![]() The sad, surreal story of Heath Ledger’s death was being written in real time, on a 24-hour news cycle, with digital cameras and RSS feeds. A rolled-up $20 with drugs on it was by the bed. Olsen’s bodyguards arrived before the EMTs. The masseuse who found him called Olsen once-no, three times-before dialing 911. By Wednesday, he’d been alive until at least noon, when the maid heard him snoring. By Tuesday evening, he’d been found under the covers, in his own home, with the pills prescribed and in bottles. ![]() He’d been found in Mary-Kate Olsen’s apartment, naked on the floor, wreathed in pills, dead of apparent suicide. By Tuesday afternoon, we knew all about Heath Ledger. ![]()
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