Cali had passed out Saturday morning from cocaine. The previous night, in an attempt to warm the giant house after the heating oil had run out, a stoned Cali lit a Presto Log outside before attempting to carry it into his room; he dropped it on the living room floor. As his drug problems had increased and his nanny duties had been curtailed, Cali had become the Kato Kaelin of the Cobain household. “By that point, Cali wasn’t in charge of anything,” Jessica observed, “other than helping get drugs or making sure Kurt didn’t die.”
That morning Kurt walked into Cali’s room and sat on the end of the bed. Jessica woke, but not Cali. “Hey skinhead girl,” Kurt sang to Jessica, mimicking the lyrics to a punk song. Jessica implored Kurt, “Call Courtney! You’ve got to call Courtney; she’s freaking out.” She grabbed a number off a table, handed it to him, and watched as Kurt dialed the Peninsula. The hotel operator announced Courtney wasn’t taking any calls. “This is her husband. Let me through,” Kurt demanded. Kurt had forgotten the code name that was needed to reach his wife. He kept repeating, “this is her husband,” but the hotel operator wouldn’t let him through. Frustrated, he hung up. Cali momentarily woke up and, seeing Kurt, told him to call Courtney.
As Cali fell back asleep, Jessica and Kurt sat silently for a few minutes, watching MTV. Kurt smiled when a video by the Meat Puppets came on. Five minutes later, he called the hotel again, but they still wouldn’t let him through. Jessica fell asleep watching Kurt leafing through a copy of Puncture magazine.
Twenty minutes later, Kurt called Graytop Cab. He told the driver that he had “recently been burgled and needed bullets.” They drove downtown, but seeing as it was 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, sporting goods stores were closed. Kurt asked the driver to take him to 145th and Aurora, saying he was hungry. Most likely Kurt checked into either the Crest or Quest Motel, places he had stayed before—they were near one of his dealers. That day he also went to Seattle Guns and bought a box of twenty-gauge shotgun shells.
Back at the Cobain house, the main phone rang every ten minutes but Cali was afraid to answer it, thinking it was Courtney. When he finally answered, he told her he hadn’t seen Kurt. Still fried from drugs, Cali thought Kurt’s bedside visit was simply a dream. Cali and Jessica were fighting about his drug use, and in a fit of rage he suggested she take an early flight home. He tried to use the $100,000-limit Mastercard Kurt had given him to buy her an airline ticket but the charge was denied. He called Courtney to complain and she told him she’d cancelled Kurt’s cards, thinking this would help determine his whereabouts. Feeling ill, Jessica went to bed and spent much of the next two days sleeping and trying to ignore the house phone, which rang endlessly.
Over the next two days there were scattered sightings of Kurt. On Sunday evening he was seen at the Cactus Restaurant having dinner with a thin woman, possibly his dealer Caitlin Moore, and an unidentified man. After Kurt finished his meal, he licked his plate, which attracted the attention of other patrons. When the bill was presented, his credit card wouldn’t go through. “He seemed traumatized by hearing that his card was denied,” recalled Ginny Heller, who was in the restaurant. “He was standing at the counter, trying to write a check, but it looked like a painful process for him.” Kurt made up a story about his credit card being stolen.
That Sunday, Courtney phoned private investigators in the Los Angeles Yellow Pages until she found one working on a weekend. Tom Grant and his assistant Ben Klugman visited her at the Peninsula that afternoon. She said her husband had skipped rehab; she worried for his health; and she asked Grant to watch dealer Caitlin Moore’s apartment, where she figured Kurt might be. Grant subcontracted with a Seattle investigator, giving directives to observe Dylan Carlson’s house and Caitlin Moore’s apartment. Surveillance was set up late Sunday night. However, private detectives did not immediately set up at the Lake Washington house or the home the Cobains owned in Carnation, where Kurt’s sister Kim was living at the time. Courtney assumed that Cali would let her know if Kurt showed up at their house.
Early Monday, Cali and Jessica were in the middle of yet another argument when the phone rang, and Cali barked, “Don’t answer it. It’s just Courtney and we don’t know anything about Kurt.” Jessica asked Cali if he’d talked to Kurt since they saw him. “What do you mean, ‘since I saw him?’ ” Cali inquired, his eyes widening. Jessica recited the events from Saturday. Cali finally told Courtney Kurt had in fact been at the house on Saturday.
In Los Angeles, Courtney was attempting to do press, despite the fact that she was again going through a hotel detox. On Monday, she met with Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times to talk about Hole’s new album, Live Through This. She kept sobbing during the interview, and a Narcotics Anonymous handbook sat on her coffee table. Hilburn’s story began with the subhead: “Just when Courtney Love should be focusing on Hole and her career, she can’t help worrying about her husband.” “I know this should be the happiest time of my life,” Love said, “and there have been moments where I felt that happiness. But not now. I thought I went through a lot of hard times over the years, but this has been the hardest.”
It got harder that very day. After her interview, Courtney phoned Dylan, who reported he hadn’t heard from Kurt. Courtney thought Dylan was lying, and she kept challenging him. But her attitude didn’t seem to change his demeanor and he flatly said, “The last time I saw him was when he was going to L.A. and we bought the shotgun.” It was the first Courtney had heard of a shotgun, and she became hysterical. She phoned Seattle Police and filed a missing persons report, claiming she was Kurt’s mother. The report read: “Mr. Cobain ran away from a California facility and flew back to Seattle. He also bought a shotgun and may be suicidal. Mr. Cobain may be at [Caitlin Moore’s address] location for narcotics.” It described Kurt as “not dangerous” but “armed with shotgun.” Courtney asked the police to check the Lake Washington home, and officers drove by several times, but saw no activity. Courtney met with Tom Grant again on Monday, and told him to search some of the motels Kurt frequented. Seattle investigators checked these locations, but didn’t locate Kurt.
On Monday night Cali left the house for the evening, leaving Jessica alone in his room. Around midnight she heard noises. “I heard footsteps upstairs and in the hall,” she recalled. “They were walking with a purpose, you know, not tip-toeing about, so I assumed it was Kurt.” She called out “hello” into the darkness of the hallway, but heard no answer and returned to Cali’s bedroom. Jessica and Cali had been lectured by Courtney that as “staff” they should stick to Cali’s room. Cali didn’t return until after 3 a.m., and he and Jessica slept late the next morning.
On Tuesday afternoon Courtney sent Hole’s Eric Erlandson to the Lake Washington home to look for Kurt. “He burst in the house, like this big lightning bolt, and he was furious at Cali,” Jessica remembered. “You guys have got to help me look,” he ordered. Erlandson told them to search every nook and cranny, because Kurt had stashed a shotgun: He specifically insisted they look in a secret compartment in the back of the master bedroom closet, which Courtney had told him Kurt used. They found the compartment but no guns. They also searched a mattress for a hole Kurt had cut in it to store drugs—it was empty. No one thought to search the garage or greenhouse, and Erlandson rushed off, headed to the Carnation home.
Courtney had been scheduled to do a phone interview with The Rocket on Tuesday morning. Erlandson phoned the magazine and said it would have to be postponed, as would all of Courtney’s interviews the rest of the week. She certainly didn’t have time: She was on the phone every moment trying to find someone who had seen Kurt after Saturday. She hounded Dylan, still convinced he was hiding something, but he seemed as puzzled to Kurt’s whereabouts as she was.
On Wednesday morning, April 6, Jessica Hopper called a cab to take her to the airport. She still felt ill: During her visit there had been no food in the Cobain house except bananas and soft drinks, and it had been so cold she had rarely left Cali’s bed. As she w
alked out the long driveway to the car, she threw up.
Courtney continued to phone home, but her calls went unanswered. On Wednesday morning she told Grant she thought Cali might be hiding Kurt. Grant flew to Seattle that night, picked up Dylan, and together they checked Caitlin Moore’s apartment, the Marco Polo, the Seattle Inn, and the Crest, but found no sign of Kurt. At 2:15 a.m. Thursday they searched the Lake Washington house, entering through a kitchen window. The temperature outside had dropped to 45 degrees, but it seemed colder inside than outdoors. They went from room to room and found the bed unmade in the master bedroom, but cold to the touch. MTV was on the television with the sound off. Not seeing any sign of Kurt, they left at 3 a.m., without searching the grounds or garage.
On Thursday afternoon Courtney reached Cali at Jennifer Adam-son’s apartment—he had been staying there because he was afraid to be in the Cobain house. Courtney was incensed and demanded he return to look for Kurt. Cali and Jennifer drove together, bringing a friend, Bonnie Dillard, who wanted to see where such famous rock stars lived. It was dusk when they arrived, and Cali complained about how spooky the dark house was. He told Jennifer he didn’t want to go back in, but he knew that if he didn’t, Courtney would be enraged.
They entered and began searching once again, turning on lights as they went. Cali and Jennifer held hands as they entered each room. “Frankly,” Jennifer recalled, “we were expecting to find him dead at any minute.” Though the house was ostensibly Cali’s place of residence at the time, he jumped at every floor creak, the way a character in a Vincent Price movie would leap as a bat flew from a belfry. They searched all levels including the third-floor attic.
Jennifer and Dillard urged Cali to leave the instant they had surveyed every room. Night was falling and the old, gabled house—which was eerie on a sunny day—was filled with long shadows in the twilight. Cali hesitated to jot a note: “Kurt: I can’t believe you managed to be in this house without me noticing. You’re a fuckin’ asshole for not calling Courtney and at least letting her know that you’re okay. She’s in a lot of pain, Kurt, and this morning she had another ‘accident’ and now she’s in the hospital again. She’s your wife and she loves you and you have a child together. Get it together to at least tell her you’re okay or she is going to die. It’s not fair man. Do something now!” He left the message on the main staircase.
It was with a great sigh of relief that the trio entered the car and began to head down the long driveway, Cali and Jennifer in the front, and Dillard in the back. As they pulled onto Lake Washington Boulevard and sped toward town, Dillard meekly voiced: “You know, uh, I hate to say this, but as we were going down the driveway, I thought I saw something above the garage.” Jennifer exchanged a glance of abject terror with Cali. “I don’t know,” Dillard continued. “I just saw a shadow up there.” “Why didn’t you say something?” Jennifer snapped. “Well, I don’t know,” Dillard explained. “I didn’t think it was real.” Jennifer knew how superstitious Dillard was, and she kept the car headed toward town. “Well, I’ve had enough,” Jennifer announced. “I’m not going back.”
Two days earlier, in the predawn hours of Tuesday, April 5, Kurt Cobain had awoken in his own bed, the pillows still smelling of Courtney’s perfume. He had first taken in this fragrance when she sent the silk-and-lace heart-shaped box to him three short years before: He had sniffed the box for hours, imagining she had touched it with intimate parts of her body. In the bedroom that Tuesday, her aroma mixed with the slightly acrid smell of cooked heroin; this too was a smell that aroused him.
It was cold in the house, so he’d slept in his clothes, including his brown corduroy coat. Compared to the nights he’d spent sleeping outside in cardboard boxes, it wasn’t so bad. He had on his comfy “Half Japanese” T-shirt (advertising a Baltimore punk band), his favorite pair of Levi’s, and, as he sat on the edge of the bed, he laced up the only pair of shoes he owned—they were Converse sneakers.
The television was on, tuned to MTV, but the sound was off. He walked over to the stereo and put on R.E.M.’s Automatic for the People, turning the volume down so that Stipe’s voice sounded like a friendly whisper in the background—Courtney would later find the stereo still on and this CD in the changer. He lit a Camel Light and fell back on the bed with a legal-sized notepad propped on his chest and a fine-point red pen. The blank piece of paper briefly entranced him, but not because of writer’s block: He had imagined these words for weeks, months, years, decades. He paused only because even a legal-sized sheet seemed so small, so finite.
He had already written a long personal letter to his wife and daughter that he’d jotted down while in Exodus; he’d brought this letter all the way back to Seattle and had stuck it under one of those perfume-infused pillows. “You know, I love you,” he wrote in that letter. “I love Frances. I’m so sorry. Please don’t follow me. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.” He had repeatedly lettered “I’m sorry,” filling an entire page with this plea. “I’ll be there,” he continued. “I’ll protect you. I don’t know where I’m going. I just can’t be here anymore.”
That note had been hard enough to write, but he knew this second missive would be equally important, and he needed to be careful with these words. He addressed it “To Boddah,” the name of his imaginary childhood friend. He used tiny, deliberate characters, and wrote in a straight line without the benefit of rules. He composed the words very methodically, making sure each was clear and easy to read. As he wrote, the illumination from MTV provided most of the light, since the sun was still rising.
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complainee. This note should be pretty easy to understand. All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years. Since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. For example, when we’re backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd. Which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is I can’t fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100 percent fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it, and I do, God believe me I do, but it’s not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasm I once had as a child. On our last three tours I’ve had a much better appreciation for all the people I’ve known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can’t get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much. So much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man! Why don’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know. I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become. I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along, and have empathy. Empathy! Only because I love and feel for people too much I guess. Thank you all from the pit of my burning nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past yea
rs. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
When he put the pen down, he had filled all but two inches of the page. It had taken three cigarettes to draft the note. The words hadn’t come easy, and there were misspellings and half-completed sentences. He didn’t have the time to rewrite this letter twenty times like he had many of the letters in his journals: It was getting brighter outside and he needed to act before the rest of the world woke. He signed it “peace, love, empathy. Kurt Cobain,” printing his name out rather than using a signature. He underlined “empathy” twice; he had used this one word five times. He wrote one more line—“Frances and Courtney, I’ll be at your altar”—and stuck the paper and pen into his left coat pocket. On the stereo Stipe was singing about the “Man on the Moon.” Kurt had always loved Andy Kaufman—his friends used to crack up back in junior high school in Montesano when Kurt would do his Latka imitation from “Taxi.”
He rose from the bed and entered the closet, where he removed a board from the wall. In this secret cubbyhole sat a beige nylon gun case, a box of shotgun shells, and a Tom Moore cigar box. He replaced the board, put the shells in his pocket, grabbed the cigar box, and cradled the heavy shotgun over his left forearm. In a hallway closet, he grabbed two towels; he didn’t need these, but someone would. Empathy. He quietly walked down the nineteen steps of the wide staircase. He was within a few feet of Cali’s room and he didn’t want anyone catching sight of him. He had thought this all through, mapped it out with the same forethought he put into his album covers and videos. There would be blood, lots of blood, and a mess, which he didn’t want in his house. Mostly, he didn’t want to haunt this home, to leave his daughter with the kind of nightmares he had suffered.
Heavier Than Heaven Page 41
