Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (27 page)

That forced me back into my uncomfortable role as love-letter censor to the psycho stars. When the pair dispensed with their crazy social agendas and got personal, they could be surprisingly endearing. “My thoughts have moved along,” Manson wrote her once. “My body is fading away here, but we are forever in the soul.…”

“A pair of hands, a feeling, the silent shadows of a lonely, quiet ocean rolls,” Squeaky responded. “The sun on my tears and a smile only you can see.”

They both knew their most intimate thoughts were falling before hostile eyes, but they didn’t care. Actually, I had the strong impression that Charlie and Squeaky believed that if they made their forbidden correspondence painfully personal and beautifully poetic, I’d weaken and slide it through. They were right. As long as they kept to sweet nothings instead of “rivers of blood,” I’d usually bend the rules.

Sometimes, Charlie’s odd sense of gallows humor would surface and make me feel less guilty about my lawful intrusion into his personal life. After getting hooked on an especially heartfelt series of missives, I opened a new one with admitted anticipation. “Hi, Mr. George,” Charlie scribbled. “I was just checking to see if you were still reading my mail.”

During our conversations, Squeaky often detailed the constant hurdles she had to overcome to remain openly devoted to Charlie in her unfriendly surroundings. “This group of big, angry black women confronted me about why I have so much love for Charlie,” she explained. “One of them started yelling, I don’t believe Charles Manson is Jesus Christ!’ I yelled back. ‘You don’t believe in anything but money.’ ‘That’s right!’ she said. And Charles Manson isn’t going to give me any.’ ‘He’d give you a clean earth and water and air,’ I pointed out. ‘Can’t you see you’re killing your mother?’ ‘Them’s fightin’ words,’ she threatened, clenching her fists and coming toward me. She didn’t understand that I meant mother earth. She thought I was insulting her mother. The guards and other girls broke it up before anyone got hurt, but things like this happen all the time. We try to open their eyes, but they refuse to see the truth. Sandra and I have to separate ourselves from those who can’t comprehend. It doesn’t matter. Nothing can turn us away from Charlie.

“Look at the mother salmon,” Squeaky continued, launching into a favorite nature analogy. “I have a picture of her on my wall to look at when I get discouraged. She’s leaping a five-foot waterfall going upstream to lay her eggs and die. She could give up and lie in the sun, but she fights on against terrible odds. She could forget the whole thing, decide that babies are not for her, protest that the male salmon doesn’t have to carry the load. And because the population of salmon would no longer be controlled by natural circumstance, she could make some sort of deal to sell the content of her womb for caviar. But she’s not like that because she hasn’t decided that she’s above God. She’s just a part of him and she gives him her all. She sacrifices her own life to balance the whole.”

Squeaky Fromme had not seen Charlie, or heard his voice, in more than eight years. I was mulling that in my head when I got a wild idea. I called Lynette’s counselor at the federal prison in Pleasanton, California, and ran it by him. He was reluctant at first, but decided, what the heck, go with it. It was Christmas week. Spirits were high. The man agreed to call me back in an hour. When the time came, I took Charlie from his cell and brought him to my office. The phone rang. After a brief conversation, I handed the receiver to Charlie. “Lynette wants to talk to you. Official business,” I said with a wink. “Keep it short and simple. You have three minutes.”

Charlie frowned and peered at the phone as if he’d never seen one before. He was certain this was just a prank, and didn’t want to show his disappointment. Slowly, he raised the receiver to his ear.

“Charlie? Is it really you?” The high-pitched voice was unmistakable. Charlie’s eyebrows nearly shot over his forehead. He looked at me with confusion and shock. Then a warm smile spread across his face. It betrayed an emotion that I had always believed was beyond his capabilities—tenderness.

“How you doing?” he cooed. “They treatin’ you all right?”

I couldn’t hear Squeaky’s end, but I could almost feel her euphoria pouring into the room. I didn’t want to intrude, so I walked away and only half listened, keeping my ears on the alert for any alarming buzzwords. Charlie spoke casually, saying nothing crazy or off-the-wall. Although I could read the affection in his body language, I was surprised that he displayed very little of it to her. You’d think that after all her years of blind devotion, she’d at least earned a bit of sweet talk. Then again, I guess the relationship was never like that to begin with. This wasn’t man to woman, it was woman to master.

Suddenly, my ears perked up. The tone of the conversation changed abruptly. “Patty Hearst, the rich bitch,” Manson said. Then, “How’s the Patty Hearst thing going?”

I reached over and grabbed the phone. “That’s it. Time’s up,” I announced. “Say good-bye.” I held the phone to Charlie’s mouth to let him get in the last word.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

The abrupt termination didn’t seem to bother him at all. He thanked me and walked quietly to his cell. His obvious sense of satisfaction went beyond having talked to a lost love. Something was afoot, and I was once again right in the middle of it. Had Manson delivered a hit order on the famous heiress, who at the time was imprisoned with Squeaky? Was Charlie planning to intimidate or extort from Hearst? Or had Hearst, no stranger to demented revolutionaries, thrown in with the Manson clan, and was she planning to use her unlimited financial resources to reunite Charlie and Squeaky? Manson, as usual, dodged the questions, passing it off as idle chatter.

I fretted about it for weeks afterward, frantically checking the morning paper for news of such a plot. Time passed and nothing happened. Whatever the scheme was, it never came off.

I walked away from that incident having learned another valuable lesson. You try to be nice to a pair of monsters, and you might just get eaten.

*   *   *

As the years passed, many of the old Family members started shredding away. Whether they were simply trying to impress their parole boards or were being sincere is difficult to say. From their prison activities, I’d guess that it was the latter. At the California Institution for Women, the weak-willed Susan Atkins cut the cords early and wrote a book. Leslie Van Houten disavowed her confession and fought for new trials. Patty Krenwinkel vacillated for a decade before finally letting go. When I delivered that last bit of news to Charlie, his response was notable.

“Maybe Leslie, but not Patty,” he said. “Back at the ranch, and when I had the bus, there were always people wanting to take my girls. Self-professed gurus were constantly trying to steal them away. There was a party house in Topanga Canyon we used to go to. The place was wild, full of people into group sex, hard drugs, devil worship, and all kinds of philosophies. There would be pockets of leaders and their little bands of followers scattered about all over the place. I’d bring the girls in and let them sit with, listen to, and even make love to whoever they wanted, dig? And you know, not a single one ever strayed. We went there dozens of times, stayed for hours or even days, and when the bus pulled away, everybody I arrived with left with me. I used to take great pride in that. Now? I’m here. Locked up. What can I do? If I wasn’t in here, things would be different. It’d be just as it was before, only larger and stronger.”

Fortunately, Charlie was “in here” under guard, a factor that enabled his old gang to keep abandoning the ship. Steve “Clem” Grogan, another original follower, was at CMF the same time as Manson. When Clem walked the corridors anywhere near Manson, he tried to avoid him. Away from Manson, Clem was a decent fellow with a peaceful soul. An accomplished musician and skilled artist, the theme of his colorful paintings was winged nymphs dancing across lily pads, singed by the pleasures of love, saddened by the loss of innocence, betrayed by one they formerly worshiped. Reflecting on the autobiographical nature of his art, Clem tried to explain to me how difficult it had been to escape Manson’s spell. “I was at Spahn Ranch longer than practically anyone. I took so many drugs that I followed Manson blindly. I would do anything he asked. It’s like he has this irresistible attraction, like he planted something deep inside me that’s still there and he can call upon it at any time.”

That unwavering loyalty included, unfortunately for Clem, the murder of Hollywood stuntman Shorty Shea. “I knew Shorty for a long time. I liked him,” Clem told me. “But when Manson gave the order, I had to do it. I couldn’t resist. There was just no going against Charlie back then.”

Clem, who survived a stabbing during his incarceration, was eventually paroled. He married, has remained clean, and seems to have repaired his life. Prior to his release, I bought a striking ink sketch he did of a man holding a newborn. I wanted it to remind me of Clem’s unceasing devotion to redeeming his broken life.

Manson’s other top male Tate-LaBianca era henchmen, Tex Watson, Bruce Davis (Shea), and Bobby Beausoleil (convicted of murdering musician-drug dealer Gary Hinman), also left the fold. From the beginning, Watson privately requested that he be housed on a separate tier away from Manson on death row. That told me he was serious about wanting to break from his leader’s mystical influence. Years later, Watson and Davis made it official and became born-again Christians, joining Susan Atkins in a decision to follow the real God. Watson has been especially energetic in his new calling, writing a series of books from his prison cell and establishing a bustling mail-order ministry.

“It’s interesting that Sadie [Susan] and Tex were the ones to find God,” Charlie observed. “They were the most messed up. They were direct participants in the murders that destroyed our entire group, murders that were Sadie’s idea to begin with to save Bobby. Then, they were the ones who yelled to the world that I controlled their minds. Sadie was always running off, getting in trouble, then scurrying back with an angry trick or boyfriend on her heels. I got into a knife fight once with this Mexican guy she was balling. When she left him, she stole his drugs. I had to cut him up to convince him to back off. If they’ve truly turned their lives over to God, then good for them. If they’re following God the way they followed me, with their own interests always in mind, then God can’t be too proud.”

Beausoleil, who started it all by killing Hinman, spends his incarceration composing music, including a score entitled “The Rise of Lucifer.” Like Clem, he’s had to survive at least one stabbing to continue his meager caged existence.

From a unity standpoint, Manson made a critical mistake in allowing his fellow cons to get a piece of his girls. Although the visiting-room groping sessions and release-night sexfests were bizarre and immoral, love can blossom in the strangest places. As with Kenneth Como, the ABs often fell in love with, and became fiercely possessive of, their sexy gifts from Charlie. Aside from Como and Gypsy Share, other long-term hookups included Mike Monfort and Nancy Pitman, James “Spider” Craig and Priscilla Cooper, and William “Chilly Willie” Goucher and Maria T. “Crystal” Alonzo. To the man, the first thing these jealous, violent felons did after falling for the beautiful girls was break them from their former master. Subsequently, Charlie ended up losing a half dozen or more of his most loyal disciples this way.

Despite the best efforts of Squeaky and Sandra to hold everyone together, preacher’s daughter Ruth Ann “Ouisch” Morehouse, Sue Bartell, and Cathy Gillies also faded away.

T. J. Walleman, the biker who prepared Manson’s escape hideout in the Panamint Valley, remained a faithful follower until he died suddenly and violently in June 1995. Walleman, fifty-two, smashed his pickup truck head-on into an eighteen-wheeler on U.S. 395, in Kern County, California. Investigators said that the longtime Manson disciple was trying to pass another vehicle and didn’t make it. He left three young children and a wife who had taken the name “Anson” to honor Charlie.

Still, for every old follower who drifted off or died, there were a hundred more ready to sign up. These were mostly oddball, loner teenagers who worshiped Manson and expressed their undying love. They wrote passionate letters begging to join his Family and explaining how they understood and supported his message. This legion of misguided teens invariably volunteered their services as assassins. The letters that poured in, and the sentiments expressed, often made me wonder what kind of national sickness had taken hold out there in the heartland. One lady admirer, a professional who worked at a famous bank, wrote Manson a series of sexy letters filled with explicit come-ons. In her perfumed notes, she referred to him as “the god of fuck” and ached for a night in his arms. I’d read too many letters just like it to be shocked anymore. The world is full of strange, strange people.

Most of the letters were disturbing, but legal. A few crossed the bounds. One such series came from a woman named Misty Hay, aka Pat Gillum. The correspondence began innocently enough in 1976. Hay wrote about saving the environment and separating the races, making her at once both politically correct and incorrect. Alerted by some of her racist statements, I investigated. Misty was married to a character named Herbert Darrell Hay, a con who served time with Manson in a CMF psychiatric unit in 1974. Herbert Hay was paroled on April 8, 1976, and vanished not long afterward. Herbert had professed a strong allegiance to Manson and frequently made threats against the President and other government leaders (and still was released!). When he disappeared, it was speculated that he was on a mission for Manson. The Secret Service put out an alert for him. Fortunately for the government guards, Herb wasn’t smart enough to keep a low profile. Hitchhiking in Texas, the demented con rewarded the Good Samaritan who gave him a lift by shooting him in the head four times. He was caught, tried, convicted, and sentenced to life.

With her husband gone for good, Misty Hay turned her full attention to Manson and his latest activities. Charlie wrote the editor of the
Vacaville Reporter
that he’d sent out a list of people to be murdered. The targeted group consisted of President Carter and a host of people in the lumber industry. (This is not to be confused with Susan Atkins’s prison-chatter, celebrity hit list that included Frank Sinatra, Tom Jones, Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard Burton, among others.)