Mary, Mary

Chapter 15

“WHY ME, OF ALL PEOPLE? Why do you think she's writing these awful missives to me? It doesn't make any sense. Does it? Have you found out anything that makes some sense of this? The mothers being slaughtered? Hollywood's about to go totally insane over these murders, trust me. Mary's dirty little secret will get out.”

Arnold Griner had already asked me the same questions a couple of times during the interview Our meeting was taking place in an L-shaped glass fishbowl of an office at the heart of the L.A. Times newsroom. The rest of the floor was a wide expanse of desks and cubicles.

From time to time, someone would pop his or her head over a cubicle wall, steal a quick glance our way, and duck back down. Prairie-dogging, Griner called it, chuckling to himself.

He sat on a brown leather couch, clutching and unclutching the knees of his wrinkled gray Dockers. Occasionally, he scribbled something on a legal pad on his lap.

The conversation so far had focused on Griner's background: Yale, followed by an internship at Variety, where he proofed copy and ran coffee for entertainment reporters.

He had earned a staff position quickly, and famously, when he managed to interview Tom Cruise on the record at an industry party. Two years ago, the L.A. Times had wooed him away with an offer for his own column, “Behind the Screens.” His reputation in the business, he told me, was for “insider” Hollywood stories and “edgy” reviews. He obviously had a very high opinion of himself.

I hadn't found any further links, between Griner and either of the murders outside of the movie-industry connection. Still, 1 wasn't prepared to believe that he'd been randomly selected to receive Mary Smith's c-mails.

Griner didn't seem inclined to believe it either. His focus was all over the place, though, and he'd been peppering me with questions since we started.

I finally sat down close to him. “Mr. Griner - will you relax? Please.”

“Pretty easy for you to say,” he shot back, and then almost immediately said, "Sorry.

Sorry“ He put two fingers to his forehead and rubbed between his eyes. ”I'm high-strung to begin with. Ever since I was a kid growing up in Greenwich."

I'd seen this kind of reaction - a mix of paranoia and anger that comes from getting blindsided the way Arnold Griner had been. When I spoke again, I kept my voice just low enough that he'd have to concentrate to hear me.

“I know you've already gone over this, but can you think of any reason you might be receiving these messages? Let's start with any prior contact you've had with Patsy Bennett, Antonia Schifman, or even the limo driver, Bruno Capalettl”

He shrugged, rolled his eyes, tried desperately to catch his breath. "We might have been at some of the same partie5 at least the two women. I've certainly reviewed their movies.

The last was one of Antonia's, Canterbury Road, which I hated, I'm sorry to say but I loved her in it and said so in the piece.

“Do you think that could be the connection? Maybe the killer reads my stuff. I mean, she must, right? This is 50 incredibly bizarre. How could I possibly fit into an insane murder scheme?”

Before I could say anything at all, he threw out another of his rapid-fire questions.

"Do you think Antonia's driver was incidental? In the e-mail it seems like he was just . . .

in the way."

Griner was obviously hungry for information, both personally and professionally He was a reporter, after all, and already reasonably powerful in Hollywood circles. So I gave him my stock reporter's response.

“Ifs too early to say What about Patsy Bennett?” I asked. “Do you remember the last time you wrote about one of her films? Something she produced? She still produced films occasionally, right?”

Griner nodded; then he sighed loudly almost eatricahiy “Do you think I should discontinue my column for now? I should, shouldn't I? Maybe I better.”

The interview was like a Ping-Pong match against a kid with ADD. I eventually managed to get through all my questions, but it took almost twice as long as I thought it would when I had arrived at the Times. Griner constantly needed reassurance, and I tried to give it to him without being completely dishonest. He was in danger, after all.

“One last thing,” Griner said just before I left him. “Do you think I should write a book about this? Is that a little sick?”

I didn't bother to answer either question. He went to Yale - he should be able to figure it out.