Fatal Vision
Joe McGinniss
Signet Book (1989)
Tags: Non Fiction, Crime
Non Fictionttt Crimettt
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SUMMARY:
Fatal Vision is the electrifying true story of Dr. Jeffrey MacDonald, the handsome, Princeton-educated physician convicted of savagely slaying his young pregnant wife and two small children, murders he vehemently denies committing.Bestselling author Joe McGinnis chronicles every aspect of this horrifying and intricate crime, and probes the life and psyche of the magnetic, all-American Jeffrey MacDonald, a golden boy who seemed destined to have it all. The result is a penetration to the heart of darknes that enshrouded one of the most complex criminal cases ever to capture the attention of the American public. It is haunting, stunningly suspenseful-a work that no reader will be able to forget.With 8 pages of dramatic photos and a special epilogue by the author
"AN ABSORBING, TOTALLY DAMNING INDICTMENT,"
—Washington Post Book World
"A HAUNTING, ENGROSSING BOOK. . . . The terrifying resonance when the most chilling facts curl out of those things we think we know and trust the most. MacDonald was one of those things."
—Chicago Sun-Times
"TOTALLY ABSORBING. ... It reads like a fantastic mystery, but the horror is that it is non-fiction. "
—Chatanooga News Free Press
"Need not be compared to In Cold Blood and Executioner's Song . . . Fatal Vision stands successfully on its own ... a book of sweep and power."
—Miami Herald
"POWERFUL, RIVETING, COMPULSIVELY READABLE!'
—Publishers Weekly
"DEEPLY MOVING, THOROUGHLY GRIPPING, METICULOUS REPORTING." —Cosmopolitan
"A POWERFUL JOB OF REVEALING AN ABERRANT MIND IN ALL ITS INTRICACY." —People
"A PROVOCATIVE, DRAMATIC INVESTIGATORY SAG. FILLED WITH INSIGHT AND AMAZEMENT,"
—Los Angeles Times
"STUNNING, HAUNTING, POWERFULLY COMPELLING .. . HARD TO PUT DOWN. . . . An intricate and revelatory chronicle of one of the most baffling murder cases of our age." —Detroit News
"AN ENTHRALLING, MOVING ACCOUNT OF AN UNSPEAKABLE CRIME" —Chicago Tribune Bookworld
"Knowing the outcome does not detract from the fascination of reading these pages." —Boston Globe
"CHILLING . o . A BOOK OF SWEEP AND POWER."
—Denver Post
"THOROUGHLY ENGROSSING A marvelous piece of investigative reporting."
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
"HARD TO PUT DOWN . . . THIS IS A SUPERIOR TRUE CRIME STORY . . . HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!"
—Library Journal
"EXTRAORDINARY, COMPELLING . . . A BOOK OF DEPTH AND MATURITY" —Philadelphia Inquirer
"FASCINATING, FIRST RATE . . . COMPULSIVELY READABLE? —Newsday
"The definitive story of one of the most bizarre and horrifying crimes that has caught the attention of the American public . . . beautifully written, carefully documented. . . . Unforgettable!" —Richmond Times-Dispatch
"REMARKABLY THOROUGH . . . brings the story vividly to life."
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
"AN INCREDIBLE STORY!"
—Memphis Commercial Appeal
"REMARKABLY, IMPORTANT, GRIPPING!" —The Peninsula Herald
"SPELLBINDING REPORTING , . . A TERRIFIC BOOK!"
—New York Daily News
"A STUNNINGLY SUSPENSEFUL BOOK!" —Durham Morning Herald
"FASCINATING, HIGHLY READABLE, SPELLBINDING!"
—Chattanooga Times
A SIGNET BOOK
Joe McGinniss
NAL BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION. NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY. 1633 BROADWAY. NEW YORK. NEW YORK 10019.
Author's Note
In the interest of protecting the privacy of individuals whose real identities are not central to the true story told here, certain names and other descriptive details have been altered in several instances.
Copyright © 1983 by Joe McGinniss
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information address G. P. Putnam's Sons, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
The author gratefully acknowledges permission from Front Line Management Company, Inc., to reprint lyrics from ‘'Heartache Tonight," by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Bob Seger, and J. D. Souther, © 1979 Cass County Music & Red Cloud Music & Gear Publishing & Ice Age Music ASCAP; permission from Music Music Music Inc. to reprint lyrics from "The Ballad of the Green Berets," words and music by Barry Sadler and Robin Moore, copyright © 1963, 1964 & 1966 by Music Music Music Inc.; and permission from Dwarf Music, Inc., to reprint lyrics from t’I Shall Be Released," words and music by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1967, 1970 Dwarf Music.
This is an authorized reprint of a hardcover edition published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, Inc. The hardcover edition was published simultaneously in Canada by General Publishing Co. Limited, Toronto.
SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN CHICAGO. U.S.A.
SIGNET, SIGNET CLASSIC, MENTOR, PLUME, MERIDIAN AND NAL BOOKS are published by New American Library, ^ 1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019
First Signet Printing, August, 1984
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Through fifteen years and five books the one constant in my professional life has been my agent, Sterling Lord. For his grace, strength, ingenuity, and generosity during the particularly trying period which encompassed the composition of this work I would like to thank him.
For her immense confidence, her extraordinary and infectious enthusiasm, and her considerable editorial skills, I would like to thank Phyllis Grann of G. P. Putnam's Sons, without whom—it is entirely possible—this book would never have come to fruition.
In addition, for the most capable and conscientious job of copyediting ever done on a manuscript of mine—as well as for patience and forbearance far beyond the call of duty—I would like to express gratitude to David Frost.
The author would also like to express thanks to the Edward J. Doherty Foundation for its generous financial assistance, and to those officials of the U.S. government who, in compliance with the Freedom of Information Act, made available various materials which proved to be of considerable use.
FOR NANCY
THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN BERETS
Fighting soldiers from the sky,
Fearless men who jump and die.
Men who mean just what they say,
The brave men of The Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.
Trained to live off nature's land,
Trained to combat, hand to hand.
Men who fight by night and day,
Courage take from The Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.
Back at home a young wife waits,
Her Green Beret has met his fate.
He has died for those oppressed,
Leaving her this last request.
Put silver wings on my son's chest,
Make him one of America's best,
He'll be a man they'll test one day,
Have him win The Green Beret.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle
toward my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee: I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
MACBETH, H, 1, 33
INTRODUCTION
He's full of fun, plus noise and vim. There's really no one quite like him.
—inscription beneath Jeffrey Robert MacDonald's high school yearbook photograph
I first met Dr. Jeffrey MacDonald in Huntington Beach, California, on a hot and cloudless Saturday morning in June of 1979.
He was living in a $350,000 condominium just off the Pacific Coast Highway, fifty miles south of Los Angeles, and ten miles from St. Mary's Hospital in Long Beach, where he served as director of emergency medicine. There were parking spaces for cars in front and boats in back and Dr. MacDonald had one of each: in his driveway a rare Citroen-Maserati with JRM-MD license plates, and, docked just behind the sliding glass doors of his living room, a thirty-four-foot yacht, the Recovery Room.
He was thirty-five years old, five feet, eleven inches tall, well muscled and deeply tanned. He wore a tight-fitting short-sleeved shirt. He had a strong handshake and a quick smile. There were gold rings on his fingers, a gold watch on his wrist, and a gold chain around his neck. His blond hair was just beginning to turn gray.
At Patchogue High School on Long Island he had been president of the student council, quarterback of the football team, and king of the senior prom. His graduating class had voted him not only Most Popular but also Most Likely to Succeed. He had attended Princeton University and the Northwestern University Medical School. His internship year had been spent at the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City. Upon its completion he had enlisted in the Army and had volunteered to serve as a Green Beret.
It had been almost ten years since his-wife and two daughters had been murdered in the family apartment at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and he had first been accused of killing them. In less than a month he would be returning to North Carolina to stand trial.
He took me to eat at a little restaurant just down the highway from where he lived. The Citroen-Maserati handled the trip comfortably without being extended much past second gear.
We sat at a large table outside, surrounded by fresh flowers and hanging plants. The waitresses made a fuss over Dr. MacDonald—he was, apparently, a regular—and he, in turn, administered hugs and dispensed free medical advice.
He ordered for both of us: a lavish, Los Angeles-style brunch. Fresh juice, fresh melon, huevos rancheros, fried potatoes, coffee, white wine. He said the trial would be held in federal court in Raleigh, North Carolina.
From the start, he had claimed that the murders had been committed by a band of Manson-like intruders who had burst into the apartment in the middle of the night, in February 1970, stabbing him and knocking him unconscious and then slaughtering his pregnant wife and two young daughters.
The Army had cleared him of all charges nine months after the crimes, following the longest pre-court-martial hearing in military history, but his dead wife's stepfather—at first his most impassioned defender—had turned bitterly against him, MacDonald said, and had hounded him throughout the years that followed.
After a 1975 indictment, the charges had again been dismissed— this time by a federal appeals court, on grounds that he had already been denied his constitutional right to a speedy trial—but the U.S. Supreme Court had recently vacated that ruling, clearing the way for the impending trial, which would be, MacDonald said, "an obscene charade."
"It's inconceivable to me," he said over a second pot of coffee, "that more than nine years after the night my family was killed and I came so close to being killed myself, I can still pick up a newspaper and see myself called a murder suspect in the headlines.
"My only consolation is that in a few weeks it will finally be over. For nine years I've been haunted—both by the loss of my family, and by this ridiculous accusation that for some reason I killed them myself. The normal assumption might be that this is the sort of thing that gets easier with time. Well, I'll tell you something. It doesn't.
"It's always there. You speak at a medical conference and it's there. You ask a girl out and it's there. You wonder, 'How much does she know? How much should I tell her on the first date?'
"And for the past three months—knowing it would definitely come to trial—I've been under more stress than at any time since 1970. I'm not sleeping, I'm not eating well"—he pointed to his half-empty plate—"I'm showing irritability at work. It's going to be a terrible ordeal to go back there, to relive the whole thing, but at this point, in a way, I'm almost looking forward to the trial. Maybe this will finally clear the air.
After the meal, Jeffrey MacDonald took me back to his condominium. There was a Jacuzzi just off his master bedroom, wall-to-wall carpeting, a lot of glass. Glass-topped tables, sliding glass doors, and large mirrors lining the walls. I had never before been in a home in which such a large percentage of wall space had been given over to mirrors.
Hot sunlight shimmered on the water beyond the dock but air conditioning kept the interior of the condominium cool. He poured me a glass of fruit juice and asked if I would like to go with him to North Carolina, in order to write a book about the case.
For years, he said, he had resisted such an idea, refusing all who had approached him with book or movie proposals. Publicity of any sort in regard to the deaths of his wife and daughters caused him pain. He had struggled hard to put the past behind him and leave it there. But now that this would no longer be possible—now that his nightmare finally was building toward its climax—he'd changed his mind. He was frustrated. He was angry. He felt abused by the judicial process. Perhaps, after all, it was time for the full story to be told.
A few days later I received an invitation to a party. It had been sent by the Long Beach Police Officers Association.
Dear Friend,
As you may already know, the time is drawing near for the trial of Jeffrey R. MacDonald vs. the U.S.
A group of "Jeff's Friends" has organized in an effort to lend both financial and emotional support during this crucial time. We have planned a dinner, a dance, and raffle as a means of showing our support. The date to remember is June 18, a Monday. There will be a sumptuous gourmet dinner at Bogart's in Marina Pacifica beginning at 7 P.M, and to round out the evening there will be a dance in Bogart's Disco beginning at 8 P.M.
Tickets for the dinner are $100 per person, which includes admission to the disco. For those who are able to give more, there will be a Golden Circle Table, seating with Jeff, for $500 per person, which also includes admission to the disco.
During the dance there will be a lively auction of unusual one-of-a-kind items and services (bring your checkbook). We will also draw and announce the winner of the Hawaii Vacation for 2.
The evening promises to be filled with good friends, good fun, good feelings. So please circle June 18th oh your calendar and help us send Jeff back to North Carolina on an emotional high.
It was a perfectly lovely evening in every way. The food was superb, fine wines were available, and at the Golden Circle Table there was no shortage of champagne. For three dollars, one could even purchase a bright yellow bumper sticker which
Said FREE THE FORT BRAGG ONE.
Everyone to whom I spoke—doctors, policemen, former girlfriends, even an old Princeton roommate—exuded admiration and affection for Dr. MacDonald. Superlatives were the order of the night. He was the best and the brightest, the strongest and gentlest, the most loving and most worthy of love. Everyone thought the world of Jeff. He seemed almost too good to be true.
I watched as the subject of this intense adulation moved slowly from table to table, chatting easily, smiling often, his new girlfriend, Sheree Sizelove, glowing softly at his side. She was twenty-two, blond and cheerful, and just laun
ched on her career as an American Airlines stewardess.
Dressed in an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit and charming everyone in his path, MacDonald had about himself something of the aura of Robert Redford in The Candidate—with, perhaps, faint, distant echoes of Gatsby.
In addition to directing the fourteen-doctor group that handled all emergency services for St. Mary's, he was an instructor at the UCLA medical school, author of a forthcoming textbook on emergency medical techniques, founder and director of the first Long Beach Paramedical Squadron, medical director of the Long Beach Grand Prix auto race, past president of the Southern California chapter of the Heart Association, the first person ever granted honorary lifetime membership in the Long Beach Police Officers Association, and a nationally known lecturer on the subject of recognition and treatment of child abuse.
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