The subtext of his comment was clear to me: Drugs or no drugs, Jay didn’t do anything to bring on the murders. And if someone cleaned Jay’s house of drugs, it was a harmless act to protect his family.
The short time I’d been on the phone, I fiddled with a bottle of Sebring brand shampoo. Beneath the bottle lay Guy’s disturbing report on Jay and Sebring International.
In spite of the growing business and his penchant for extravagance, he was more than a quarter of a million dollars in debt. In the last year, he’d borrowed money from everyone, $5,000 from Gibbie, $2,700 from Sharon, even $6,000 from his dentist. Was there a loan we hadn’t uncovered?
The police found two vials of cocaine in his car, and tiny packets of the drug in his briefcase. When I finally met up with another of Jay’s friends, Jim Coburn, he confirmed that there was coke stashed all over the house when it was cleaned. Jay was like a son to me; how could I have missed all the signs of the trouble brewing in his life?
My mind drifted to a better year, a different house, and the day that Jay proposed to Sharon. He’d done it by the book and arrived early the day before to ask my permission. He actually used the ridiculous words, “May I have your blessing to take your daughter’s hand in marriage?”
I stifled a laugh, popped open a couple of beers, and told him, “Sure. What the hell.”
The next day, he and Sharon came for dinner. In the middle of grilling steaks on the barbecue, Jay got down on one knee and popped the question to Sharon. As I watched the romantic spectacle, the urge to laugh was there again, but this time it was stifled by the thought that we’d gotten damn lucky to have Jay for a son-in-law. He was a good man and good to Sharon. What more could a father ask for?
My hand still rested on the phone when its ring brought me back to the present. “Tate here,” I answered.
“Candy Bergen may know something about the murders.” The line went dead.
Unlike some of the anonymous calls, I took this one seriously. Candice Bergen and Terry Melcher had lived at the Cielo house eight months before the murders.
Bergen had had many weeks to contemplate escaping Sharon’s fate. By the time she agreed to a phone conversation, she’d calmed to terrified. Her call pulled us into the eddy of the gossip pool. She related a thirdhand rumor, a variation of Jim Mitchum’s story on Billy Doyle. In her version, Doyle flew to Jamaica to buy a large amount of dope for Abigail and Woytek. When the money didn’t arrive from Los Angeles, Doyle returned in a rage over the blown deal. Packing a gun, he went to Cielo, threatening to kill Woytek. Jay helped Woytek overtake Doyle and together, they took him to Cass Elliot’s house, tied him to a tree, then raped him in front of an audience of twelve. Doyle vowed revenge.
It was time to track down Doyle.
“P.J., don’t waste your time,” Helder said. “Doyle passed a polygraph.”
“I want to talk with him myself.”
“You know I can’t give you that information.”
I started to argue, but Helder cut me off. “Listen, have you ever been fishing in the Toronto area? I’ve even thought of buying some property up there. You should check it out. My other line’s blinking. Catch you later.”
Preoccupied with anger over Helder’s withholding information, I almost missed the tip.
FROM A PARKING lot across the street, Guy and I watched Doyle
lock the door to his father’s real estate office in Toronto, Canada.
“Is that him?” I asked.
Guy compared a picture of Doyle. “Yep.”
“Smaller than I figured.”
“Yep. They always are,” Guy said.
As Doyle pulled out his car keys, Guy stepped forward. “Hi, Billy. I’m special agent Morreau and this is Colonel Tate.” He dropped his sunglasses down his nose, squinting at Doyle. “You sure don’t look like a freaked-out candy man.”
The keys jangled in Doyle’s hand. “That’s because I’m not,” he said, missing the car lock twice.
Guy reached for the keys. “Here, let me help you with those, you’re gonna scratch the paint.”
“I already told the police everything I know,” Doyle whined.
“You’re not going to cry are you, Billy? P.J., check his pants and make sure he didn’t wet them.”
Doyle leaned against the car, his arms wrapped across his chest. “What do you want?”
My role was the good guy. “We just want to talk.”
“I’ve seen pictures of you. You’re Sharon’s father, right?”
“That’s right. Why don’t you let us buy you a beer?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Good, the tab will be cheaper,” Guy said, firmly leading him by the arm.
We sat in the last booth of a gloomy pub. Doyle’s fidgety moves squeaked on the red plastic bench while his fingers rolled a paper place mat. “Sharon was a lovely girl. She never took drugs or drank like they’re saying.”
“Well, there’s your first lie, boy,” I admonished. “I’ve come a long way to talk to you, and it sure as hell wasn’t to listen to a bunch of fabricated crap.”
Doyle’s voice shifted to a clipping staccato. “I’m not lying. I never saw Sharon high. Ever.”
“How well did you know my daughter?”
“Not well at all. I went to a party at her house in January. I saw her at some other parties. Once at Jay’s, once at John Phillips’s, and then I didn’t see her again until July.”
“I hear you crashed that party at Cielo and then threatened some folks,” Guy said.
“I did no such thing. I was an invited guest. Woytek invited me, and Roman invited Cass. We were invited as a couple.”
“What about the threats?” I asked.
“You’ve got the wrong man; that was Pic Dawson.”
“If you’re such a good guy, why’s everyone pointing the finger at you?” Guy asked.
“This mess was started by John Phillips. As I’m sure you know, I was living with Cass Elliot until a few weeks before the murders. I love Cass; we have a lot in common. After the murders, John convinced her that I killed all those people. She believed it and told the police a bunch of false things about me. She has since apologized.”
“Why did Phillips have it out for you? Did you ball his wife?” Guy quizzed him.
“No, but Roman did. Has anyone considered that John did this for revenge?”
“Let’s concentrate on you for the moment,” I told him.
“Michelle Phillips is a cobra. I couldn’t be less interested in her. As for John, he’s a violent fellow who liked to settle all of his arguments with Cass by hitting her. I stopped that, and he’s never liked me since.”
Doyle seemed too composed to Guy. He decided to shake him up and see what spilled out. “Tell us about the time Woytek tied you to a tree and balled you in the ass.”
“I, uh, I—he didn’t, Woytek invited me up to the house to do some mescaline. I only remember a bit of the party.” Doyle stopped, rolled his eyes, defeated. “I can’t give you the facts. I was unconscious. But I wasn’t sore there the next day, and I was sore everywhere else.”
“Tell us what you do remember,” I said.
“Woytek and I had been drinking a lot of Champagne and we got into a disagreement. He was a Communist and bountifully anti-Nazi. I made the mistake of saying that Asiatic communism was the worst political system in the world. Woytek became hysterical, saying the Nazis were the worst. After that, I remember Woytek said he’d given me an overdose; not maliciously, just to kind of get back at me as a joke. I was really high and needed something to bring me down. He brought me some pills that he said were Sharon’s—very mild sedatives. After I took about eight of them, he told me they were something else and started laughing. I went crazy, throwing things and such. They called my friend Charles Tacot. He took me to Cass’s house and chained me to a tree for eight hours.”
“Are you still dealing?” Guy asked.
“I never did. It’s true, I told people that I had lots
of coke—pounds of it—but it was all hype. All these famous people were having parties, and there’d be thirty naked girls—mostly groupies—who wanted to get laid, but their price was a nose full of coke and I wanted to fuck them all.”
“Was this crap going on up at Cielo?” I asked.
“Only when Gibbie and Sharon were out of town, and then only for the five-week period that Woytek had run of the house.”
“Who were you getting the coke from?” Guy asked.
“No one in particular, wherever it could be found.”
“What about this big shipment of MDA everyone’s buzzing about? Was Woytek setting up shop in L.A.?” Guy persisted.
“Woytek led a truly social life. Nevertheless, the rumor of Woytek being a drug dealer is ridiculous. He barely spoke English. Anyone who represents Woytek as being a bad fellow has something to gain or hide. He was a good man, a good friend, and he was never strung out the way they’re writing about him. His other flaw was that he wouldn’t marry Gibbie. He loved her, but hated her wealth.”
“What about Gibbie?” I asked.
“She was madly in love with Woytek, but she would have left him if he didn’t marry her.”
“I meant, was she using?” I prodded.
“No way. This was a girl who thought it was incredibly mischievous to take a toke off someone else’s joint. Perhaps she was different around others, but she didn’t use drugs in my presence. It’s a bunch of nonsense what they’re writing in the newspapers about those girls. I didn’t know Sharon all that well, but I knew Gibbie. They were lovely girls, Mr. Tate. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
Guy gave me a knowing glance. Another dead end.
SUBSEQUENT TO EVERYTHING I’d heard about Cass Elliot, I expected to find a brothel instead of a two-story Cape Cod tucked into layers of tropical greenery. A fountain splashed additional tranquillity; my knock on her door would have sounded intrusive even if I’d known the singer. I reached to knock again. “I heard you the first time,” said a voice from behind the door. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sharon Tate’s father. My name is Paul.”
A security chain kept the door from opening further than an inch. “They said you might come here. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Sometimes the police don’t ask the right questions. If I could have just five minutes of your time.”
Elliot stepped back. I heard a pistol being disarmed; by the sound of the slide action, I guessed it to be a Walther PPK.
“I’m sorry about Sharon,” Elliot said, opening the door.
We sat in rocking chairs on the front porch. For such a large woman she had a tiny and frail demeanor. “Sharon murdered right in her own living room . . . I’m scared—beyond scared—I jump if my neighbor coughs.”
“How did you meet Sharon?” I eased her into the subject.
“Steve Brandt—I guess you know he tried to commit suicide?”
I nodded. Brandt did publicity work for Sharon and other entertainers. His attempted suicide raised a flag of suspicion; but his stories were so fantastic that the LAPD dismissed him as a possible suspect or witness.
“He planned all of Michelle and John’s parties,” Elliot continued. “He must have invited Sharon and Roman to one of them. After that, Roman was up at their house a lot more than Sharon. He didn’t like me so much after I found out about him and Michelle. Strange guy. It didn’t matter if Sharon knew, but when it came to John, that was another story.”
“Did you tell John?”
“No. By that point, we had enough problems in the group. John would have turned it around and made it my fault. He did find out though; Michelle told him during an argument.”
“Billy Doyle said John was pretty violent. Do you think he’s violent enough to murder Sharon for revenge on Roman?”
“I just don’t know anymore. Everyone suspects everyone. I’ve watched friends turn on friends over this. It’s crazy.”
“What made you think Doyle and Dawson were the killers?”
“I didn’t. It was Brandt and John. They said the ‘pig’ inscription on Sharon’s door was actually Pic [Dawson]. John blamed me for bringing killers into our group, blamed me for Sharon’s death, and said the police were going to arrest me as an accomplice. I was mortified. They completely convinced me that my daughter and I would be murdered next. At that point, I would have said anything to get them behind bars.”
“So there’s no one you suspect from the Canadian group?”
“No. Contrary to the gossip, I didn’t invite a bunch of drug-dealing strangers to come live with me. I’d known these guys a long time. Granted, neither of them are angels, but I don’t believe they’re killers. I’ve probably ruined their lives by telling the police that they were.”
“In all the parties that you went to, is there anyone that didn’t seem to belong, any event out of the ordinary?”
“What was strange? Who didn’t fit in would be what you consider the norm. It was a constant party at John and Michelle’s. A hundred people could pass through when we recorded there and I wouldn’t know seventy-five of them.”
Cass’s head drooped. “In the beginning we were dreaming about making miracles. The music, the money, the drugs, even the weird behavior—it all seemed right. I don’t even know how it all went so wrong, but I guess it’s over now, isn’t it?”
AT THE SAME time I interviewed Cass Elliot, Frankie made an unannounced visit to John and Michelle Phillips. Later, we met at the top of Fryman Canyon to compare notes.
“How’d it go?” I asked when Frankie pulled up.
He let out a long whistle. “We’re talking out there. My greeting was a half-dozen security guys accosting me while Phillips hid behind them like a bullied kid in the park.”
“What’s he so afraid of?”
“Well, that was kind of interesting. He swears that Doyle and Dawson are the killers and they’re coming after him for making them to the cops. He claims that he got to know Folger and Frykowski through Polanski. Spent a lot of time at the Cielo house while Sharon was in Italy. Says that when Folger was present the place was pretty mild, but when she wasn’t, there’d be twenty or so naked partiers doing mass quantities of drugs—drugs supplied by Doyle and Dawson. They might be married, but she’s carrying on with half of Hollywood, and he’s doing the other half and proud of it—even offered to show me his personal sex videos.
“The missus followed me out to the car. When I asked if she had something on her mind, she seemed very concerned that the police considered her husband a suspect and wanted to know why. So I asked her straight up if there was any reason Phillips would have any animosity toward anyone at Sharon’s house, and that’s when she admitted Phillips found out about the affair she had had with Polanski in London—feels really bad about it now with Sharon dead and all.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Nah. It was tough to keep a straight face while he denied using drugs himself because the place reeked of grass. First, it’s Dawson and Doyle, then he says it’s the Mafia and he’s next on their murder list— hit men have been following him. Then he babbled about drugs, psychics, and some guy out in the desert that steals your soul. I couldn’t keep it all straight. If he knows anything, it’s lost in whatever’s left of his brain.”
RATHER THAN WASTE hours sleeplessly tossing and turning the night away, I ran surveillance at the Cielo house in case the killer returned to relish his crime scene. Above Cielo Drive, another cul-de-sac provided a vantage point of the entire neighborhood. Through field glasses, I’d watched dozens of cars trek up to the gate. From Mercedes to Datsuns, the curious came from every lifestyle.
Midnight struck while I stretched my legs under the moonless sky. Coyote yelps traveled through the wind’s careless scattering of sounds, and then the faint roar of Harley-Davidson motorcycles reverberated from the canyon base. Shadowing the echo, a pair of headlights rolled side by side up Benedict Canyon Road. I tracked the b
ikes to Cielo.
Different from the other curiosity seekers, they operated the Harleys with the confidence of knowing their destination. They parked at Sharon’s gate; two dismounted from each chopper. With their long hair, it was tough to tell the men from the women.
They climbed the chain links, vying for a better view, and seemed to be contemplating going over when two guard dogs bounded around the corner of the garage. The aggressive dogs should have sent the foursome scrambling, yet they stayed, taunting the animals into a frenzy. It wasn’t until the neighbor’s light illuminated the street that they bolted.
There is only one way in or out of Benedict Canyon, south into Beverly Hills or north toward the valley. I gave them a half-mile lead before following their trail north.
There is never a quiet time on the Los Angeles freeway system, including the one o’clock hour that I mounted the eastbound ramp of the 101 freeway in Sherman Oaks. I closed the gap between the Harleys as we headed deeper into the valley, toward Ventura. Thirty miles into the trip, they exited onto Topanga Canyon, riding toward desert terrain.
Past the suburban area, the road was desolate, forcing me to cut my headlights. Ahead, the motorcycle lights sliced through the blackness, assaulting the serene landscape as they made a sharp left turn, then another, before dipping into a basin.
The first violet glints showed in the sky before I chanced the turn down the isolated Santa Susana Pass. I matched the speed of the bikers, and then counted their seventy-five-second trip. At the next driveway, I stopped near a splintered wooden sign with a sun-faded inscription: SPAHN’S MOVIE RANCH. Silhouetted beyond the placard, was a mock western town. Cars, Jeeps, choppers, and psychedelic signs infiltrated the Wild West boardwalk.
For a better look at the layout, I backtracked to Topanga, then up Devil’s Canyon Highway to the first plateau above Santa Susana Pass.
To the right of the western town stood a rundown house opposite corralled horses that looked as uncared for as the auto shells, rusty appliances, toppled coaches, and trash that filled the remaining areas. Behind the main boardwalk were trailers. Beyond the trailers, shacks and tents were scattered in the rocky foothills.
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