DISGRACELAND - Marilyn Monroe (Part 1): JFK, RFK, and a Conspiracy Theory that Won't Quit

Episode Date: May 14, 2024

Marilyn Monroe is one if not the greatest Hollywood stars of all time. She rose from orphan to icon by creating an on screen character America could not peel their eyes away from. And she did it all while battling anxiety, depression and addiction. Along the way she bedded, married and otherwise conquered America’s most impressive men; Joe DiMaggio, Arthur Miller, Frank Sinatra and President John F. Kennedy to name a few and her relationship with JFK and his younger brother Attorney General, Robert F. Kennedy would prove disastrous and result in long running rumors and conspiracy theories about her death that are as hard to debunk as they are to dismiss.This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including sexual assault and suicide. If you’re thinking about suicide, or are worried about a friend or loved one, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255.This episode was originally published on May 14, 2024.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. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Marilyn Monroe are insane. She was without a doubt, the biggest female star on the planet. She went from orphan to power player at a time when actors, never mind female actors,

controlled little in Hollywood. Yet she was ravaged by anxiety, depression, addiction, and insecurity. But it didn't hold her back. She single-handedly changed America's attitudes on sex, posed nude in 1952, and didn't apologize for it. She betted, married, and otherwise conquered America's most impressive men, Jodamaggio, Arthur Miller, Frank Sinatra, and President John F. Kennedy, to name a few. And up until her untimely death, Marilyn Monroe made good. great films. Unlike that loop I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't from a great

film. That was a preset loop from a Melotron called the one that says some pulp mk2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Hey Baby by Bruce Chanel. And why would I play you that specific slice of dirty log dancing cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on May 19, 1962. And that was the day Marilyn Monroe sang happy birthday to the president of the United States of America in front of the entire world and firmly cemented the rumors that they were both entangled in a scandalous affair. Rumors that were proved to be at the center of a long-running conspiracy theory surrounding

Marilyn Monroe's death three months later. On this episode, Anxiety. female power moves, sex, scandal, conspiracy, and the all-time great Marilyn Monroe. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. The opulent home of the powerful Hollywood agent was packed. It was New Year's Eve, after all. 1948 was about to slide into 1949, and the agent's famous party was not to be missed. None other than the writer, director, and star of the greatest film ever made to that point, Citizen Kane,

had remarked that the agent's parties had the, quote, best delicatessen and the best horrors in town. Other famous directors, Otto Preminger, John Houston, and William Weiler, mingled amongst the house girls. A mix of call girls and young, attractive female contract players on loan from various studios. Tonight, the escorts were on loan from Darrell Zanick and Havis. Harry Cohn's 20th century fox in Columbia Pictures, respectively. Errol Flynn, the world's most handsome and openly rakeish screen stars since Douglas Fairbanks,

was leaning against the Great Room's piano, boring anyone in earshot with his tired story. They'd heard this one before. The one where W.C. Fields and some of the other Bundy Drive Boys stole their friend, leading man John Barrymore's corpse from the morgue a day after his death, smuggled him into Flynn's home, propped him up in a high-backed chair with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Flynn, when he came home to see John Barrymore waiting for him, or John Barrymore's corpse, rather, waiting for him with a drink in hand, Errol Flynn was so scared that he sprinted out of the house and dove into the bushes to hide. Yes, yes, yes, we've heard this one before, Earl.

The drinks were hitting Earl Flynn hard. Not one to be embarrassed by the lack of response his story had generated. Flynn decided to up the ante. If his famous stories wouldn't entertain the guest, then his famous penis would. So out came little Arrow Flynn right there in the great room of the party for all to see. Flynn turned to the piano and plopped his significant manhood down onto the keyboard and began pecking out the keys to a familiar tune.

And the guests were not all that surprised. This was Errol Flynn, after all. And though one of the housegirls took note, what men would do to avoid embarrassment, she thought. Her wonderment was soon disrupted by a call from the host to do a sweep of the room and freshen up the men's drinks. And when that was done, to empty the ashtrays and, of course, to remember to flash that smile at all times.

She did what she was told. She knew the stakes. The men in this room, not only the powerful agent who was hosting, but the directors, the producers, and of course the studio heads, held her future in the palms of their slick hands. They were Hollywood's Power Center and the only people in the world who could deliver on the promise she made to herself

when she changed her name from Norma Jean Baker to Marilyn Monroe. A promise to become the most famous actress in the land. There were consequences, though. It was a given that you'd be called upon to enter into one of the home's many bedrooms with whichever guests desired you. Marilyn knew this coming into it. It wasn't her first rodeo.

She'd been filling her nights as a housegirl at various parties for some time now. Transactional sex didn't bother her. It was how the game was played in Hollywood, especially in the 1940s. But the thought of rape sent fear down her spine. It wasn't long ago that three men at one of the parties held her down and tried to assault her. She escaped, barely. She hid the trauma, but the memories came flooding back. As a child, Marilyn had been a victim of rape and sexual assault,

going back to the age of 12 when she was first attacked at a foster home and subsequently kicked out of the foster home as if it was somehow her fall. Her mother blamed her, of course. Her mother blamed her for everything. Marilyn was born out of wedlock, and Marilyn's mom, Gladys, was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, who was in and out of mental institutions. The thought of said mental institutions would terrify future Norman Jean,

a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe, throughout the rest of her life. When her mom Gladys was in the picture, which wasn't often, she let young Norma Jean know that she was born of sin and thus filled with sin. Of course, Norma Jean was sexually assaulted. Her mother thought, she was a very bad girl. A Norma Jean Baker was married off by her foster mother at the young age of 16 to an older neighborhood boy, a 21-year-old. In order to make the nuptial's work, Norma Jean had a drop out of high school to take care of the home. Her newlywed husband soon after shipped off to World War II and Norma Jean needed to work. She founded at the radio plane company near their home in San Fernando Valley and it was there

working on the assembly line that she was found by a U.S. Army photographer for the first motion picture unit who'd made the scene to document the women of the war. The photo session led to a modeling opportunity which led to some of Norma Jean's pictures being published in Yank magazine, which led to a screen test with the film studio, 20th century Fox, which led to a gig as a contract girl that spelled doom for her marriage, which led to the changing of her name to Marilyn Monroe, which led to her here now. On the eve of 1949, contemplating her assent through the ranks of Hollywood to make do on that promise to herself, to become the most famous actress in the land. Joe DiMaggio hated crowds.

In fact, the verdict was out on whether or not the retired New York Yankee slugger even liked people. And that's what they said anyway. Joe D retired with a lifetime batting average of 325 and a famed hit streak of 56 straight games. A record that still stands, a streak that accounted for roughly a third of the season, that captivated the country and had everyone talking. But true to form, Joe said little. It was just his way. He liked people.

He was just quiet, stubborn. He reserved his affection for those he truly loved and for moments when it really mattered. And these days, Joe DiMaggio really loved his wife, Marilyn Monroe. But now wasn't one of those moments. This moment, right now that he was navigating through, fighting his way through a massive bunched-up New Yorkers on Lexington over by 52nd, was troublesome to say the least. Joe, with syndicated and ruthless newspaper columnist's friend Walter Winchell at his side, was trying to get to see his wife.

But so, too, were a thousand strangers, jammed tight under movie set Clegglights trying to catch a glimpse of Hollywood's new girl. 1954, Marilyn Monroe's star have been in near constant ascent since her days in the late 40s as a Hollywood house girl. And this was no ordinary star turn.

Marilyn seemed to be not only blazing a lucrative and exciting career for herself, but to also be changing America's attitude on set. in the process. In the early 50s, while Marilyn was just starting to break through in the film business, due in part to her small role in John Houston's expertly made crime drama, the asphalt jungle, nude photos of her from her modeling days had gone public. Studio heads at 20th century Fox begged Marilyn to deny that the photos were of her, which was ridiculous. I mean, they were photographs. The studio was nervous that all they had invested in this contract girl was about

to go up in smoke, just as she was breaking through because of the scandal. And they weren't wrong to be nervous. This was the early 1950s, after all. Attitudes on sex were light years from where they are today. To say it was an ultra-conservative mainstream culture as an understatement. But Marilyn refused to be shamed into denying the photos were hers. Instead, she leveled with the American people, explaining that she took the photos back in the 40s at a time before she was a star, a time when she was behind. A time when she was behind on rent. It was on the verge of being evicted. Marilyn was asked by a reporter if the rumor about the nude photos was true and if she had anything

at all on, she replied that she had the radio on. Copping to the photos had the opposite effect, the studio feared. Being honest, authentic, it made Marilyn more relatable. And America opened their arms to the beautiful and now vulnerable blonde. Marilyn further cemented her status in American consciousness with a bit of part showcasing not only her undeniable beauty, but also her effortless sense of humor in All About Eve, a film that won five Academy Awards, including Best Picture. She's smoldered in the film noir Niagara as the murder is seductress. Yet after these two films, and a string of others

in between, Marilyn seemed to land on something crucial regarding her craft. She could easily grab America's attention with sex appeal she put front and center in Niagara. But she could get America, all of America, men and women, to fall in love with her by using her sense of humor, which she deftly deployed in All About Eve. Marilyn put it all together in her next film, Gentlemen Prefer Blonde, starring alongside Jane Russell, another Hollywood sex symbol with brains, ambition, and experience that would inspire Marilyn. In Gentlemen Prefer blondes, all of Marilyn Monroe is on display. She is a supernova talent that is as attractive as she is hilarious as she is talent.

She sings, she dances, she entices, she plays the dits to get you to laugh. She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, but non-threatening because it's all a joke to her. How could it not be? No blonde could be that dumb. The Marilyn Monroe had created a character to inhabit, the dumb blonde, a character that was at odds with who she really was, intellectually curious, ambitious, serious-minded about her craft and career. But at the same time, she was uneducated, a high school dropout, deep.

deeply insecure about her intelligence and talent, overly reliant on her beauty and the power that came with her sex appeal. Many men underestimated her. But regardless, with this new character on display and gentlemen prefer blondes and later in How to Marry a Millionaire with Betty Grable and Lauren Bacall, it was clear that whatever went into the character and persona Marilyn Monroe had created, America couldn't get enough. Both films were massive hits, and Marilyn was now one of the biggest stars on the planet. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. Judging by the crowd on Lexington Avenue on September 15, 1954,

it was easy to tell just how famous Marilyn Monroe had become. In her newlywed husband, Joe DiMaggio, was not happy as he fought through the crowd that was jamming up traffic in all directions, there to catch a glimpse of his wife. Marilyn Monroe was in town to film the new Billy Wilder comedy The Seven Year Itch. Her arrival in New York and her onset appearances had dominated newspaper coverage. Joe DiMaggio didn't sign up for this. This was something else.

1,000 hard hats and pencil necks wolf whistling at his wife in public. Horny newspaper men documenting her every move in their daily columns. Walt Winchell's eagerness to get up in front of the crowd to catch a glimpse of Joe's wife was fueling the slugger's anger. Joe knew going into his marriage with marijuana back in January that their relationship would be fodder for the press. He was arguably more famous than she was at the time, but at the end of the day, Joe wanted a wife, not a supernova sex symbol whose fame had grown so immense that American men felt entitled to a piece of whatever action she was laying out for the world to see. Winschell grabbed the attention of two B-cops and pointed out that he was with Joe D.

Mr. Marilyn Monroe, formerly the Yankee Clipper, in that the two of them needed help getting up front to the set where Marilyn was. The cops cleared the way and escorted Joe and Winchell to the set. When they finally got up close, Joe couldn't believe what he was seeing. His wife in a thin white dress under a searing barrage of 4102K-Mole Richardson motion picture lights, standing in heels over a subway grate, with an industrial-sized prop fan blowing her dress up above her thighs, cameras rolling, photos snapping, director barking, extras gawking, and New Yorkers as far as the eye could see, screaming and delight, do it again, do it again! And Billy Wilder obliged. He kept calling for more shots. Marilyn's dress flapped over her bare legs, higher, the crowd demanded. Cut,

action, higher, higher. And the fan roared, and so did the crowd when the dress blew up to Marilyn's shoulders. Her womanhood exposed. Joe could see it. So could most of Lexington Avenue, including Winchell, the purve. Joe turned and disgust and headed back to the couple's suite at the St. Regis, but not before shouting out to Winchell in the earshot of everyone else around him in the crowd that he'd had it. He and Maryland would remain married for another month, but effectively, their marriage ended that night.

All in, it was a nine-month marriage. Marilyn Monroe, the most famous woman in the world, would once again be alone. An orphan, then a star, married to one of the most beloved men in a marriage. America and then, shockingly alone once again, but not for long. Marilyn had rekindled a crush from some years back with another one of America's most interesting men. This one, with an intellect, as accomplished as Joe DiMaggio's athleticism. Arthur Miller, arguably the country's greatest playwright, author of Death of a Salesman,

the 1949 play that won both the Tony for Best Play and the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and made Miller a household name and the envy of writers from Broadway to Hollywood. Arthur Miller was not an obvious choice for Marilyn Monroe, America's girl. Compared to Joe D, Miller was a nerd in Egghead. But for Marilyn, he validated something in her, her need to be respected as a serious actor and as an artist herself. If she could capture the heart and therefore the approval of none other than Arthur Miller, then it couldn't be said that she was just another dumb blonde,

or so went her insecure thinking. The flip side was that the two really loved one another. Arthur Miller bestowed upon Marilyn Monroe the type of emotional attention and affection that Joe DiMaggio was incapable of expressing, despite whatever sincere feelings he had for her. But the relationship, like all of Marilyn's relationships, would be short-lived. John Houston sat in the dusty Reno-Nevada bar with Arthur Miller and told him straight up. His wife, the star of Houston's new film The Misfits, was losing it. The Miller-M-Murrow marriage had become a braid of B.

dueling destructive ironies. The Misfits was a screenplay that Arthur Miller poured his heart and soul into in an effort to satisfy his wife's desire to show off her serious acting chops. She was training with legendary acting coach Lee Strausberg, founding director of the actor's studio, creator of the method acting technique and instructor to James Dean and a slew of other serious-minded East Coast actors. In The Misfits, was a vehicle created by Arthur Miller to cast Marilyn opposite her child hero, Clark Gable, to cheer her up after she miscarried for the third time in 1958,

losing another baby while unable to stop her spiraling use of barbiturates and booze. In her guilt-ridden depression, Marilynne attempted suicide by overdose, and it was not her first time. The fear among those who cared about her was that her previous breakdowns and overdose is one in 44 and another in 1950, were either outright suicide attempts or at the very least cries for help. After the most recent overdose in 1960, with her marriage to Miller falling apart, she was eventually committed to New York's Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic. It was a nightmarish four-day ordeal, locked in a literal padded cell, subjected to forced baths, living out her worst fear of becoming her mother. The more Marilyn rejected this cruel form of quote-unquote care,

the more the doctors thought she was in psychosis. It was her ex, Jodimaji. It was her ex, Jodimaji, who secured her release. But for Arthur Miller, the climax of this drama was still a few months away. In the Reno Bar with John Houston cutting through the bullshit, he still couldn't get over the irony, the irony that he'd written the screenplay out of a desire to help his wife cope, and now the film was in danger of falling apart due to his wife's inability to hold herself together.

But for Marilyn, the irony was darker, more bitter, as Marilyn lost herself further in the hall of mirrors of her own life. The reflection she saw looked more or more like her cruel, unbalanced mother, who herself was an institutionalized schizophrenic, who rejected Marilyn over and over again, just as Marilyn believed her body had rejected her babies. Marilyn's deepest fear of turning out like her was coming dangerously close to being reality. John Houston told Arthur Miller, Marilyn needed to get off the drugs and lighten up on the drinker not only would the film die on the fine, but so too, too with his wife.

On some level, Arthur Miller knew this, but he was hapless to do anything about it. He tried, but Marilyn, her fame, her problems, they were all consuming. She was, as he said, devouring me. And they separated during the shooting of the misfits. There was no saving America's girl. Arthur Miller found out what Joe DiMaggio knew.

It was a fact. Frank Sinatra would soon learn the same hard truth, and so too would his buddies. the Attorney General and President of the United States, Robert and John F. Kennedy. Marilyn Monroe wasn't alone in her Brentwood Hacienda-style home, but she felt like she was. Her housekeeper, Yudis Murray, was somewhere else in the house.

Maryland's blackout bedroom curtains were doing their best to keep the piercing California afternoon sun outside where it belonged. Marilyn couldn't sleep the night before, which wasn't unusual. The barbiturates in Librium worked until they didn't, and then you were up all night biting your fingernails and staring at the ceiling, making plans for your next picture to star in or to produce. Marilyn won her Freedom from 20th Century Fox a few years back. Freedom might be too strong a word, but compared to other stars, it wasn't nothing. The ability to choose your own director and cinematographer, the right to story approval, and to star in your own films that you produce outside the studio

for your own production company that you've founded, and to command a competitive and respectable fee for the studio pictures you did choose to do. It was a major victory for Marilyn, but it didn't come without a fight. She'd been battling with 20th since her days with Joe. Joe knew about contract negotiations and he helped her out tremendously throughout the process as a good partner should. He was like that. Still was. He'd never really disappeared from her life completely.

He still called in to check on her. It was clear he still loved her and was there for her if she wanted him. She was the love of his life. She knew this. But she was interested in another man at the moment. Men, actually. One for his brain, one for, well, his brain too, but also everything's. else. A few weeks back, she'd been summoned by none other than John F. Kennedy, the 35th president

of the United States, to meet at Bing Crosby's house in Palm Springs. The president made no pretences about their meeting. They met in Bing's guest room, talked for a bit, and then had sex. Then they talked some more, and the president complained about his back. It was a constant problem. He could barely walk, he was able to hide it from the public because the press was in no rush to let the public know about it. It was sort of the same situation with his girlfriends. The press knew all about JFK's many, many women, but protected him. What good would it do the country if the president woke up one morning embroiled in a public scandal surrounding his extramarital affairs? And so went to thinking. Jack Kennedy was brazen about his adultery, so much so that he eagerly

jumped on the phone with Marilyn's doctor, Dr. Greenson, at her insistence. when she rang him up from bed upon hearing about Jack's back problems. Dr. Greenson was shocked. It was clear to him on the other end of the line that the couple had just had sex. Jack didn't care. The doctor wouldn't say anything, just like the press. Just like Bing, and just like all the guests milling about Bing's property who were there to welcome the president and show him a good time.

Nobody would say anything. The party at Bing Crosby's was supposed to be at the Palm Springs home of another recent flame of Maryland's, Frank Sinatra. But at the last minute, the president's brother, Robert F. Kennedy, insisted that they moved the location. Frank kept company with disreputable men, the type of men that Jack and Bobby's own father, Joe Kennedy Sr. made his fortune with a generation prior. Qualified men, connected men, Italian men, gangsters. Jay Edgar Hoover, director of Bobby Kennedy's FBI, knew all about it, and as of late, was delighted to let Bobby know that he knew. that duplicitous scheming phony had a hard on for the Kennedys the size of Lyndon Johnson's ego.

That is to say, the size of Texas. In private, Frank Sinatra made no secret about his friends. He was who he was, and if J. Edgar Hoover or Bobby Kennedy didn't like it, they, along with the rest of the world, could go pound sand. Frank gave Marilyn a Maltese puppy during their time together. She named it Moth, short for Mafia. Marilyn knew what her fling was with the president. It was just that, a fling.

Nothing more, but still, she was eager to cozy up to him again, though it never happened. So his brother, RFK, arguably the second most powerful man in the United States given his role as Attorney General in closeness with his brother, the president, would have to do. She tried impressing him at a party for the Attorney General in Santa Monica at his brother-in-law, Peter Laffert's house. She succeeded, but not in the way she wanted. It was hard for Marilyn not to impress, wearing a strapless black dress with peekaboo fabric. But Marilyn drank too much Don Perriam, nearly passed out and ultimately needed to be driven home by Bobby himself, joined by his press aide, Edmund Guthrman, so that nobody would get the wrong idea. After all, despite her drunkenness, the Attorney General found Marilyn interesting, as most men did.

While at the party, Marilyn pressed Bobby for information on his efforts to advance the civil rights movement. She aimed to show him her passion for the same issue. It worked. Bobby gave her his office number and told Marilyn he'd be happy to discuss the matter further whenever she had the time. So here she was, lying in her bed on a sunny afternoon, wearing nothing but an untied bathrobe, biting her nails on one hand, pressing the phone to her head with the other, hanging on the attorney general's every word. He was entertaining her, and himself.

It was an indulgence he hardly had time for, but when he relished, She was, after all, Marilyn Monroe. And next to his brother's wife, First Lady, Jacqueline Kennedy, Marilyn was arguably the most famous and most beautiful woman in the world. And that voice, breathy, eager, always on the verge of excitement. Sure, he'd let her ramble on for a few minutes about Martin Luther King Jr. or Thurgood Marshall. The women in the office snickered. They knew about Marilyn's calls. Bobby didn't hide them. It was completely innocent. When it came to me, it came to politics, or anything else, rather, that didn't involve acting or sex, none of them took Marilyn Monroe seriously.

Marilyn was an entertainer and should stick to that. Entertaining. So it was that she was invited, along with other entertainers, Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Darren, Maria Callas, and host Peter Lafford to the president's birthday party on May 19, 1962 at Madison Square Garden. The First Lady wouldn't be attending. It was a big bash, A-Lis. The president's availability would be limited.

Marilyn would need to make an impression. Intimate political discussion wasn't going to be an option. She'd need a weapon she was more familiar with. Sex. And she had two bullets. One, the song she was singing, the innocuous, happy birthday. But she would work it up into a steamy, sultry ballad,

all breath and whisper in your ear innuendo. The second bullet was the dress. She'd used that for the kill shot. Bang, bang, shoot him down, the President of the United States, right there in public. And she'd knocked the rest of them dead too with her sequined Jean-Louis's skin and beads gown.

She was being sewn into it at the moment, hours before the event, and practicing her version of the song. Everyone she knew begged her not to go through with it with this particular rendition of the song, hyper-sexualized, and the dress, a dress that gave the impression that she was actually nude.

accenting her curves and nearly see-through. She would wear no underwear to further drive home the point. She was Marilyn Monroe. She may no longer be Mrs. Arthur Miller or Mrs. Jodimaggio, and she may never be Mrs. Bobby Kennedy or Mrs. JFK, but she'd make them all feel the pain of not being with her. That loneliness, even if they felt a small fraction of the longing she felt, it would be worth it.

She wasn't a vindictive woman, but life's injustices had been adding up as of late. She was 35 years old with three failed marriages, a tumultuous relationship with the movie studio she felt perpetually at war with, having been suspended for turning down the comedy, the girl in the pink tights, dragged through contract fights in the press, and even now, fighting with 20th to take the days off to visit New York for this performance. And as of late, she'd grown increasingly dependent on the pills prescribed by Dr. Griesen in the psychoanalysis he was providing for her. It was all adding up to an insurmountable tangle of anxiety, like a net closing in on her, that resulted, at the end of the day, when she drew the blackout curtains and tried to escape into hard-defined sleep into a feeling of being utterly alone. So tonight, in front of the world, she'd make them all feel the pain of what they were missing.

She took the stage and killed with one of the most iconic public performances of all time. Marilyn Monroe made happy birthday sound like a poem by one of Caligula's chambermaids. Madison Square Garden couldn't believe it. America couldn't believe it. The president couldn't believe it. After the performance, Jack Kennedy took the stage, and his first words into the mic were, Thank you, I can now retire from politics having happy birthday sung to me in such a sweet, wholesome manner. If only that were true. But this story, Marilyn Monroe's story, Its ending is anything but sweet and wholesome. In our next episode,

why everything you think you know about Marilyn Monroe's death is probably wrong and a shocking answer to the question that's haunted true crime fans for decades. Who really killed Meryl? I'm Jake Brennan. In this episode of Discraceland is to be continued. Discraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis.

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