Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders (34 page)

After a few more questions, I brought Susan Atkins’ testimony to an end. As she nonchalantly stepped down from the witness stand, the jurors stared at her in disbelief. Not once had she shown a trace of remorse, sorrow, or guilt.

T
here were only four more witnesses that day. After Susan Atkins was taken from the room, Wilfred Parent was brought in to identify his son in a high-school prom picture. After identifying photos of the other Tate victims, Winifred Chapman testified that she had washed the front door of the Tate residence shortly before noon on Friday, August 8. This was important, since it meant that in order to leave a print Charles “Tex” Watson had to have been on the premises sometime after Mrs. Chapman left at four that afternoon.

Aaron questioned Terry Melcher. He described meeting Manson; told of how Manson had been along when Dennis Wilson drove him home to 10050 Cielo Drive one night; and described, very briefly, his two visits to Spahn Ranch, the first to audition Manson, the second to introduce him to Michael Deasy, who had a mobile recording unit and who he felt might be more interested in recording Manson than he was.
*

According to various Family members, Melcher had made numerous promises to Manson, and hadn’t come through on them. Melcher denied this: the first time he went to Spahn, he had given Manson fifty dollars, all the money he had in his pocket, because “I felt sorry for these people”; but it was for food, not an advance on a recording contract; and he’d made no promises. As for Manson’s talent, he “wasn’t impressed enough to allot the time necessary” to prepare and record him.

I wanted to interview Melcher in depth—I had a feeling that he was withholding something—but, like most of the other grand jury witnesses, he was here for a very limited purpose, and any real digging would have to wait.

Los Angeles Coroner Thomas Noguchi testified to the autopsy findings on the five Tate victims. When he had concluded, the session was adjourned until Monday.

That the proceedings were secret encouraged speculation, which, in some cases, appeared not as conjecture but fact. The headline on the Los Angeles
Herald Examiner
that afternoon read:

TATE KILLERS WILD ON LSD, GRAND JURORS TOLD

It wasn’t true; Susan Atkins had stated the very opposite, that the killers were not on drugs either night. But the myth was born, and it persisted, perhaps because it was the easiest explanation for what had happened.

Though, as I’d soon learn, drugs were one of several methods Manson used to obtain control over his followers, they had no part in these crimes, for a very simple reason: on these two nights of savage slaughter, Charles Manson wanted his assassins in complete control of their faculties.

The reality, and its implications, were far more frightening than the myth.

On Saturday, Joe Granado went to the impound garage in Canoga Park to examine John Swartz’ 1959 Ford, which had been held there since the August 16 Spahn raid. This was the car Susan Atkins said the killers had used on both nights.

Granado got a positive benzidine reaction on a spot in the upper right-hand corner of the glove compartment, indicating blood, but there wasn’t enough to determine whether it was animal or human.

When I finally got Joe’s written report, I noticed the blood wasn’t mentioned. Asked about this, Joe said the amount was so small he hadn’t bothered to note it. I had Joe prepare a new report, this time including reference to the blood. Our case thus far was basically circumstantial, and in such a case each speck of evidence counts.

“I
just had a talk with Gary Fleischman, Vince,” Aaron said. “He wants a deal for his client Linda Kasabian. Complete immunity in exchange for her testimony at the trial. I told him maybe we could go along with her pleading to voluntary manslaughter, but we couldn’t give her—”

“Christ, Aaron,” I interrupted. “It’s bad enough that we had to give Susan Atkins something! Look at it this way—Krenwinkel’s in Alabama, Watson’s in Texas; for all we know, we may not be able to extradite them before the others go on trial; and Van Houten wasn’t along on the night of the Tate murders. If we give deals to Atkins and Kasabian, who are we going to prosecute for the five Tate killings? Just Charlie? The people of this city won’t tolerate that. They’re shocked and outraged by these crimes. Drive through Bel Air sometime; the fear is still so real you can feel it.”

According to Fleischman, Linda was anxious to testify. He had urged her to fight extradition; she’d gone against his advice and come back to California because she wanted to tell the whole story.

“O.K., what can she testify to? According to Susan, Linda never entered either the Tate or LaBianca residences. As far as we know, she wasn’t an eyewitness to any of the murders, with the possible exception of Steven Parent. More important, as long as we have Susan, Linda’s testimony would be valueless to us, since Susan and Linda are both accomplices. As you well know, the law is clear on this: the testimony of one accomplice can’t be used to corroborate the testimony of another accomplice. What we really need, more than anything else, is corroboration.”

This was one of our biggest problems. In a sense it didn’t matter who ended up as our star witness; without corroboration our case would be lost as a matter of law. We not only had to find corroboration against
each
of the defendants, that corroborating evidence had to be completely independent of the accomplice’s testimony.

Aaron had seen Linda briefly, when she was booked into Sybil Brand. I’d never seen her. For all I knew, she was probably just as freaky as Sadie Mae Glutz.

“Now if Susan bolts back to Charlie,” I told Aaron, “and we’re left without a major witness for the trial—as well we might be—then we can talk about a deal for Linda. In fact, if that happens, Linda may be our only hope.”

W
hen the grand jury reconvened on Monday, we moved quickly through the remaining testimony. Sergeant Michael McGann described what he had found at 10050 Cielo Drive on the morning of August 9, 1969. Sergeant Frank Escalante testified to having rolled Charles Watson’s prints on April 23, 1969, when he was arrested on a drug charge; Jerrome Boen of SID described how he lifted the latent from the front door of the Tate residence; and Harold Dolan, also of SID, testified to having compared it to the Watson exemplar, finding eighteen points of identity, eight more than LAPD requires for a positive identification. Sergeant William Lee testified regarding the pieces of gun grip and the .22 caliber bullets. Edward Lomax of Hi Standard matched the grips with his firm’s .22 caliber Longhorn revolver, and gave statistics indicating that the gun itself, because of its low production figures, was “rather unique.” Gregg Jakobson told of touting Manson to Melcher. Granado testified regarding the rope, the blood on the gun grips, and his discovery of the Buck knife.

It was for the most part highly technical testimony, and the appearance of Daniel DeCarlo provided a respite, as well as more than a little local color.

Aaron asked Danny: “Did you have any particular reason for staying at the ranch?”

A.
“Lots of pretty girls up there.”
How did he get along with particular girls—for example, Katie?

 

A.
“We talked, that is about it, but I never did nothing. You know, I never snatched her up or anything.”

 

Q.
“And is your motorcycle club the kind that goes into a town and scares everybody?”

 

A.
“No, that only happens in the movies.”

 

DeCarlo’s appearance, however, was intended for more than comic relief. He testified that Manson, Watson, and others, including himself, target-practiced with a .22 caliber Buntline revolver at Spahn. He said that he had last seen the gun “maybe a week, week and a half” before the sixteenth of August, and never after that. The drawing of the revolver which he had made for LAPD before he knew it was the Tate murder weapon was introduced into evidence. DeCarlo also recalled how he and Charlie had bought the three-strand nylon rope (which, being an ex–Coast Guardsman, he called “line”) at the Jack Frost store in Santa Monica in June 1969, and, shown the rope found at Cielo, said it was “identical.”

After Susan Atkins, the outlaw motorcyclist looked almost like a model citizen.

D
eputy Medical Examiner David Katsuyama followed DeCarlo. Katsuyama had conducted the LaBianca autopsies. I’d have many, many problems with this witness. The grand jury provided only a sample. Aaron was to show Katsuyama a photo of Leno LaBianca’s hands, which were bound with a leather thong. DeCarlo was then to retake the stand and describe how Charlie always wore leather thongs around his neck. Sergeant Patchett was to follow and introduce the thongs he had found in Independence among Manson’s personal effects. He was also prepared to testify that they were “similar.”

Aaron showed Katsuyama the photo, asking what material had been used to tie Leno LaBianca’s hands. “Electrical cord,” he replied. I managed to suppress a groan: the electrical cord had been around the necks of the LaBianca victims. Would he look at the photo a little more closely? It still looked like electrical cord to him. I finally had to show Katsuyama his own autopsy notes, where he’d written: “The hands are tied together with a rather thin leather thong.”

Roxie Lucarelli, an officer with LAPD and a lifelong friend of Leno’s, identified photos of the LaBiancas, both Suzanne and Frank Struthers being still too shaken by the deaths to testify. Sergeant Danny Galindo told what he had found at 3301 Waverly Drive the night of August 10–11, 1969, and stated that a search of the residence revealed no trace of Rosemary LaBianca’s wallet.

Of the five girls brought down from Independence, Catherine Share, aka Gypsy, refused to testify, and we had not called Leslie Van Houten, since we were now aware that she was one of the LaBianca killers. The three remaining—Dianne Lake, aka Snake; Nancy Pitman, aka Brenda; and Ruth Ann Moorehouse, aka Ouisch—all denied any knowledge of the murders.

I’d anticipated this. However, I had another reason for calling them. If they appeared as defense witnesses when we went to trial, any discrepancy between what they told the grand jury and the trial jury would give me a prior inconsistent statement with which to impeach their testimony.

At 4:17
P.M
. the Los Angeles County grand jury began their deliberations. Exactly twenty minutes later they returned the following indictments: Leslie Van Houten, two counts of murder and one count of conspiracy to commit murder; Charles Manson, Charles Watson, Patricia Krenwinkel, Susan Atkins, and Linda Kasabian, seven counts of murder and one count of conspiracy to commit murder.

We’d got the indictments. And that was about all we had.

Neither Aaron nor I logged the calls we received, but it would be a safe guess that we were getting upward of a hundred a day, to most of which our only response was “no comment.” The press was frantic. Although the indictments had been made public, the grand jury transcript itself had been “sealed”; it would remain secret until a week to ten days after the last defendant was arraigned. It was rumored that one magazine offered $10,000 just to look at a copy.

An officer Thomas Drynan called from Oregon. He had arrested Susan Atkins in 1966, as part of a holdup gang. At the time she had been carrying a .25 caliber pistol and had told Drynan that if he hadn’t drawn first she would have shot and killed him. At this stage of the investigation such information had no relevance. There was always a chance, however, that it might be useful later, and I made a note of his name and telephone number.

My cubicle in the Hall of Justice measured 20 feet by 10 feet, the furnishings consisting of a battered desk, a rickety cot brought in for cat naps at lunch hour, a filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, and a large table, usually piled high with transcripts and exhibits. A reporter once described the decor as 1930 Chicago. At that I was lucky, since the other deputy DAs had to share their offices. When I had a witness to interview, I’d have to drive everyone else out—not always diplomatically. That left the phone, which, since none of us had secretaries, we had to answer ourselves.

Each day brought new developments. Thus far, although sheriff’s deputies had dug up a sizable portion of Spahn Ranch, no trace of the remains of Donald “Shorty” Shea had been found. However, acting on the information supplied by Mary Brunner, LASO searched the neighborhood adjacent to 20910 Gresham Street, Canoga Park, and found, just around the corner from the former Family residence, Shea’s 1962 Mercury. It was dirt-covered and rain-streaked, apparently having been abandoned some months before. Inside the vehicle was a footlocker containing Shea’s personal effects; dusting it, LASO found a set of palm prints, which were later matched to Family member Bruce Davis. Shea’s cowboy boots were also in the car. They were caked with dried blood.

I
ndependence, California, 4
P.M
., December 9. Charles Milles Manson, aka Jesus Christ, age thirty-five, address transient, occupation musician, was charged with the Tate-LaBianca murders. Sartuchi and Gutierrez were bringing him to Los Angeles.

We scheduled Manson’s arraignment on a different date than that of the other defendants, fearing that if Atkins and Manson met in the courtroom he’d persuade her to repudiate her testimony.

A reporter located Susan Atkins’ father in San Jose. He said he didn’t believe this claim that Susan was under the “hypnotic spell” of Manson. “I think she is just trying to talk her way out of it. She’s sick and she needs help.” According to the reporter, Mr. Atkins blamed Susan’s involvement on her use of drugs and the leniency of the courts. He said he’d tried for three years to get the courts to keep his rebellious daughter off the streets; had they done so, he implied, this might not have happened.

For Susan, I realized, the Family was her only family. I understood now why Caballero felt it was only a matter of time before she returned to the fold.

O
n December 10, Susan Atkins, Linda Kasabian, and Leslie Van Houten were brought before Judge William Keene. All three requested and were granted continuances before entering pleas.

This was the first time I had seen Kasabian. She was short, about five feet one, with long, dark-blond hair and green eyes, and was quite obviously pregnant. She looked older than twenty. In contrast to Susan and Leslie, who smiled and giggled through most of the proceedings, Linda seemed on the edge of tears.

Following the grand jury hearing, Judge Keene had called Aaron and me into chambers. At that time he’d told us that since the DA’s Office was not discussing the case with the press, he saw no need to issue a “publicity order” (or, as it is most often called, a “gag order”) covering the case. However, owing to the incredible amount of pre-trial publicity—a New York
Times
reporter told me that already it far exceeded that given the first Sam Sheppard trial—Judge Keene, without consulting our office, now went ahead and issued a detailed publicity order. Later amended several times, it would run to a dozen pages. In essence, it forbade anyone connected with the case—prosecutors, defense attorneys, police officers, witnesses, and so forth—to discuss the evidence with any representative of the media.

Though unknown to me at the time, the order was already too late to prevent an inside account of the murders from making headlines around the world. The previous evening, attorney Richard Caballero, acting on the basis of an agreement with Susan Atkins, had arranged the sale of the publication rights to her story.

C
all from LAPD. Charles Koenig, an attendant at the Standard service station at 12881 Ensenada Boulevard in Sylmar, was cleaning the women’s rest room when he noticed the toilet was running. Lifting the lid off the tank, he found, on top of the mechanism, damp but above the waterline, a woman’s wallet. He’d checked the driver’s license and credit cards, saw the name “Rosemary LaBianca,” and immediately called LAPD.

SID was checking the wallet for prints but, because of both the material and the dampness, they doubted they’d find any.

Just the discovery of the wallet was enough for me, for it provided another piece of independent evidence supporting Susan Atkins’ story. Apparently the wallet had been there, undiscovered, since Linda Kasabian placed it there the night of the LaBianca murders, exactly four months ago.

A
t 11
A.M
. on December 11 buckskin-clad Charles Manson was brought before Judge William Keene. The courtroom was so packed with reporters and spectators you couldn’t have squeezed another person in with a shoehorn. Since Manson lacked funds to hire an attorney, Keene appointed Paul Fitzgerald of the Public Defender’s Office to represent him. I’d come up against Paul before on several jury trials and knew he had a good reputation in his office. Manson was arraigned, and a postponement granted until December 22 for the entering of his plea.

In Independence, Sandra Good had told me that once, in the desert, Charlie had picked up a dead bird, breathed on it, and the bird had flown away. Sure, Sandy, sure, I replied. Since then I’d heard a great deal about Manson’s alleged “powers”; Susan Atkins, for example, felt he could see and hear everything she did or said.

Midway through the arraignment I looked at my watch. It had stopped. Odd. It was the first time I could remember that happening. Then I noticed that Manson was staring at me, a slight grin on his face.

It was, I told myself, simply a coincidence.

F
ollowing the arraignment, Paul Fitzgerald told Ron Einstoss, veteran crime reporter for the Los Angeles
Times
: “There’s no case against Manson and these defendants. All the prosecution has are two fingerprints and Vince Bugliosi.”

Fitzgerald was right about our case being weak. But I didn’t intend that it should remain that way. Nearly three weeks ago I’d given the Tate detectives, Calkins and McGann, an initial list of things to do, among which were to interview Terry Melcher; check the prints of every known Family member against the unmatched Tate latents; show photographs of Family members to friends and relatives of the victims; determine if the glasses belonged to anyone in the Family.

I called in Calkins and McGann and asked for a progress report. I learned that only one of the things on the list had been done. Melcher had been interviewed. By the LaBianca detectives.

To date LAPD hadn’t even begun looking for the Tate weapons and clothing, though Susan Atkins’ statements gave us some good clues as to the general area where they should be. Arrangements were made through our office for Susan to be taken from Sybil Brand the following Sunday, to see if she could point out the spots where Linda Kasabian had thrown the various items.

Fitzgerald was not the only one who felt we had no case. The consensus in the DA’s Office and the Los Angeles legal community—which I picked up from many sources, usually with some such remark as “Too bad you had to get involved in such a bummer”—was that the case against Manson and most of the other defendants would be thrown out on an 1118 motion.

Under section 1118.1 of the California Penal Code, if at the end of the People’s case the court feels the prosecution has failed to put on enough evidence to sustain a conviction on appeal, the judge is empowered to acquit the defendants. They aren’t even required to put on a defense to the charges.

Some felt it wouldn’t even get that far.
Newsweek
quoted an unnamed Los Angeles County deputy district attorney as saying that our case against Manson was so anemic that it would be thrown out even before we went to trial.

Such talk, in addition to the national exposure that would be accorded any defense attorney connected with the case, was, I suspected, the reason Manson was having so many visitors at the Los Angeles County Jail. As one deputy sheriff put it, “It’s like a bar association convention over here.” (Between December 11, 1969, and January 21, 1970, Manson had 237 separate visits, 139 of which were by one or more attorneys.) Among the first lawyers to call on him were Ira Reiner, Daye Shinn, and Ronald Hughes, none of whom I knew at that time, though I’d know all three much better before the trial ended.

R
umors multiplied like bacteria. One was that, prior to the imposition of the gag order, Caballero had sold Atkins’ story to a European press syndicate, with the stipulation that the story was not to be released in the United States until after the grand jury transcript was made public. If true, I seriously doubted if American papers would respect such an agreement. There were bound to be leaks.