lunch, the prop department scattered the first artificial snows of winter onto the Peyton Place Green. On the steps of the commissary, Robert Fryer stopped for a moment to watch. “It looks like New England in the winter, doesn’t it?” he said to John Bottomly, a tall angular Bostonian who was on a brief flying trip to California.
Bottomly took off his sunglasses and surveyed the scene. “Not really,” he said slowly.
Bottomly was the assistant attorney general of Massachusetts who had coordinated the investigation into the Boston Strangler’s thirteen sex murders. It was to Bottomly that Albert DeSalvo, the alleged slayer of the thirteen women, had confessed. After the role of DeSalvo, that of Bottomly was the most important in Edward Anhalt’s script, and Fryer had hired the Boston attorney, who was now back in private practice, as
The Boston Strangler
’s technical advisor.
Anhalt was waiting for Fryer and Bottomly in the producers’ dining room, an executive enclave off the barn-like main room in the commissary. Bottomly hung his jacket over the back of his chair and began to fan himself with the menu.
“We’ve got a nice
Valley of the Dolls
Salad,” the waitress said.
Bottomly stared at the waitress and then at the menu. “
A Guide to the Married Man
Casserole,” he read. “
Flim Flam Man
Hamburger,
Two for the Road
Fruit Salad.” He looked across the table at Fryer. “I don’t see a
Boston Strangler
dish.”
“We haven’t started shooting,” Fryer said. He looked nonplussed.
“New England seafood dinner à la
Boston Strangler
,” Bottomly said. He resumed fanning himself. “You know, the police work on the Strangler was really pretty bad. They never checked to see if there was any semen in the mouth of the first six or seven victims. The thing about most murders is if you don’t catch the guy right away, chances are he’s going to get away.”
“I wonder if we’re going to run into trouble with this script,” Anhalt said. “I mean, it’s very clinical. We’re dealing with penis and vagina and semen with every murder.”
“You take out the semen, you don’t have a script,” Bottomly said. He scooped a piece of melon. “You know they’ve got a process now where they can match semen with blood types. They can use it on rape cases if they get it early enough.”
Anhalt looked down at his steak sandwich. “Jesus,” he said.
“We’ve got a new problem,” Fryer said. “DeSalvo’s wife. Irmgard’s holding us up on the release.”
“How much does she want?” Anhalt said.
“$35,000,” Fryer said.
Anhalt gave a short laugh. “Being a wife comes high these days.”
“Maybe we can do without her,” Fryer said.
“Not if we’re going to show Albert the family man,” Anhalt said. “She’s in two sequences. We’ve got to show the contrast between Albert at home and Albert getting his rocks off. But $35,000 is ridiculous.”
Fryer smiled wanly. “Maybe we can change her name.”
“Sure,” Anhalt said. “And call DeSalvo Albert Smith?”
“It was just a try,” Fryer said. “There’s nothing derogatory about her in the script, is there?”
“No, she’s just Albert’s wife,” Anhalt said.
“In the book, in his confession, Albert said she turned him off,” Fryer said.
“Jesus,” Anhalt said, “I think the script’s already complicated enough sexually without throwing that in.”
Bottomly reached back into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was from Irmgard DeSalvo. In the letter, DeSalvo’s wife expressed her distaste for
The Boston Strangler
book and said that if either she or her children were portrayed in the film, she would be forced to take legal action.
Fryer pursed his lips. “That’s all we need,” he sighed. He pushed his plate away and buried his face in his hands.
“She’ll give a release,” Bottomly said quietly. “It’s just a matter of coming up with the right money.”
“Christ,” Anhalt said. “She sounds like
Bottomly took off his sunglasses and surveyed the scene. “Not really,” he said slowly.
Bottomly was the assistant attorney general of Massachusetts who had coordinated the investigation into the Boston Strangler’s thirteen sex murders. It was to Bottomly that Albert DeSalvo, the alleged slayer of the thirteen women, had confessed. After the role of DeSalvo, that of Bottomly was the most important in Edward Anhalt’s script, and Fryer had hired the Boston attorney, who was now back in private practice, as
The Boston Strangler
’s technical advisor.
Anhalt was waiting for Fryer and Bottomly in the producers’ dining room, an executive enclave off the barn-like main room in the commissary. Bottomly hung his jacket over the back of his chair and began to fan himself with the menu.
“We’ve got a nice
Valley of the Dolls
Salad,” the waitress said.
Bottomly stared at the waitress and then at the menu. “
A Guide to the Married Man
Casserole,” he read. “
Flim Flam Man
Hamburger,
Two for the Road
Fruit Salad.” He looked across the table at Fryer. “I don’t see a
Boston Strangler
dish.”
“We haven’t started shooting,” Fryer said. He looked nonplussed.
“New England seafood dinner à la
Boston Strangler
,” Bottomly said. He resumed fanning himself. “You know, the police work on the Strangler was really pretty bad. They never checked to see if there was any semen in the mouth of the first six or seven victims. The thing about most murders is if you don’t catch the guy right away, chances are he’s going to get away.”
“I wonder if we’re going to run into trouble with this script,” Anhalt said. “I mean, it’s very clinical. We’re dealing with penis and vagina and semen with every murder.”
“You take out the semen, you don’t have a script,” Bottomly said. He scooped a piece of melon. “You know they’ve got a process now where they can match semen with blood types. They can use it on rape cases if they get it early enough.”
Anhalt looked down at his steak sandwich. “Jesus,” he said.
“We’ve got a new problem,” Fryer said. “DeSalvo’s wife. Irmgard’s holding us up on the release.”
“How much does she want?” Anhalt said.
“$35,000,” Fryer said.
Anhalt gave a short laugh. “Being a wife comes high these days.”
“Maybe we can do without her,” Fryer said.
“Not if we’re going to show Albert the family man,” Anhalt said. “She’s in two sequences. We’ve got to show the contrast between Albert at home and Albert getting his rocks off. But $35,000 is ridiculous.”
Fryer smiled wanly. “Maybe we can change her name.”
“Sure,” Anhalt said. “And call DeSalvo Albert Smith?”
“It was just a try,” Fryer said. “There’s nothing derogatory about her in the script, is there?”
“No, she’s just Albert’s wife,” Anhalt said.
“In the book, in his confession, Albert said she turned him off,” Fryer said.
“Jesus,” Anhalt said, “I think the script’s already complicated enough sexually without throwing that in.”
Bottomly reached back into his jacket and pulled out a letter. It was from Irmgard DeSalvo. In the letter, DeSalvo’s wife expressed her distaste for
The Boston Strangler
book and said that if either she or her children were portrayed in the film, she would be forced to take legal action.
Fryer pursed his lips. “That’s all we need,” he sighed. He pushed his plate away and buried his face in his hands.
“She’ll give a release,” Bottomly said quietly. “It’s just a matter of coming up with the right money.”
“Christ,” Anhalt said. “She sounds like
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