden of his grief. He was immobile. He was dying. But despite all this, Sharon didn't call for help until 45 minutes after first attack. attempting to wipe Simon's mouth clean from the mystery fluid. She dialed 911 at 915 p.m. on the evening of May 23rd, 2010. The rapid-fire questions from dispatch were like deja vu.

What's his age? Is he awake or not awake? Is he breathing or not breathing? Not breathing at all? Sharon was told to move Simon's body from the bed to the floor for compressions. She balked. No way she could get him on the ground. He was too big.

She compromised by delicately removing his massive melon of a head from his pillow. She began chest compressions right on the bed, following the same step Simon had once done for Brittany. Now it was Sharon's turn. Emergency services rushed to 1895 Rising Glen Road for the second time in six months. This time, there was no need to rush back to the hospital. Unlike Brittany, Simon did not have a pulse when the paramedics arrived. No lung sound either. He was declared dead in their bedroom at 9.45 p.m.

He was 40 years old. In the following days, investigators didn't need a second tour of the 8,000 square foot mansion. The home's layout remained fresh in their minds from their last visit. Certain sections of the Mediterranean tri-level had deteriorated from disorderly to disgusting. The wreckage of the past few days stained Simon's bed sheets, which were covered in brown-black splotches of mucus. Used tissues spilled from the trash can next to the nightstand. Investigators revisited Simon's nightstand and were greeted by the same stash of prescription pill bottles, with an added surprise.

Some bore the name Sharon Monjack. Much like the climbing in bed together tidbit, Sharon also denied any allegations here. But there was one detail that aroused more suspicion than anything else. Even more so than the puzzling pill bottle situation. The house had quite literally developed a new feature since investigators. previous visit. Mold. Mold coating the picture window in the living room. Mold sprouting on the French doors. Not a few specs, not a minuscule amount easily missed during spring cleaning. It was a plague of mold. It didn't matter that it was disgusting, and not because it demonstrated a neglectful

housekeeping. The mold mattered because inhaling spores come with a certain set of symptoms, the same symptoms as pneumonia. Headaches, congestion. lung irritation sneezing, wheezing. The same symptoms Britney Murphy had in December, the same symptoms Simon Monjack had in his final days. Coincidentally, Britney's autopsy revealed multiple areas of inflammation or granulomas in her lungs. The most common cause of this kind of irritation is fungal infections. And the most common fungal infection in the United States is caused by histoplasma, a species of mold. Specifically, a species of mold that if inhaled, can leave.

So you're telling me there's 10 different metals in my daughter's hair? Angelo Bertolotti stared at the toxicology report in his hands. His eyes ran down the massive list again. Tin, selenium, barium, aluminum, uranium, copper, silver, platinum, antimony. 10 different heavy metals in total. All present in a sample of Britney Murphy's hair. nine times the normal level, according to the World Health Organization. The pathologist on the phone said he'd never seen anything like it in his life.

Angelo couldn't fathom how the L.A. coroner had missed something so obvious, so bizarre. After years of tussling with an unsatisfying ending, Angelo finally requested a sample of Brittany's hair from the L.A. coroner's office to use for his own investigation in 2013. He shipped off her locks to a toxicology lab in Colorado. They sent back a case for murder. It had been years since Angelo had dug this deep into his daughter's life. On paper, Angela was Brittany's father, but he only played that role for two years

before Brittany's mother Sharon divorced him and took Brittany to Edison, New Jersey to start a new life together as a two-sum. The split kept Brittany away from her father's world, the sleazy Florida clubs he owned and his involvement with organized crime that earned him roughly a decade in prison for dirty deeds like racketeering and a counterfeiting scam. His relationship with Sharon had played out like a movie script from the start. Girl meets Mobster. Mobster hires girl to dance at his clubs. Mobster marries girl. Girl divorces Mobster and runs far, far away. Brittany could have shined in a role like that only a few years ago.

But Britney wasn't here anymore. And Angelo wanted to know why. Angelo used to mingle with criminals, for Christ's sake. He knew a lie when he heard one. And two adults, not even in middle age, dying from pneumonia, was the biggest heap of steaming bullshit he had ever heard in his life. Simon's autopsy results came back nearly identical to Britneys. Cause of death, community acquired pneumonia and severe anemia.

Bullshit, Angelo thought. Mighty, suspicious, bullshit. The distance between Angelo and his long. daughter didn't matter at the moment. Didn't matter that Brittany changed her legal name from Bertolotti to Murphy to match her stage name, placing a further distance between Angelo and his lowbrow dealings. Didn't matter that Angelo wasn't even listed as Brittany's father on her death certificate. His daughter was dead, and he wanted answers. The mold theory was compelling, but ultimately a dead end.

Despite the aligning symptoms and irritation in Britney's lungs, there was no sign of spores in her ones, which would have been the true dead giveaway. Also, had mold been the culprit, surely it would have also affected Sharon, a two-time breast cancer survivor and thus the most susceptible person in the family. No, Angelo had a different theory altogether. He had every reason to believe that Brittany and Simon have been poisoned. Poisoned by the one other person in the home who would have access to their food and drinks. Angelo thought the couple was poisoned by Sharon. Much like inhaling mold spores, heavy metal poisoning reveals itself through pneumonia-like symptoms, dizziness, sweating, cramps, lethargy, and coughing.

Angela wasn't shy. He named names. He claimed it had to be Sharon. He found it suspicious that Sharon wouldn't allow Brittany's body to be exhumed for further testing. Sharon dismissed Angelo's claims as fraudulent. But in Angelo's eyes, there was no other logical explanation. Coroner Ed Winter disagreed. He didn't see anything logical about Angelo's claims at all. Ed had tested Brittany's skin, tested her blood, tested her urine, and there was no sign of anything unusual in any of the samples,

nor were there thin lines running across Brittany or Simon's fingernails, the hallmark of heavy metal poisoning. And just like the mold theory and just like Simon's incessant bragging, Ed thought it was bogus. Instead, he suggested a far more likely source of the metals, sprays, dyes, and other hair treatments. The chemicals bottled up in every corner of Brittany's private bathroom, the same ones that surrounded her when she slipped from her final moments of consciousness. Angelo hadn't found a clue. He found another symptom of Britney's insecurity. Another display of her white-knuckle determination to better herself, while the person closest to her,

insisted on tearing her down. It wasn't just the chemicals and hairspray that led to her downfall. It was a dependency on other people to feel secure. Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan is disgrace-land. All right, guys, thanks for listening to this week's episode on Britney Murphy, whose suspicious cause of death has me wanting to know which celebrity cause of death is most suspicious to you guys.

Is it this Britney Murphy story? Is it Elliot Smith? Is it Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones? And why? Why aren't you buying the official cause of death for these guys? You can hit me up and let me know your answer. 617-906-66-6638 via voicemail and text, or hit me with a DM at Discraceland Pod on Instagram, X, and Facebook.

If you want to support the show, leave a review for us on Apple Podcasts or Spotify, and you know the drill you can win some free merch. All right, here comes some credits. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership.

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and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgracelandpod. Rockerola. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves.

We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me

and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? I'd rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yelloo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things, Tena Mongeu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more.

Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words.

Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.