“Gibbie Folger came to Los Angeles to do social work. But according to an informant being guarded by the police, she became the mistress of Frykowski, financed his drug habit, and became increasingly fascinated with his study of black magic.”
Had Mr. Torgerson inquired further than the rumor mill, he would have found that Woytek’s study of black magic consisted of a seldom-used Ouija board that the police discovered in his closet. The board was alongside Monopoly, Tripoley, and other games.
The media’s characterization of Jay made me cry, and I’m sure his parents felt the same way with each blurb they read. The implication that he was merely a sexually perverted, drug-addicted, bisexual candy man to the stars hardly described the gentle, compassionate, and generous man I knew and loved.
In almost everything documented during those few months, I was hard pressed to discover more than five accurate labels used to describe the victims: actress, hairstylist, heiress, teenage boy, and Polish émigré.
Roman thought he could end the gossip by giving Thomas Thompson, a reporter from Life magazine, an exclusive, in-depth interview. I will never understand why he chose to use Sharon’s murder scene at the Cielo Drive house as his backdrop for that interview, but when Roman, Thompson, and a photographer arrived at Cielo, they found “psychic detective” Peter Hurkos waiting by the gate. Hurkos, best known for mistakenly identifying an innocent man as the Boston Strangler, conned his way through the gate with them.
Not surprisingly, Roman’s “Tragic Trip to the House on the Hill,” as Life titled the piece, backfired, spreading a new band of allegations. The day after publication, gossip columnist Rona Barrett led the way by reporting on KTTV, Los Angeles, that Life paid Roman $50,000 for the interview.
Adding further injury, Hurkos sold his story, along with pictures he’d stolen from the Life photographer. Hurkos began his wild tale with a brief description of his abilities as a psychic. “I see pictures in my mind like a television screen. When I touch something I can then get a vision.”
The vision he received at Sharon’s house: three men, friends of Sharon’s, went to her house for a black magic ritual called goona-goona. They all took massive doses of LSD during the ritual, causing the three men to go berserk and turn into homicidal maniacs.
It sounded so scary. Undoubtedly, Hurkos’s television antennae lost reception the day he visited Cielo. Goona-goona is simply the Balinese term for magic. It is also closely associated with peace, harmony, trust, understanding, and communication within Wicca society.
EASILY LURED INTO the sensationalistic stories of Sharon and Roman’s lifestyle, Rudolph Altobelli, the owner of the Cielo house, picked up the press’s epitaph for the victims—“Live freaky, die freaky”—and decided that the victims were responsible for their own deaths. Furious about the damage done to his home during the murders, he sent us an enormous repair bill, insisting that blood had completely ruined his carpets, furniture, and draperies—and to boot, someone tore through the front bushes, destroying his immaculate landscaping.
Upon receiving Altobelli’s bill, P.J. wrote him a letter: “I can’t personally speak for the others, but we taught Sharon better manners than to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. I will duly reprimand her for such careless and inconsiderate bloodletting.”
The letter didn’t go over well with Altobelli. He filed a lawsuit against Sharon’s estate, contending that Sharon and Roman broke their lease agreement by allowing Gibbie and Woytek to live there. The lawsuit stated: “As a direct and proximate cause of trespassory conduct of Abigail Folger and Woytek Frykowski, and each of them, the Plaintiff’s furniture, furnishings, and other personal property in said main house were damaged, destroyed, and depreciated in an amount not less than $15,000. . . . As a further direct cause of said conduct of defendants . . . the interior and exterior structure of said main house and adjacent lawns, gardens, and shrubbery have been damaged, destroyed, and depreciated of not less than $15,000. . . . Plaintiff is informed, believes, and alleges that as a direct and proximate cause of said conduct of defendants . . . the real property thereon have been damaged and depreciated . . . [to] an amount not less than $150,000.”
After Life published Roman’s story, Altobelli used the article as justification to sue Sharon’s estate for an additional $300,000 for “embarrassment, humiliation, emotional, and mental distress.” Furthermore, Altobelli noted, he was entitled to exemplary damages of $200,000 because of the “defendants’ willful, deliberate, and malicious” conduct.
Oddly, in the midst of the pending lawsuit, Altobelli contradicted his ill feelings when, during an interview, he claimed he’d grown fond of Sharon. “She had a kind of warmth, a niceness, which you sensed immediately on meeting her.”
Maybe in Altobelli’s circle $480,000 was an attainable sum of money, but Sharon made a quarter of that in her entire lifetime, and it would take P.J. and me the next twenty years combined to come up with that money. So we spent the next two years concerned that the lawsuit would financially devastate us.
The $4,350 judgment Altobelli eventually received hardly seemed worth all the hardship. After his victory, Altobelli commented, “This was not a personal vendetta against Sharon Tate or her family, it was just business.”
I suppose that during the intervening months before the police apprehended the killers, all that transpired in the media was just that, business. In any event, the price paid was too high. As the victims lay defenseless in their graves, the press and others stole their innocence, identity, and dignity as surely as the killers had stolen their lives.
5
A MILLION TO ONE
My finest, happiest memory of Sharon? I cannot allow myself that privilege.
—DORIS TATE
Doris
It was the summer of 1961 in Verona, Italy. In a month, P.J. would complete his two-year assignment at Camp Passalacqua, and we could return to the United States.
Up until Sharon’s high school graduation that spring, we were right on course, living as an average family with average problems; we had uneventful days, good times and bad, arguments and laughter. However, during her graduation dinner, Sharon veered us right off that course and into unknown territory when she announced that she wasn’t going to college.
Sharon was too young to remember, but her career began when she was six months old. In 1943 P.J.’s mother submitted Sharon’s pictures to toddler beauty contests. I didn’t think much of Nannie Tate’s efforts until she proudly presented me with Sharon’s first winning title, Miss Tiny Tot of Dallas, and a $50 savings bond.
Through Sharon’s adolescence and early teens, she entered other contests in a variety of cities as the Army transferred P.J. from one state to another. By sixteen, Sharon considered a career in modeling after she won the Miss Richland beauty pageant. Her next step would have been competing for the Miss America title, but as Sharon made plans to enter the pageant, P.J. received his orders for Italy.
When I told Sharon we were moving, she flatly announced, “I’m not going.”
I laughed. “Don’t be silly, of course you’re going.”
In an effort to stay behind in the States, Sharon pulled every antic she could think of, including the silent treatment, a starvation strike, and refusal to pack. It turned into a battle of the wits between us, but I held my own, and Sharon’s refusal to pack left her scrambling through the garbage. “That’s okay, darlin’,” I told her. “I’ll pack for you.” In lieu of suitcases, I used the trash cans.
Sharon could throw a tantrum with the best of them, and the day we left for Italy she got onto the transatlantic ship all but kicking and screaming.
The rest of the family managed the transfer, but the move was tough on Sharon. It took months before she picked up the pieces by making new friends, and halfheartedly modeling for army publications such as Stars and Stripes and the Army Times. By spring we’d all settled into a comfortable routine. Then Pat Boone arrived in Italy to film his summer special.
The Venice backdrop was the perfect setting for Boone to sing his love songs. The sponsors, however, were concerned that the exotic look of European women would tarnish Boone’s wholesome appeal, so they insisted that American women be cast to surround him on the show.
Boone’s talent scout found Camp Passalacqua and Sharon. At first, P.J. and I were firmly against Sharon doing the show, but with only a day left to cast girls, the scout was persistent. “Mrs. Tate, Pat is rehearsing in Venice today. Why don’t you come meet him and see exactly what we’ll be doing with Sharon,” he suggested.
Forty-five minutes later, Sharon and I arrived at the romantically picturesque Grand Canal near St. Mark’s Square. When we were introduced to Pat Boone, he lived up to his charming reputation. “Mrs. Tate, if we have to, my wife and I will personally keep an eye on Sharon. You have my word, she’ll be safe,” he promised.
The next day, Sharon came out of the costume trailer all dolled up. A tailored blue satin dress with a matching wide-brimmed hat made her the prettiest girl on the set—until a gusting wind ripped away the hat, and wildly tossed her hair into a gnarled mess.
The shoot was equally disastrous. The gale force pushed the canal waves over the boat’s edges, soaking the occupants, and made Sharon seasick for days after. God knows why, but the experience of the Boone show hooked Sharon on the entertainment industry.
Against my instincts as to what was best for her, I allowed her to work as an extra on the movies filming around Verona. The pay wasn’t very much, $1.60 per day, plus a sandwich and a glass of wine at lunch. Even so, Sharon loved it. For the next year she took every opportunity that came her way, including work on the films Barabbas, Vengeance of the Three Musketeers, and Hemingway’s Adventures of a Young Man.
On the set of Hemingway’s Adventures of a Young Man, Sharon met actor Richard Beymer, and following a couple of dates, the two became inseparable while he was in Verona. She genuinely cared for Richard, but I imagine she also saw him as her way out of Italy and into Hollywood.
Handsome and charismatic, Richard won P.J.’s confidence and mine—at least until we found out he was prompting Sharon to go to Hollywood. That evening, during Sharon’s graduation dinner, the dining room turned into a sparring arena as she grappled for independence. With all the confidence she could muster, Sharon said, “Richard said he’ll introduce me to his agent in California.”
“Maybe after college,” P.J. said absently.
“I’m not going to college; I’m going to California,” she timidly announced.
That caught his attention. “The hell you are.”
“College isn’t going to help me become a better actress,” she challenged.
All of us jumped when P.J. slammed his hand down on the table. “Dammit, Sharon Marie, you are going to get a proper education. End of subject.”
Stubborn as he was—like an irritating hemorrhoid—I seldom bothered to challenge one of P.J.’s flare-ups, and Sharon knew better, too. Beneath the table, I crossed my fingers that she’d follow my quiet example; nevertheless, she called upon her father’s genes. “You can’t stop me this time,” she said defiantly.
P.J.’s eyes were ablaze. “Watch me. How do you think you’re going to get there? And where do you think you’re going to live?”
“I’ll use my graduation money and savings bond, and Richard said I could stay with him until I get on my feet.”
The force with which P.J. stood and toppled his chair startled us all. “Oh, you can live with Richard—as his nurse, because I’m going to break every goddamn bone in his body!”
Then Sharon shot up, too. “You’re impossible!” she shouted as she tossed her napkin on the table and then ran to her room.
I let out a sigh of relief. Round one was over.
Rounds two, three, and four didn’t go much better, but then the odds tipped in Sharon’s favor. P.J. received his next assignment. Wouldn’t you know it, we were going to San Pedro, California, just south of Los Angeles.
The news of the transfer led to a compromise. Sharon could go to California two months ahead of the family under the condition that she attend college while pursuing an acting career.
I was a bundle of nerves as her plane glided down the runway and lifted toward the States. Frightened as I was of flying, a feeling of dread overcame me as her plane disappeared into the horizon. It was our first separation.
In the early years of Sharon’s life, she and I were mostly on our own while P.J. fought in the war. Trying to raise a child alone in the mid-1940s was tough enough; trying to raise a child prone to unexplained illnesses was even tougher. On several occasions, I rushed Sharon to the hospital for high fevers and spasms. Frustrated with the doctors who couldn’t define her condition, I left the hospital the third time and never bothered to return, deciding I was the only one capable of nursing her. During the restless, lonely nights of willing away fevers with cold compresses, I became increasingly overprotective of her; she was all I had.
From across the sea, Sharon called daily to update me on her progress in California. In spite of our steady contact, I felt fragmented without her, and a mountain of anxiety was building inside me.
Hindsight makes everything clearer, but initially, no one noticed the clues to my impending breakdown: I couldn’t eat or sleep, I did my household chores erratically, and I was listless much of the time.
Secretly, I took the train to Venice to see if a psychologist could help me through the anxiety. “Sharon’s so far away,” I explained to the doctor, “I’m worried she’ll be hurt, and I won’t be able to get to her fast enough to help.”
“Mrs. Tate, what do you think is going to happen to your daughter?” the doctor asked.
“I’m not sure. I just have a horrible feeling she will be attacked or maybe even murdered.”
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he smiled. “Now what do you think the chances of your daughter being murdered are?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try a million to one,” he reassured. “Now you give that statistic some thought, and I think you’ll see how irrational your fears are.”
The doctor sent me on my way with a prescription for sleeping pills and a statistic, neither of which helped. Within a week, I was hiding behind so many pills, I couldn’t get out of bed.
Along with the next doctor came a diagnosis of acute separation anxiety disorder. The doctor offered only one quick remedy. Sharon unhappily returned to Italy.
Eight years later in California, Sharon’s death raised all the same symptoms, the listlessness, the depression, and the crying spells. The attending physician gave virtually the same diagnosis, only this time he didn’t have an immediate solution.
Some referred to my illness in Italy as a nervous breakdown. After Sharon’s murder, I referred to it as a premonition. There was another premonition haunting me; a dream I had just after Sharon moved into the Cielo house.
In the dream, I’m with Sharon in the Cielo living room. An uninvited cowboy comes through the front door. The two of us are on the couch while the cowboy stands near the fireplace, chatting up a storm. He seemed friendly enough until he ripped two guns from his belt. His voice, now a throaty baritone, avowed, “Today you will die.”
The first blast of the gun sent me to my knees, crawling behind the couch for shelter from the next six shots. I assumed Sharon had followed, but when I turned, I was alone.
As suddenly as the uproar began, it ended. In the stillness, I gathered the courage to peer around the back of the couch. Only a cloud of smoke remained where the cowboy had stood. “Sharon?” I called out. From the silence, I knew she had never made it off the couch.
P.J.
Everyone deals with grief differently. Roman’s way was to close and seal the chapter of his life with Sharon. On the day of the Life magazine interview, Roman took his personal belongings from the house, and then left behind everything else that encompassed their marriage, including Sharon’s Ferrari and estate, which he s
igned over to me.
Plagued by Altobelli’s lawsuit, I went to Cielo in order to restore the house to its premurders condition. Victor Lownes had arranged for a studio crew to clean the house, but apparently, they took one look and hightailed it back to Paramount. Driving through the gate, I wondered if I’d be any braver? On the apron of the driveway, I drove past where Steve Parent’s car had been and thought about my wife’s dream. It was crazy to give it any validation. Yet I couldn’t help myself as I parked next to the house.
The grounds were oppressively quiet. Aside from the shadows of the past and a guard posted at the gate, I was isolated—an existence in which I was becoming increasingly adept.
On the porch I sidestepped pools of blood, now sunbaked black. I paused at the front door. Upon each occasion I’d entered this house before, my adrenaline rushed with excitement waiting for Sharon to answer. This time, my adrenaline rushed as well as I looked at the blood inscription on the door left by the killer. The sun had faded the red letters. Still, they blasted a warning of what lay beyond. My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob, and while I did, the excessive black fingerprint dust caused me to wonder if my hand overlay the killer’s imprint. The instant I opened the door, the house came to life with a broiling exhale that eased past me as though it had waited patiently for just that moment to escape. I followed the blood trail into the entry hall where I found two blue steamer trunks side by side. A piece of clothing was caught in the closed seam of one of the lids. I knelt between the trunks before unhinging the latches. Sharon’s unmistakable scent escaped the confines when I opened the lid. The blood beneath my knees was momentarily forgotten as I reached for the bottle of perfume that had leaked down the side of the case.
Beyond the entry hall, the rancor of the murders remained in the living room with a morose fear that unsettled the atmosphere. Overturned pillows, books, scripts, pictures, upended plants, knickknacks, and the bloody sheets that must have covered Sharon and Jay’s bodies were strewn over the floor. Some of the disarray was the result of the murders, the rest from the police looking for evidence. But the blood; the police couldn’t be blamed for that. There were scarlet splashes in every direction.
Restless Souls Page 7