Twilight Zone Curse of the Stars Volume 2 Resigned to Drowning

By Wayne Rollan Melton

Journalist Wayne Rollan Melton has chronicled 14 drowning deaths of "Twilight Zone" stars, their relatives and friends. This curse continues non-stop, an average of at least one new drowning every month ~ nearly a half century after the iconic TV series ended its initial run on CBS. As a result, all major stars refuse to work in any future "Twilight Zone" shows or films

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Rollan Melton
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301279616

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Twilight Zone Curse of the Stars Volume 2 Resigned to Drowning

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Published by Fix Bay Inc Publishing at Smashwords

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Copyright 2011 Wayne Rollan Melton

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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ISBN: 000-0-0000000-0-0

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

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About the Author

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Dedication

.This book is dedicated to the hundreds of movie stars, television actors, their relatives, friends and acquaintances who drowned due to the Twilight Zone curse.

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Curse of the Drowned Movie Stars

As his windshield wipers malfunctioned, relentless rain obscured the vision of Martin Fischbein shortly before a 1983 vehicle accident, which would take his life and that of 37-year-old NBC-TV News Weekend Anchorwoman Jessica Savitch.

Investigators soon determined that the 46-year-old Fischbein, a New York Post vice president had lost control of the 1982 Pontiac station wagon. The vehicle plummeted into the Delaware River near New Hope, Pennsylvania, overturning in 15 feet of water.

All the vehicle’s windows had been closed at the time of the wreck. Streams of water cascaded from the station wagon the moment a crane hoisted the vehicle from the bone-snapping water at 11:30 p.m., four hours after the accident.

Recovery personnel found Fischbein’s mud-caked body, still strapped into the front seat. Soon afterward, the Bucks County Coroners office stated the medical examiner’s initial findings, that Fischbein had been fatally injured upon the vehicle’s impact with a guardrail and the river, and thus he made no effort to escape as water steadily rose within the sunken vehicle.

Sadly, at least according to the coroners’ report at the time, Savitch had suffered a much more painful and horrific death. Savitch had been riding in the back seat with her beloved 3-year-old pet chow-chow, Chewy.

Wounds to Savitch’s fingers, her hands and forearms, coupled with long scratch marks on the leather-covered back seats, led investigators to conclude that Savitch had struggled for nearly two minutes to save the dog and herself—but to no avail. The autopsy found water had filled Savitch’s lungs, resulting in an excruciatingly painful drowning death, as her beloved pet suffered a similar demise.

While extracting Savitch’s body from the back seat, emergency personnel needed two minutes to pull her stiffened right arm away from the corpse of her drowned dog—which had nestled its nose against its owner’s neck during the final moments of life.

The next morning’s newscasts, on October 24, sent shockwaves through the journalism industry while saddening Savitch’s growing cadre of fans nationwide.

Although Savitch and Fischbein each lacked household-name status, both were fast-rising stars in their respective industries. Two years before her death, Savitch had won the coveted positions of Washington correspondent and weekend anchor at NBC-News.

Boosted by these successes, coupled by her work as anchor of Frontline on PBS, the year before her death Savitch had written an autobiography, Anchorwoman. The hot-selling book had chronicled her tragic early life, including what many readers perceived as the heart-wrenching death of Savitch’s father when she was 11 years old.

The Coroner ruled that there had been no apparent foul play in the accident, with investigators unable to find evidence of any alcohol or illegal drugs.

Mirroring the general reaction of many celebrity deaths, the tragic accident and Savitch’s ultimate tragedy gradually faded from the public mindset—except for a few exceptions. The Lifetime Cable Television Network, primarily geared to female viewers, aired a made-for-TV movie based on Savitch’s death, Almost Golden, starring Sela Ward. In addition, 13 years after Savitch’s death, in 1996 Touchtone Pictures released a theatrical motion picture that originally been planned as a movie based on Savitch’s life. Yet the ultimate film, starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Robert Redford, had a revamped script portraying the late journalist’s tale as a rags-to-riches romance—rather than a more accurate morose account that studio bosses feared might turn away potential movie fans. Redford, whose many credits included a 1962 starring role in a TV Twilight Zone episode, Nothing in the Dark, in which he portrayed Death, was deemed a perfect fit with Pfeiffer for the film—which grossed more than $100 million at the box office.

Twenty-nine years after Savitch’s death, a journalist’s inquiry into the long-ago tragedy confirmed what no one in the public and most news outlets had ever suspected. Following this investigation, everything pointed to the fact that although Savitch and Fischbein had never acted on television or in the movies, they each had become the latest victims of what the general public eventually labeled as Twilight Zone Curse of the Stars.

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2

Several intriguing and mysterious factors had motivated me to dig deeper into Jessica Savitch drowning case, said Andrew Ballantyne, a CBS-TV 60 Minutes weekly human interest commentator, interviewed in November 2011 at age 92.

Ballantyne admitted that on the sly he had started delving deep into the Savitch death case beginning in 2008, although his specialty on 60 Minutes had always been humorous commentary formally dubbed A Few Minutes with Andrew Ballantyne. Starting in 1978 until resigning from the job in 2011 due to undisclosed health reasons, Ballantyne’s tenure with the program lasted 33 years.

Probably because the powers-that-be here at the network view me as primarily some sort of a humorist—and nothing more than that—I knew they would never view my findings seriously in the Savitch case, Ballantyne said in a closed-door, one-on-one interview—five weeks before he said a final on-air goodbye to the program’s viewers. All I ask is that you please wait until at least one year after my death, before revealing details of what I have found regarding Jessica.

Mirroring his usual on-air crustiness and perennially cantankerous attitude, Ballantyne declined to discuss specifics of his investigation during the interview other than to say: Here, take the file, which is inside this briefcase. Let the details that you read speak for themselves. I’m afraid that if I should foolishly utter a single word about the case before I eventually die of natural causes, I’ll suddenly end up drowning tragically.

Drowning? Ballantyne was summarily asked. What do you mean by that?

Rather than respond verbally, at that point Ballantyne handed over to this journalist the briefcase saying that this is filled with all the documents that you’ll need on Jessica Savitch—and the Twilight Zone Curse of the Stars—for whatever that might be worth to you.

Wait a minute, please, Mister Ballantyne. I’m trying to be respectful here. But are you trying to tell me that if I read this information, and end up telling people about these details, that I’ll somehow face the danger of imminent drowning, too?

All I can say to that is ‘be extremely careful, and try to use common sense. I can make no guarantee whatsoever that you’ll survive after reading this file.’ Seriously, and I’m not kidding here at all—in any way whatsoever—you could very well drown at a moment’s notice, if you dare to make one wrong move. Without discussing specifics of this case here, all I can say with any great degree of certainty is that within this file you’ll find some of the many reasons that motivated me to look into the Savitch case in the first place. First off, I wondered, why did Savitch meet that newspaper executive, Martin Fischbein, for dinner at Odette’s Restaurant in New Hope, Pennsylvania, on the night of her death? I wondered, and this question had plagued me for many years, had they been dating or was that rendezvous strictly for professional reasons? Perhaps even more important, particularly from a journalist’s perspective, I kept wondering why Savitch had been acting erratically during the week before she died. If her odd behavior had indeed been sparked by drug abuse, as some observers openly suspected, then why had investigators failed to find any sign or even minute traces of narcotics within her body, inside the wrecked station wagon, at her residence or at her workplace? The same goes for Mister Fischbein, who turned out squeaky clean in the eyes of investigators—at least according to those initial news reports from so many years ago. Perhaps even more disturbingly, I kept wondering why Savitch had appeared and sounded in a manner that viewers described as ‘incoherent’ during a live TV news update during the week before her death—actually resulting in somewhat of a public outcry before her demise. These questions kept nagging at my psyche like a chisel chopping away at wood during the decades following her death. Had Jessica been ‘on something,’ some sort of drug shortly before her death as many viewers suspected—or was her seemingly bizarre behavior the result of something far more sinister? Was she afraid? Had she discovered some sort of critical information, details dug up that nobody wanted her to know about? Well, as you’ll soon see, that is—if you have enough courage to review the documents that I’ve just given you—I was able to conclude and even prove—I believe—without any doubt whatsoever that at the time of Savitch’s death, she was in the midst of an investigation of—as strangely as this might sound, it’s true—into the Twilight Zone Curse of the Stars. That’s all I’m really able to tell you. From this point forward, as far as I’m concerned, any journalistic investigation from this point is strictly up to you, since you’re the only person receiving this file. Good luck and goodbye."

But Mister Ballantyne, wait, please. What does this have to do, specifically, with the Twilight Zone, and what do you mean about drowning?

I’m going to have to kindly ask you to please get out of my office, now. I have work to do.

But, sir, you were the person who summoned me here in the first place, and now I’m asking you to…

Rather than answer verbally, Ballantyne picked up his office desk phone, began chatting with someone—presumably about his latest upcoming humorous live 60 Minutes commentary, and motioned with his hands for his visitor to leave forthwith.

Left with seemingly no other viable option, a formidable decision emerged. Had Ballantyne been kidding, when he suggested that reading the details contained in this briefcase could result in death by drowning for the reviewer? Would any decision to avoid such a simple task emerge as tantamount to cowardice? How big and important was this potential story after all, and did the public deserve the truth? Even more perplexing, at least from a journalist’s point of view, in giving this material—had Ballantyne simply been playing some sort of practical joke, essentially trying to get a demented, odd last laugh upon his own eventual demise? And, perhaps most disturbingly of all, why had Ballantyne seemed so startled—even frazzled, essentially nervous—during the brief encounter in his office just a few minutes ago? By all rights, the internationally acclaimed and highly popular commentator had looked petrified—as if, actually—somehow fearing that someone might dare to drown him. How could that be, for surely although usually appearing calm and relatively confident while on camera, this time in person this famed and widely honored journalist had puddles of perspiration flowing down his face. From the beginning of this brief in-person encounter, for perhaps five minutes at most, Ballantyne’s hands had been shaking—looking as if those of a condemned man sitting before a firing squad. Never once during the meeting did Ballantyne feign any attempt to smile, nor did he try to make any direct eye contact. These behaviors alone proved contrary to everything that his closest associates and even a few of his longtime friends had foretold while chatting off-the-record beforehand. Andrew Ballantyne always looks a person straight in the eye, they had said, adding that he invariably smiles—seemingly non-stop—while continuously displaying a seemingly confident passion to live life to the fullest, a perennially positive attitude. Then, of course, there had been the unavoidable matter of Mister Ballantyne’s office setting. Even a casual observer of the man’s known personal propensities would have known well beforehand that the iconic commentator gained fame at least in small part due to his propensity to keep a notoriously messy office. No one denied that Ballantyne had always predictably maintained a mischievously messy personal work environment—papers strewn all about, books, magazines and unopened mail piled high—sometimes to chin level. Adding to the mystique, there were those who insisted that Ballantyne always meandered in his conversational topics during rare in-office meetings—which he famously and quite correctly told the American public are a complete waste of time. Yet on this particular day, Mister Ballantyne had spoken directly and to-the-point—at least the limits that he chose of adhere to. As if all this weren’t already enough, while in his office Ballantyne appeared dapper and quite debonair, particularly for a fairly portly man in his early 90s. You see, Ballantyne had a well-deserved reputation—or so, at least people who knew him claimed—for having a rather disheveled appearance, at least as far as his personal attire. From this perspective, Ballantyne had been a modern-era version of Oscar Madison, the slovenly and easygoing character made famous by Neil Simon’s play The Odd Couple, and the movie and TV series of the similar title, based on that production. Close up and in person, if in his usual famous devil-may-care demeanor, Ballantyne would have seemed just as comical and even mysteriously magnetic as some of the most acclaimed actors who portrayed Oscar Madison, perhaps most notably the late movie and TV stars Walter Matthau and Jack Klugman, yet another Twilight Zone veteran. But this time, on this particular day, there seemed absolutely nothing adorable or even a hint of uniqueness in the way that Ballantyne dressed and appeared. Instead of his usual famous disheveled appearance and wrinkled clothes, on this particular day Ballantyne—as disgusting as this might sound for an ultimate ultra-liberal such as himself to hear—the commentator looked like the epitome of the late conservative President Ronald Reagan, at least in matters of attire. Today, Ballantyne had worn a red silk tie sparkly enough to use as a National Football League referee’s warning flag, a snow white shirt so crisp it looked like it would only be warn just once, and a blue suit good enough to use by a U.S. Marine Corps general in full-dress uniform. What Ballantyne had possessed in attire in a cultural sense was offset by his sour countenance. The politically correct thing would have been to say that he looked quite young for his age, or even pretty damned great for a guy of aged 92. Yet if the truth be told, in that particular instant, hardly anyone present could deny that Ballantyne—at least during that meeting ten minutes or so ago—this man had looked more like 130 years old. Those rusty bags under his eyes would have been undeniably big enough to store enough luggage for a transcontinental luxury cruise, and his nose had more tiny bumps and holes throughout the skin than a cup of sugar has grains. Yes, at this particular juncture, the mere thought of Mister Ballantyne—specifically what he had just looked like and how he had seemed—struck the mind far more forcefully and vividly than while actually in his presence. To a casual observer, even someone who discounts any and all possibilities posed by science-fiction plots, Ballantyne seemed to have been striving to use some type of Vulcan mind control or the-force-by-with-you demeanor to manage or to dictate his visitor’s thoughts and behaviors. At least from outward appearances, Ballantyne had looked as if casually unfocused, although bluntly direct in his statements. Even so, he had left a distinct sense that this Twilight Zone issue had been vitally important to him.

All these thoughts come into clear focus while walking quick-step down a Fifth Floor hallway, while eager to leave the CBS Broadcast Center at 524 W. 57th Street in New York City. Even to a casual observer, the interior of this rather mundane and unimpressive structure seems bland, dull and decidedly boring. These attributes strike the observer as a sharp contrast to the bright and cheery faces of the many CBS News personnel as they scurry about, darting to and from various offices. The overall energy of the place seems oddly energized, as if everyone here possesses a positive attitude about where they work and what they do—a sharp contrast to the current economy.

All these bright-looking people, hurriedly doing everything from fiddling with their smart phones to checking emails on laptops, appear as if the brightest of busy insects—the highest caliber of such human professionals in today’s modern beehive called journalism. Just six minutes or so since leaving Ballantyne’s office at this point, judging by the continual buzz of activity on this particular floor, even an uneducated observer likely would realize that the time for older, crusty, seasoned and raspy voiced male journalists had long since passed. Well past the days of the Walter Cronkites, the Harry Reasoners and the Dan Rathers of the world, these—as far as the eye could see here, through office windows and far down all these various intersecting hallways—are the potential champions of the future of American journalism. Each person all around this place had landed here for a variety of reasons, now ensconced—if only temporarily—within the so-called top of the rung of TV news. Whether we like to admit this or not, these bright-eyed people all collectively emerged into a dog-eat-dog society, a survival-of-the-fittest entourage where each and every person landed in this workforce. More than merely stars or flash-in-the-pan media personalities, for the most part these are the individuals who far surpassed their co-workers at hundreds of TV news broadcast venues nationwide.

So, naturally, an obvious and logical thought strikes as I casually push the elevator button, eager to go down to the first floor: Why hadn’t the famed Andrew Ballantyne chosen any of these widely acclaimed or highly talented individuals to delve deeply into what he had boldly referred to as the Twilight Zone mystery? By God, the guy has been surrounded by this kind of super-talent his entire life. So, why hadn’t Ballantyne chosen one of them to look deeply into the evidence he had already uncovered—something about a persistent danger of drowning?

Never with any clear answers for myself on these queries, at least initially, I continued pondering these nagging questions while awaiting for the blasted elevator. Far down the main hallway, at perhaps 30 yards away, I spotted what seemed to me as if a casual, impromptu meeting of the top breed of CBS-News 60 Minutes’ stars—Andrew Ballantyne’s current colleagues, Steve Kroft, Leslie Stahl, Bob Simon and Scott Pelley. At least to me at that particular moment, their collective laughter seemed more like a corny canned-laughter soundtrack from a 1950s I Love Lucy" sitcom than the spur-of-the-moment emotions among some of today’s most widely acclaimed TV journalism stars.

Are they laughing at me? I thought. Are those people in on some sort of insider gag or trick? Like maybe, do they know that Andrew Ballantyne has just played some sort of prank on me?

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3

Increasingly impatient for the god-awful elevator to arrive, I pressed the button once again. At this stage in life, at age 55, I had never been anywhere near this self-conscious about what people might have thought of me. With more than 40 years of journalism experience, I’ve covered more than my fair share of tragedies and even bright, so-called happy stories—everything from major plane crashes that killed dozens of people to the weddings of household-name celebrities. Never one to delve into the old-school electronic media of radio and television, since the late 1960s—when starting in my early teens—I’ve focused my professional career in the print media, everything from newspapers and magazines and a handful of online publications, plus a steadily growing number of books—authored as a ghostwriter and most recently at a steadily increasing