Читать книгу Manson in His Own Words - Nuel Emmons - Страница 7

In late July and early August of 1969, eight of the most bizarre murders in the annals of crime surfaced. The murders were committed with the savagery of wild animals, but animals do not kill with knives and guns, nor do they scrawl out messages with their victims’ blood.

On July 31, 1969, homicide officers from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Office were summoned to 946 Old Topanga Canyon Road. When they entered the premises, the officers were assailed by swarming flies and the pungent stench of decaying human flesh. They found one male body, marked by multiple stab wounds, that they established had been dead for several days. On the living room wall a short distance from the body the words “POLITICAL PIGGY” were scrawled in the victim’s blood. Also on the wall were blood smudges as though a panther had left its paw print.

The victim was Gary Hinman. Thirty-two years old, Hinman had been attending UCLA in pursuit of a Ph.D. in sociology, supporting himself by teaching music. It was later discovered that for additional income he manufactured and sold a form of mescaline.

On Saturday, August 9th at 10050 Cielo Drive in the plush residential area of Bel Air, adjacent to Beverly Hills and Hollywood, officers from the Los Angeles Police Department arrived at a second crime scene so gory it might well have come from a Hollywood horror film. There, sprawled throughout the house and grounds, were five viciously slain victims, all of whom had been in the prime of their lives. They were Sharon Tate Polanski, Abigail Folger, Voytek Frykowski, Jay Sebring and Steven Parent. And as in the Hinman house there was a bloody message. On the door of the home where the five had lost their lives, in what was later established as Miss Tate’s blood, was the word “PIG.”

The shocking massacre brought droves of reporters and photographers who surrounded the restricted area of home and grounds where police investigators sought clues. Nothing but the deaths was certain, yet when the reporters filed their stories, speculation filled the newspapers. Some described the deaths as “ritual slayings,” others stated the killings were the result of a wild sex party, still others declared the five had died in retaliation for a drug burn. Jealousy and love triangles were also mentioned as motives. Some reporters simply stated what was known at the time; that the police were baffled about the motives for the crime and were still searching for clues in the most bizarre multiple murders ever committed in the Los Angeles area. But this was just the beginning.

On Sunday, August 10th, hardly more than twenty-four hours after the initial call summoning police to the Cielo address, the LAPD was summoned to yet another ghastly death scene: 3301 Waverly Drive in the Los Feliz district of Los Angeles, the home of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca.

Leno, forty-four, was dead as the result of twenty-six stab wounds, some of which were administered with a carving fork. When his body was discovered, the fork still protruded from his stomach, as did a knife from his throat. His thirty-eight-year-old wife Rosemary had been stabbed forty-one times. Again the slain victims’ home held messages boldly printed in the victims’ blood: “DEATH TO PIGS” and “RISE” on a wall, and the misspelled words “HEALTER SKELTER” on the refrigerator door. District Attorney Vincent Bugliosi would ultimately theorize that Helter Skelter explained the motive for the slayings, but for the present, everything but the nights of horror and the eight brutally assaulted bodies was a baffling mystery.

As news of the murders swept the country, newspapers, radio and television were quick to report anything associated with what soon became known to the world as “The Tate-LaBianca Slayings.” The crimes and the news coverage had a chilling effect in and around the Hollywood area. Fear and suspicion gripped the homes, hearts and streets throughout southern California. Guns and weapons were purchased for self-defense in record numbers. Police investigators, pushed to find a suspect, worked long hard hours checking clues and following leads. Although several days after Hinman’s death a suspect named Robert Beausoleil had been arrested, no one linked him to the slayings in the heart of Hollywood. It was not until months later, when a second suspect in the Hinman case was arrested, that some light would be shed on the Tate-LaBianca slayings.

That second suspect was Susan Denise Atkins, who would eventually be convicted for the previously mentioned deaths, as well as the death of one Donald Jerome (Shorty) Shea, a ninth victim whose murder did not surface until the killers were apprehended. (His body, a mystery during the trial, was not discovered until several years later.) Atkins flamboyantly confided her participation in the deaths to jail-house acquaintances, and described Charles Manson as a charismatic cult leader, a living Jesus, a guru possessing mystical powers strong enough to entice his followers to kill for him. Atkins’ jail confidants relayed the disclosure to the police, who announced in a press conference at the beginning of December that the grisly murders of five months past were at last solved.

With Manson and several other suspects in custody, Atkins sold a copyrighted story, “Two Nights of Murder,” to The Los Angeles Times and several foreign newspapers, and before Christmas, 1969, the world read the sensational story. It, and similar stories that followed, made Manson the most publicized and discussed villain of our time, even before he went to trial. During the trial, under the persistent attention of the media, Charles Milles Manson and his followers (now described as the “Manson Family”), would gain worldwide notoriety.

Manson was charged with being the mastermind that unleashed the animal savagery in his followers. As motive for the slaughters, prosecuting attorney Bugliosi established that Manson believed, and convinced his followers, that there would eventually be an uprising by blacks against whites which Manson referred to as “Helter Skelter,” from the Beatles song of the same name. Manson was said to have ordered his followers to commit bizarre murders to accelerate this conflict, leaving false evidence to indicate that the violent acts had been committed by blacks. There was also the suggestion that Manson had chosen the Cielo Drive residence because it had formerly been occupied by Terry Melcher, a recording company executive who had failed to promote Manson’s recording efforts. When Manson initiated the killings he remembered Melcher’s “rejection” and the secluded location of his former home, making it an ideal place for murder.

The prosecution further contended that Manson had convinced his followers a pit existed in Death Valley where he and his group would be safe during the conflict between the races. Manson predicted the blacks would emerge victorious, but would not have the mental capacity to govern properly. Once the turmoil subsided, Manson and his chosen people, having grown to 144,000, would emerge from their haven and begin building a new society more in keeping with Manson’s views.

From arrest to conviction, the investigations and trials of Manson and members of the Manson Family lasted well over a year-and-a-half. Those convicted and sentenced to be executed in San Quentin’s gas chamber were: Charles Manson, Susan Atkins, Charles (Tex) Watson, Leslie Van Houten and Patricia Krenwinkel (for the Tate-LaBianca murders), Bruce Davis and Steve Grogan (for their participation in the murder of Shorty Shea), and Bobby Beausoleil (for the murder of Gary Hinman). However, within a year after the group was sentenced to death, the State of California abolished capital punishment and the sentences were automatically commuted to life imprisonment. With the commutation the eight were eligible for parole consideration as early as 1978. In the fall of 1985, after sixteen years of confinement, Steve Grogan was released under stringent parole conditions by the California Board of Parole. To date, all others have been refused parole.

Most people see Manson and his co-defendants as callous, coldblooded, dope-crazed killers. But others accept Manson as a leader and a guru with mystical powers. They champion Manson, defend him, and try to imitate the life he led before the murders. He has received thousands of letters and numerous visitors during his confinement: letters from teenagers and adults of both sexes; visits from women wanting Manson’s love and attention, from seekers of advice, from would-be followers. They even offer to commit crimes for him—or rather, for the myth that has grown up around him. But the myth is very different from the reality.

It happens that I knew Manson years ago, long before there were flower children and hippies. We weren’t what convicts call “joint partners,” but we did share some time and space in the same institution; Terminal Island in 1956 and 1957, where I had been sentenced on a charge of interstate transportation of a stolen vehicle. At the time, he had just turned twenty-one and I was twenty-eight. The extent of our prison association was mostly based on our mutual interest in the athletic program. However, I did see in him then what I myself had been at twenty years of age: a youth among older convicts, listening to every word the hard-core, accomplished criminals said, not yet old enough to realize the agony of a life of crime.

I was released in 1957 and shortly after opened an auto repair shop in Hollywood. Manson was released in 1958. We had mutual friends in the area and because of a problem Manson was having due to an automobile accident, one of those friends told him where I was located. Though the accident was a civil matter, it was creating other problems for Manson. “My parole officer is giving me a lot of static,” he said. “Either I fix the guy’s car I hit, or he is going to have my parole violated and send me back to the joint. Will you help me out?” I did the repairs, fixing Manson’s car as well. This incident, coupled with our having been in the same institution together, became my opportunity to record Manson’s story in his own words. For, as he has often said over the past six years, “You kept me from going to jail, Emmons. I owe you. And if anyone can explain how things came to be, maybe, because you’ve been inside, you’re the person.”

I didn’t see Manson again until 1960. We met at the McNeil Island penitentiary, where I was serving a sentence for conspiracy to import narcotics. Our relationship was much the same as it had been at Terminal Island—our contact was limited to the prison athletic programs, except for a few casual exchanges. I remember Manson once asking me if I knew about L. Ron Hubbard and Dianetics. I didn’t and had little interest in learning, so the conversation was a short one. The time served at McNeil was time that would change my life—for the better. As you will see in the following pages, it was also time that would change Manson’s life.

On my release in 1964, I wanted only to take a responsible and honest part in society. Since that time I have never infringed on the rights of others, nor have I jeopardized my personal freedom. I resumed my trade, auto repair, and later started a second career as a free-lance writer.

In 1969 I hardly noticed the Gary Hinman murder, but like the rest of the world I became very familiar with the Tate-LaBianca slayings. When Manson’s name surfaced in December of 1969, I was astonished—not because he was involved, but because this man supposed to have powers to manipulate others into carrying out his every whim bore little resemblance to the man I remembered.

By 1979 I had forgotten almost entirely about him, until one day a local publication carried a feature story on him. The writer had journeyed to Vacaville, where Manson was then confined, with the intention of interviewing him. Manson refused to permit the interview. The story was finally published using information from prison personnel, and it mentioned that Manson seldom responded to requests for interviews. I was then writing for a newspaper, and I felt that my past association with Manson might give me the opportunity to see him that had been denied others.

My first letter was answered by one of his inmate friends, who said, “Charlie gets letters all the time from assholes like you wanting to interview him. He ain’t interested in talking to you and having it all turned around and some more lies printed. But if you want to write about a wild, crazy motherfucker, send me a television and I’ll talk to you.” Enclosed in the letter were two clippings identifying the person and the murders he was serving time for. Other than returning the clippings as the writer requested, I ignored the letter.

In a second letter to Manson I identified myself enough to be certain he would remember me. I then explained that if he did not want to talk to me as a writer I would come over for just a routine visit. His reply was almost immediate, if barely legible. The essence was, “Yeah, I remember you. You should have told me who you were in your first letter and I wouldn’t have passed you off to Butch. I haven’t been having any visitors, so don’t expect too much, they say I’m crazy. But if you want to come—do what you will.” When I showed Manson’s letter to my wife, her reaction was, “Are you really going to see him? Doesn’t the thought of it give you an eerie feeling?” She, like so many others, had read the book Helter Skelter and believed very strongly that Manson had the power to lure people into his fold.

The California Medical Facility in Vacaville was only a two-hour drive from where I lived. I made the drive with thousands of thoughts racing through my mind, and several questions for each thought. I wondered which personality I would be dealing with: the young, soft-eyed, not-very-aggressive kid I remembered in prison, or the hard, wild-eyed villain the media always seemed to capture. But for all the thinking, I signed in at the institution with a complete blank on a line of conversation. Hell, I was wondering if I was in my right mind for even being there.

Signing in was an experience for me. Being at a prison again, even as a visitor, stirred memories of my days in confinement. My heart beat rapidly, and my hands trembled so badly I could hardly fill out the necessary visitor forms. Once inside, I had the urge to retrieve my pass, to head back out the gate and forget anything that was even remotely connected with a prison. Instead, I took a deep breath and took a seat among other waiting visitors.

After about forty-five minutes, the guard announced, “Visitor for Charles Manson.” At the mention of Manson, heads turned. I started toward the visiting room. Those that weren’t looking at me were craning their necks for the appearance of Manson himself. As I neared the door a guard intercepted me, saying, “No, you’ll have to come this way.” He escorted me to an area known as “between gates.” On the way, he allowed me to stop at a vending machine for some cigarettes, cokes and candy bars.

Between gates is a highly secured area that separates the front of the institution and the administrative offices from where the convicts are housed. Two electronically controlled, barred gates face each other at either end of a twenty-five foot corridor. On one side of the corridor is a room enclosed with bullet-proof glass where at least two officers control the operation of the gates and check the identification of every individual who enters or departs. Never are the two gates open at the same time. Across the corridor from the control room are two or three rooms with barred fronts. Each room is about eight feet by eight feet with a table and four stools bolted to the center of the room.

Manson had already been escorted to and locked in the room we were to use for our visit, and while the guard unlocked the door to let me in, Manson peered out, looking me over carefully. He was dressed in standard, loose-fitting blue denim prison garb with a blue and white bandana tied around his forehead to keep his long hair in place. He had a full, Christ-like beard. At that time he was forty-four years old, but other than a strand or two of grey in his beard and hair, he didn’t look much older than when I had last seen him in 1964. As the guard locked the door behind me, Manson backtracked to the far corner of the room. He looked like a frightened, distrustful animal. With his body in a slight crouch, head a little bit forward and cocked to one side, he gave me a nod and said, “What’s up, man?” “Nothing,” I said, “I’m just here like my letter said I’d be.” With that, I placed the soft drinks and candy on the table and extended my hand for a greeting. Manson straightened his slight body, stepped toward me and took my hand. A faint smile was visible through his beard. “Yeah, Emmons,” he said, “I’d have recognized you anywhere. How’s your handball game?” “Hell, I haven’t played since I left McNeil. How’s yours?” “Fuck, are you kiddin’, that Mizz Winters [then chief psychiatrist at Vacaville] and her black boyfriends have had me locked down so tight, I don’t get to do nothin’. It took me nine years to get out of S Wing.” S Wing is a segregated unit that confines those who are still under intensive psychological observation. “They got me in W Wing now,” he added, “and that ain’t much better.”

The ice had been broken, but the room was filled with tension. Manson wouldn’t allow me within arm’s length of him, and never placed himself in a vulnerable position. He was always geared to defend himself instantly. His paranoia was even more evident when I first offered him a cigarette. “You light it!” he said. I handed him the lit cigarette, but before taking a drag, he carefully fingered the entire length of it and asked, “How far down is the bomb?” He wouldn’t touch the soft drinks or candy bars I had placed in front of him until I drank from one or took a bite of candy. He would then reach for the one I had tasted, eating or drinking only after my example had assured him that it wasn’t poisoned. “Are you putting on an act,” I asked, “or are you really so paranoid you think I’m here to poison you?” His eyes met mine in an unblinking stare as he said, “Hey look, I ain’t seen you in fifteen or twenty years. When we were in the joint together, you didn’t have the time of day for me. Now all of a sudden you show up. How do I know what you got in mind? I been alive this long ’cause I’m on top of people’s thoughts. You don’t know how bad these motherfuckers want to get rid of me. I been livin’ in their shit for ten years, and every day they send in somebody to do a number on me. I been alive this long ’cause I’m aware. I don’t trust you or anyone!”

At that moment, trying to change his opinion of me would have been wasted effort, but I did feel it necessary to explain why I hadn’t had the time of day for him when we were doing time together. “You were eight years younger than me; I had already been through all you were going through. You and the guys you lined up with in the joint were playing games and trying to impress everyone. All I wanted was to do my time and get out. It wasn’t a question of liking or disliking you.” My words seemed to calm him. The intimidating anger that had been mounting in his voice vanished and he began asking about some of our former mutual friends. As it turned out, he was much more up-to-date on their lives and whereabouts than I was. Jails have a hell of a grapevine on alumni, especially if the guy has taken another fall or is still wheeling and dealing. On the other hand, if he straightens himself out, it seems the line ends and the person might as well be dead as far as other convicts are concerned.

After about thirty minutes, the guard informed us we had five minutes remaining. During that five minutes Manson brought up what I had decided not to mention on this first visit. He said, “So you’re a writer now, huh? You know I’ve been burned by all you bastards, and I don’t trust any of you fuckers to tell the truth. Whatta you think about that?” I didn’t know if he was telling me to get lost, or if it was just his way of checking out my reaction. I answered, “That’s all right, Charlie, I don’t trust a lot of writers either. So forget I came over here looking for a story—I’m here because we’ve done some time together, and if a visit or two breaks up the monotony for you, I’ll come back. If you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t.” He didn’t give me a direct answer, but said, “Hey, I could use some stamps and writing pads, can you handle that?” “Sure,” I told him, “and if you need a few dollars on the books, I can do that too.”

Our time was up, and as we said our goodbyes he stood closer to me. We exchanged a parting handshake that held a little warmth. Neither of us had mentioned the crimes. Though he hadn’t said so, I felt he wanted me to continue visiting. Given time, I thought, some trust and confidence could develop between us.

I sent the writing material he asked for, along with some money for commissary items. We exchanged a letter or two and I began visiting almost weekly. The next couple of visits were pretty much like the first. He didn’t talk much about the outside or the past, but had plenty to say about how the prisons had changed. For a sentence or two he would be coherent—if not logical—but then he would suddenly switch subjects without completing the thought.

I wasn’t aware during the six or seven visits that first couple of months that Manson had been receiving medication until one day he said, “Maybe you’re some kind of therapy for me, ’cause they are cutting down on jabbing me with that needle.” After that, our visits became more constructive. We began talking more about the crimes. He was evasive in response to direct questions about his actual involvement, but talked freely about “his girls,” life at the Spahn Ranch, the Mojave Desert and his dune buggies. He volunteered some information about Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme and the assassination attempt on President Ford. One day, he unexpectedly asked, “You heard about Red being in Alderson, didn’t you?” (”Red” was his “color name” for Fromme; several of the main girls in the family were identified by various colors.) “I have to carry that load too. I didn’t tell her to take no shot at Ford. That was her trip, but like everything else, it’s Charlie’s fault. Hey, Charlie’s Angels on TV is even a take-off on me and my girls. By the way, do you think I sent those kids to Melcher’s house?” It was the first time he had asked outright if I thought he was guilty or not.

“You’re here, Charlie,” I said, “I have to believe some of it.” He exploded and I got my first look at those sharp, penetrating eyes that appeared so often in newspapers and on the covers of magazines during the court proceedings in 1970. He came at me, not in a physical attack, but shouting, his face inches from mine. “You motherfucker, you ain’t no friend, you’re just another victim of Sadie’s [Susan Atkins] and Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter bullshit! Fuck you, get your ass on down the road.” The guard had his keys out and was about to open the door to break up the fight he thought would surely happen, but I told the guard, “It’s all right, we’re just having a little disagreement.” The guard hesitated and Charlie backed off and glared at both of us. He was trembling with anger. Then I saw him relax, and he said to the guard, “Yeah, it’s all right, everything’s under control.” The flare of temper subsided as quickly as it had surfaced. Manson picked up the conversation in a quiet, calm tone of voice. “You know, I been around long enough to know that if you do the crime you gotta pay, but I ain’t guilty the way those pricks convicted me. So I ain’t supposed to be here! At least not under the gun the way they got me. They might have made me on conspiracy, an accessory before or after the fact; that would have carried the same sentence, and I’d be doing my time without crying.” Then quickly, for fear I might think he was showing weakness, “I ain’t crying, understand, but these fuckers are doing me wrong.” There was a moment or two of silence as his eyes bored through me in an effort to read whether I believed him or not. I broke the silence by saying, “If that’s the way it is, Charlie, let me write the book the way you say it was.” He smiled and said, “You cagey mother. After two months you finally got it out. But man, I don’t know if I can trust you.” “What’s to trust, Charlie?” I asked. “Everything bad has been said about you. But your life represents all the ills in our society and, properly illustrated, it could be an example for society. You’ve always said, Those parents sent their kids to me.’ Your life as it really was, without all that Helter Skelter bullshit that went down during your trials, could show why those kids came to you, and make parents take a look at themselves and their kids. There is a lot to be learned from the life you have lived. And besides, you have your own version of what happened to bring about the slayings. Let me write it.”

“You know what, Emmons, I don’t give a fuck about those kids out there! It’s up to their parents to take care of them. Those kids and their one-way parents are what got me here. Let them take care of themselves. No—fuck it! I ain’t into being no part of no book! Especially a book that makes me look like some do-gooder. Fuck ’em, they built the image, let them live with all these kids writing me letters wanting to visit me and join my ‘Family.’ Fuck, there was no family! Some reporter stuck that on us one time when they hassled us out at the ranch. Besides, ain’t nobody out there wants to read something they might learn from. Blood ’n guts and sex is the only trip they get behind when they’re spending their dollars.”

I left the visiting room that day feeling discouraged. I realized I’d used the wrong approach when suggesting he allow me to use his life as an example. He hated everyone in conventional society so much that he didn’t want to contribute anything that might, even remotely, be of value to society.

Several days after that particular visit, I received a letter from Manson that included two letters from publications requesting interviews with him. In his letter to me he asked if I thought he should do the interviews. Instead of writing back, I went to see him the next day. No mention of the book was made, but I told him if he was allowing interviews, let me be the first. “You got it!” he replied. “But one of these letters is from a girl from a local newspaper who has been hounding me for a long time to let her come in, so why don’t you check her out and maybe bring her with you.” We agreed that the woman and I would interview Manson together. I spoke with her and she, in turn, agreed to certain restrictions.

During the interview the reporter asked Manson, “Why do you have so much confidence in Emmons? I mean, you have refused so many interviews, but you have allowed him to interview you.” Charlie’s answer held a pleasant surprise for me. “Well, me and Emmons go back a long way. He understands me. Actually he’s one of my fathers, he helped raise me and he’s doing a book on my life.” For Manson to suggest that I had been like a father to him and had helped raise him was anything but flattering, but he had mentioned the book and I wasn’t going to press him as to why or when he had changed his mind. Perhaps he appreciated my regular visits, perhaps he recalled the favor I’d done him; whatever the case, he was willing to cooperate.

In addition to the publication I was working for, I had made arrangements with UPI to furnish their wire service with some pictures and a release on the interview. My story did not mention that Manson had agreed to furnish me information for a book, but UPI’s release said that I was writing a book on Charles Manson. I immediately began receiving letters about him. Though his crimes had been history for over a decade, Manson still attracted a startling amount of attention and interest. Most of the mail came from the United States, but there were also letters from Canada, England, Germany, Spain, Italy, and Australia. Many of them offered information for a book about Manson, all such letters suggesting that he be allowed to tell his version of his life and the chain of events that led to the slayings of 1969.

The material for this first-person narrative has been assembled from many interviews, corroborated by his correspondence with me and with others, despite numerous obstacles. Even after Manson had agreed to cooperate, he was not always willing to do so, and I listened to hours upon hours of repetitive complaints about how rotten the prisons and the prison system were. I was allowed the use of a tape recorder only when interviewing Manson for a commissioned article for publication. On such occasions, the institution furnished me with a tape recorder because some years earlier, after an escape attempt at San Quentin, it was believed that an attorney had used his tape recorder to smuggle a gun inside. With the exception of these limited occasions, I had to make mental notes until I could record them on tape or in writing. I spent many hours in the prison parking lot, writing down names and specific phrases that typified Manson’s speech and his ideas. I frequently had to go over events with Manson several times to confirm details and correct the misperceptions created by other accounts. In some cases it was impossible to corroborate Manson’s version of the facts, but the purpose of this book is, above all, to record that version.

I pieced his childhood together with help from many sources. In addition to what he told me, which contained many gaps, I journeyed across the United States to where he was born and the places he spent the first sixteen years of his life. In Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia and Kentucky I talked to those who could fill in gaps and verify what Manson said. When there was new information, I would return to Manson and repeat what I had been told, to hear his words and sense his feelings about it.

What I have recorded here as a continuous chronological narrative is therefore actually the result of a long process of discussion and re-examination of the events, checking and cross-checking of details, and re-organization of the frequent, frustrating leaps of Manson’s conversation. Nevertheless, it represents Manson’s recollections of his life and his attitudes toward it as accurately, consistently, and coherently as is humanly possible.

Since my first visit with Manson, more than six years have passed. During those six years, and hundreds of hours of conversation, I have experienced his hate and contempt—and he mine. I have seen tenderness, a soft side that may well have been his strength in attracting those involved with him. But never has he demonstrated any remorse or uttered a word of compassion for those lives taken in the madness he and his group shared.

When questioned about his lack of remorse, Manson abruptly changes his attitude and aggressively defends himself: “Remorse for what? I didn’t kill those people! Ask the DA and all the media people if they have any remorse for sending all these kids to me, kids wanting to pick up knives and guns for me because the DA and the money-hungry writers pumped the public into believing I’m something I’m not. Shit, they built the image—and they keep feeding the myth.”

The myth of Charles Manson, the publicity that made him seem intriguing, the current concern about child abuse and where the use of drugs can lead all seemed important reasons to tell his story. It seems to me the myth of Charles Manson is not likely to survive the impact of his own words. They are important testimony to the consequences of the continued use of drugs, and the account they give of his early life shows once again that all children must have love and understanding. Failing to find it at home, they will search for it elsewhere. Enticed into accepting the myth of Charles Manson as reality, many people have turned to him for help.

Manson does not exaggerate the mail, visitors and potential followers who seek his attention. I have met many of them. He has forwarded to me almost two hundred pounds of mail, and sent similar quantities to others for safekeeping and review. His statement that “some are offering to pick up knives and guns” or willing to “off some pigs” for him is verified in many letters I have read addressed to Manson.

It is frightening, and most of us wonder why they do it. Manson stated, “Look at yourselves! It isn’t me or any power I have. It’s the way they were treated when they were small and their parents tried to play God. All the propaganda laid out by someone wanting to feel important and get rich gave them someone to turn to in their frustration.” He said it as clearly as it might ever be said.

With the exception of the introduction and conclusion, my opinion of Manson is not represented in this book. In letting him tell his story, I have edited it to eliminate repetition and digression, and standardized many irregularities of speech. Some names have been changed, even those mentioned elsewhere, out of consideration for those involved. But the ideas and opinions expressed here are entirely his. I have simply tried to record his story as coherently as possible, to convey his meaning as he presented it to me in his own words. And although it is his story, Charles Manson receives no royalties or any other remuneration from this book. His only recompense will be the chance to have his story heard. Although he has heard or read most of the manuscript, the final decision about what would be included and what would not has been entirely mine.

I would like to express my gratitude to Grove Press, especially Fred Jordan and Walt Bode, who dared, and helped, when others turned their backs.

Finally, to the Tates, LaBiancas, Folgers and other surviving family and friends, I apologize for opening wounds and stirring thoughts of those horrifying days in August 1969.