Gene Hackman and Betsy Arakawa found dead in Santa Fe home. Final autopsy reveals natural causes—hantavirus for her, heart disease for him.
Picture a quiet adobe house tucked away in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It’s the sort of place where the world feels distant, and time slows down. But inside that peaceful little home, something heartbreaking was happening.
On February 26, 2025, Gene Hackman and his wife Betsy Arakawa were found dead. Gene, a Hollywood giant—you know him from The French Connection and Unforgiven—and Betsy, his wife of over 30 years, a talented pianist who stood by him through everything. One of their dogs was found dead too, just lying there, a quiet witness to it all. It’s the kind of thing that feels like a movie plot, but this was real. The autopsy reports came out later, showing they both passed from natural causes, though the timing was painfully close.
It was two maintenance workers, Jesse Kesler and Roland Lowe Begay, who stumbled onto this scene. They’d shown up for some routine upkeep, knocked on the door, and got no answer. Curious, they peeked through a window and saw Gene and Betsy inside, still as statues. You can imagine how jarring that must’ve been. They called a security officer right away, who dialed 911 with panic in his voice: “No, they are not moving. Please send someone out here quick.”
Sheriff’s deputies rushed over and found Betsy, 65, on the bathroom floor near the front door. She was in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, an open bottle of thyroid meds—prescribed, nothing shady—spilled nearby. Then, in the mudroom off the kitchen, there was Gene, 95, on the floor in sweatpants, a long-sleeve tee, and slippers. His walking cane and sunglasses were right beside him—a small, sad detail that paints the picture of his last moments. One dog, Zinna, was dead in a crate near Betsy, while two others wandered the house, alive but alone. The state of things suggested they’d been gone for days, maybe even a week.
Gene Hackman was a legend, no question. Two Oscars, a career that spanned decades, bringing that gritty realness to roles like Popeye Doyle and Harry Caul. But by the early 2000s, he’d had enough of Hollywood’s glare. He and Betsy moved to Santa Fe for a quieter life. She was a classical pianist he’d met back in the ‘80s, and they tied the knot in 1991. They were a team, through and through.
Friends say Betsy was Gene’s rock, especially as his health faded. She kept him going—yoga, bike rides, even masking up during the pandemic to keep him safe. “She was a wonderful wife,” their friend Barbara Lenihan said. “They were so close, and she took such good care of him.” Their life out there was simple: just them, their dogs, and the wide-open desert. It wasn’t Hollywood, but it was home.
So how did this happen? At first, it was hard to wrap your head around—two people so tight, dying so close together yet apart. The autopsies cleared it up. Betsy had hantavirus pulmonary syndrome, a nasty, rare respiratory bug you can get from rodent droppings. It’s a killer in the Southwest, and there were traces of rodents in some outbuildings on their land, though the house itself was mostly clean. She’d been active until February 12—emails, shopping, calling a clinic—then likely collapsed around the 11th.
Gene held on longer, until around February 18, his pacemaker’s last tick. His heart was shot—severe disease, old heart attacks, stents, bypass surgery—and Alzheimer’s was eating away at him too. He might not have even known Betsy was gone those last few days. He hadn’t eaten, though he’d kept drinking water, just shuffling through a house that had gone silent.
Then there’s Zinna, their poor dog, found dead in her crate near Betsy. Starvation and dehydration, most likely, after being left alone too long. The other two dogs made it, a tiny silver lining. The couple adored their pets, and Zinna’s end just twists the knife deeper.
Gene once said he hoped to be remembered “as a decent actor”—pretty humble for a guy whose work reshaped movies. His legacy? Unshakable. But in Santa Fe, he was just Gene: husband, dog lover, happy in the life he and Betsy carved out. Their deaths hit like a gut punch—her sudden illness, his slow fade, all in the home that held their love for years.
Now the news is out, pulling them back into the spotlight they’d left behind. It’s a stark reminder: life’s fragile, no matter how big you are. Their story doesn’t end with a bang—just a quiet fade, like they’d have wanted, against that New Mexico sky.
source PEOPLE
