(Photo: Nicolas Guerin/Corbis)
By Tuesday afternoon, we knew all about Heath Ledger. He'd been found in Mary-Kate Olsen's apartment, naked on the floor, wreathed in pills, dead of apparent suicide. By Tuesday evening, he'd been found under the covers, in his own home, with the pills prescribed and in bottles. By Wednesday, he'd been alive until at least noon, when the maid heard him snoring. The masseuse who found him called Olsen once—no, three times—before dialing 911. Olsen's bodyguards arrived before the EMTs. No, they arrived before the cops. A rolled-up $20 with drugs on it was by the bed. No, the bill was clean.
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