Settling in for a drink the other night at Jinja, the restaurant in Santa Fe, N.M., that Gene Hackman and his wife dined at and had invested in, a group of patrons decided to honor the couple by ordering a round of “Gene’s Mai-Tais” off the menu.
But in the days since Mr. Hackman, 95, and his wife, Betsy Arakawa, 65, were found dead on the floor of their home, the toasts and tributes have been freighted with a sense of bewilderment over the circumstances of their deaths.
Mr. Hackman was found dead near his cane in the mud room of their secluded home just outside the city, and Ms. Arakawa was found on the bathroom floor, next to a counter with pills scattered about. One dog was found dead in a nearby closet, while two others were roaming on the property, and data from Mr. Hackman’s pacemaker indicates he died nine days before the couple was discovered.
Now, Santa Fe, a city of 89,000 people that has drawn artists and cultural figures for decades, is grappling with a macabre mystery: How did two of their most famous residents die, and how could no one have known for so long?
“You can’t help feeling guilty that you didn’t call him,” said Stuart Ashman, a friend of Mr. Hackman’s who met him on a committee of the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in Santa Fe in the late 1990s. “You sort of take for granted that your friends are where they are and everything is status quo.”
Among both those who knew Mr. Hackman and those who had never once seen him around town, theories about what might have happened were piling up.
But it could take weeks or longer for investigators to piece together a timeline, as they interview the couple’s contacts and wait for toxicology results and autopsy reports.
Even then, it remains possible that some details may never be known. The sheriff of Santa Fe County, whose office is investigating the deaths, said there was no note found at the home. And the decomposition of the bodies can make pathologists’ work more difficult.
“It will be important to see the toxicology results, and the toxicology results aren’t going to be as good as if they were performed fresh, post-mortem,” said Dr. Bruce Goldberger, a professor of forensic pathology at the University of Florida.
The police have come close to ruling out several theories, saying that there were no signs of external trauma, nothing to suggest “foul play,” no indications of a gas leak and no traces of carbon monoxide in either of the bodies.
That has left Santa Feans to wonder and worry, as they also grieve the city’s loss.
“Everybody is scratching their heads trying to figure it out,” said Susan Contreras, a Santa Fe artist who knew the couple. “There are so many different versions of what could have happened.”
She said Mr. Hackman, an enthusiastic painter, and her late husband, the artist Elias Rivera, would talk for hours about “capturing the essence of a character” in portraits. “A lot of artists are going to be missing him,” she said.
Mr. Ashman said Mr. Hackman grew more reclusive starting around the Covid-19 pandemic because of fears about his health. Before 2020, Mr. Ashman would see Mr. Hackman frequently when their private Pilates sessions were scheduled back to back.
Mr. Ashman would give his friend eggs from his chickens, and, once, Mr. Hackman gave him one of his paintings. It was an oil painting of the sun reflecting on a stream in winter, with snow-covered land jutting out into the water.
Once the pandemic began, Mr. Ashman never saw Mr. Hackman again.
The same was true of employees of Cafe Catron, a restaurant in downtown Santa Fe that Mr. Hackman and his wife ate at when it was known as New York Deli.
“We rebranded five years ago, and no one recalls them coming in since before Covid,” said Lynne Vanderhider, one of the owners, who said one dishwashing employee recalled taking a picture with Mr. Hackman years ago.
Rodney Hatfield, a friend of Mr. Hackman, who met him at a printmaking workshop many years ago, said he believed part of the allure of Santa Fe for the retired actor was its relative privacy, compared with other cultural hubs.
“I think he really enjoyed being able to walk around and not be bothered for being Gene Hackman,” Mr. Hatfield said.
Mr. Hatfield recalled the story Mr. Hackman told about his first encounter with Ms. Arakawa. It was the 1980s, and she was working part time at a fitness center in California when he came in to exercise, having forgotten his membership card. Sticking to the rules, Ms. Arakawa declined to let him in, Mr. Hatfield said. As the story goes, Mr. Hackman was impressed that she did not give him a pass as a movie star.
“She just treated him like a regular person, which I think is something he always wanted to be,” he said.
At Jinja, the Asian fusion restaurant Mr. Hackman and Ms. Arakawa had invested in, Doug Lanham, a founder, said he had not seen the couple in roughly five years, though he had been close with Mr. Hackman. The retired actor’s paintings adorn the walls, and diners were discussing the actor’s death and looking at his canvases one afternoon this week.
Mr. Lanham said friends had been calling him in recent days, posing their own theories about the deaths, but that he was urging them to “just wait” for the facts.
Standing at the restaurant’s bar this week, he recalled Mr. Hackman’s playfulness. In one particularly memorable instance, Mr. Hackman, whom he knew to be a frequent prankster, owed Mr. Lanham a small amount of money over some golf bets. After some pestering, Mr. Hackman finally paid them — with a five-gallon jug filled with pennies.
He wrote out a note, with torn edges, describing his completion of the bet. And, indulging his friends’ nickname for him, he signed it above a skull and crossbones: “Capt. Hollywood.”
