Helter Skelter

by Vincent Bugliosi

  According to the manager, Pugh had checked into the room on October 27 with a young lady who had left after three weeks. A “hippie in appearance,” Pugh was quiet, went out rarely, seemed to have no friends.

  There being “no wound not incapable of being self-inflicted,” the coroner’s inquest concluded that Pugh “took his own life while the balance of his mind was disturbed.”

  Although the circumstances of the death, including the wounds themselves, were equally if not more consistent with murder, it was considered a routine suicide. No one thought the drawings or writings important enough to take down (the manager later recalled only the words “Jack and Jill”). No attempt was made to determine the time of death. Nor, though Pugh’s room was on the ground floor and could be entered and left through the window, did anyone feel it necessary to check for latent prints.

  At the time no one connected the death with the big American news that day. If it hadn’t been for a brief reference in a letter over a month later, we probably would have remained unaware that Joel Dean Pugh, age twenty-nine, former Manson Family member and husband of Family member Sandra Good, had joined the lengthening list of mysterious deaths connected with the case.

  When she and Squeaky moved out of their motel room in Independence, Sandy left some papers behind. Among them was a letter from an unidentified former Family member which contained the line: “I would not want what happened to Joel to happen to me.”

  DECEMBER 3, 1969

  About eight that night Richard Caballero brought the Susan Atkins tape to LAPD. He requested that no copy be made; however, I was allowed to take notes. In addition to myself, both Lieutenants Helder and LePage and four or five detectives were present while the tape was being played. We said little as, with all the casualness of a child reciting what she did that day in school, Susan Atkins matter-of-factly described the slaughter of seven people.

  The voice was that of a young girl. But except for occasional giggles—“And Sharon went through quite a few changes [laughs], quite a few changes”—it was flat, emotionless, dead. It was as if all the human feelings had been erased. What kind of creature is this? I wondered.

  I’d soon know. Caballero had agreed that before we took the case to the grand jury, I could personally interview Susan Atkins.

  The tape lasted about two hours. Although the monumental job of proving their guilt remained, when the tape had ended—Caballero saying to Susan, “O.K., now we’re going to get you something to eat, including some ice cream”—we at least knew, for the first time, exactly who had been involved in the Tate and LaBianca murders.

  Though Manson had sent the killers to 10050 Cielo Drive, he had not gone along himself. Those who did go were Charles “Tex” Watson, Susan Atkins, Patricia Krenwinkel, and Linda Kasabian. One man, three girls, who would mercilessly shoot and stab five people to death.

  Manson, however, did enter the Waverly Drive residence the next night, to tie up Rosemary and Leno LaBianca. He then sent in Watson, Krenwinkel, and Leslie Van Houten, aka Sankston, with instructions to “kill them.”

  Susan Atkins herself hadn’t been inside the LaBianca residence. She had remained in the car with Clem and Linda. But she had heard—from Manson, Krenwinkel, and Van Houten—what had occurred inside.

  Though the tape cleared up some mysteries, many remained. And there were discrepancies. For example, although Susan admitted stabbing the big man (Frykowski) five or six times, “in self-defense,” she said nothing about stabbing Sharon Tate. In contrast to what she had told Virginia Graham and Ronnie Howard, Susan now claimed that she had held Sharon while Tex stabbed her.

  Returning to my office, I did what I do after every interview—converted my notes into a tentative interrogation. I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask Sadie Mae Glutz.

  Linda Kasabian waived extradition proceedings and was flown back to Los Angeles that same day. She was booked into Sybil Brand at 11:15 P.M. Aaron was there, as was Linda’s attorney, Gary Fleischman. Though Fleischman permitted her to ID some photographs of various Family members which Aaron had, he would not let Aaron question her. Aaron did ask her how she felt, and she replied, “Tired, but relieved.” Aaron got the impression that Linda herself was anxious to tell what she knew but that Fleischman was holding out for a deal.

  DECEMBER 4, 1969

  CONFIDENTIAL MEMORANDUM

  TO: EVELLE J. YOUNGER

  District Attorney

  FROM: AARON H. STOVITZ

  Head, Trials Division

  SUBJECT: SUSAN ATKINS

  A meeting was held today in Mr. Younger’s office, commencing at 10:20 A.M. and concluding at 11 A.M. Present at the meeting were Mr. Younger, Paul Caruso, Richard Caballero, Aaron Stovitz and Vincent Bugliosi.

  Discussion was had as to whether or not immunity should be given to Susan Atkins in exchange for her testimony at the Grand Jury hearing and subsequent trial. It was decided that she would not be given immunity.

  Mr. Caballero made it known that at this moment his client may not testify at the trial due to her fear of the physical presence of Charles Manson and the other participants in the Sharon Tate murders.

  Discussion was held concerning the value of Susan Atkins’ testimony. Agreement was reached upon the following points:

  1. That Susan Atkins’ information has been vital to law enforcement.

  2. In view of her past cooperation and in the event that she testifies truthfully at the Grand Jury, the prosecution will not seek the death penalty against her in any of the three cases that are now known to the police; namely, the Hinman murder, the Sharon Tate murders, and the LaBianca murders.

  3. The extent to which the District Attorney’s Office will assist Defense Counsel in an attempt to seek less than a first degree murder, life sentence, will depend upon the extent to which Susan Atkins continues to cooperate.

  4. That in the event that Susan Atkins does not testify at the trial or that the prosecution does not use her as a witness at the trial, the prosecution will not use her testimony, given at the Grand Jury, against her.

  Caballero had made an excellent deal, as far as his client was concerned. If she testified truthfully before the grand jury, we could not seek the death penalty against her in the Hinman, Tate, and LaBianca cases; nor could we use her grand jury testimony against her or any of her co-defendants when they were brought to trial. As Caballero later put it, “She gave up nothing and got everything in return.”

  For our part, I felt we got very much the short end. Susan Atkins would tell her story at the grand jury. We’d get an indictment. And that would be all we would have, a scrap of paper. For Caballero was convinced she would never testify at the trial. He was worried that even now she might suddenly change her mind.

  We had no choice but to rush the case to the grand jury, which was meeting the following day.

  Our case was getting a little stronger. The previous day Sergeant Sam McLarty of the Mobile Police Department had taken Patricia Krenwinkel’s prints. On receiving the exemplar from Mobile, Sergeant Frank Marz of LAPD “made” one print. The print of the little finger on Krenwinkel’s left hand matched a latent print officer Boen had lifted from the frame on the left French door inside Sharon Tate’s bedroom. This was the blood-splattered door that led outside to the pool.

  We now had a second piece of physical evidence linking still another of the suspects to the crime scene.

  But we didn’t have either suspect. Like Watson, Krenwinkel intended to fight extradition. She would be held fourteen days without bond. If extradition papers were not there before the fifteenth day, she would be released.

  Caballero drove me to his office in Beverly Hills. By the time we arrived, about 5:30 P.M., Susan Atkins was already there, having been taken out of Sybil Brand on the basis of another court order, requested by Aaron. Caballero had suggested that Susan would be much more apt to speak freely with me in the relaxed atmosphere of his office than at Sybil Brand, and Miller Leavy, Aaron, and I had agreed. />
  Although she had opened up to both Virginia Graham and Ronnie Howard, my interview with Susan Atkins on the Tate-LaBianca murders was the first she had had with any law-enforcement officer. It would also be the last.

  Twenty-one years old, five feet five, 120 pounds, long brown hair, brown eyes, a not unattractive face, but with a distant, far-off look, similar to the expressions of Sandy and Squeaky but even more pronounced.

  Although this was the first time I had seen Susan Atkins, I already knew quite a bit about her. Born in San Gabriel, California, she had grown up in San Jose. Her mother had died of cancer while Susan was still in her teens, and, after numerous quarrels with her father, she’d dropped out of high school and drifted to San Francisco. Hustler, topless dancer, kept woman, gun moll—she’d been all these things even before meeting Charles Manson. I had a certain amount of pity for her. I tried my best to understand her. But I couldn’t summon up very much compassion, not after having seen the photographs of what had been done to the Tate victims.

  After Caballero introduced us, I informed her of her constitutional rights and obtained permission to interview her.

  A male and female deputy sheriff sat just outside the open door of Caballero’s office, watching Susan’s every move. Caballero remained for most of the interview, leaving only to take a few phone calls. I had Susan tell me the whole story, from the time she first met Manson in Haight-Ashbury in 1967 to the present. Periodically I’d halt her narrative to ask questions.

  “Were you, Tex, or any of the others under the influence of LSD or any other drug on the night of the Tate murders?”

  “No.”

  “What about the next night, the night the LaBiancas were killed?”

  “No. Neither night.”

  There was something mysterious about her. She would talk rapidly for a few minutes, then pause, head slightly cocked to the side, as if sensing voices no one else could.

  “You know,” she confided, “Charlie is looking at us right now and he can hear everything we are saying.”

  “Charlie is up in Independence, Sadie.”

  She smiled, secure in the knowledge that she was right and I, an outsider, an unbeliever, was wrong.

  Looking at her, I thought to myself, This is the star witness for the prosecution? I’m going to build my case upon the testimony of this very, very strange girl?

  She was crazy. I had no doubt about it. Probably not legally insane, but crazy nonetheless.

  As on the tape, she admitted stabbing Frykowski but denied stabbing Sharon Tate. I’d conducted hundreds of interviews; you get a sort of visceral reaction when someone is lying. I felt that she had stabbed Sharon but didn’t want to admit it to me.

  I had to interview over a dozen witnesses that same night: Winifred Chapman, the first police officers to arrive at Cielo and Waverly, Granado and the fingerprint men, Lomax from Hi Standard, Coroner Noguchi and Deputy Medical Examiner Katsuyama, DeCarlo, Melcher, Jakobson. Each presented special problems. Winifred Chapman was petulant, querulous: she wouldn’t testify to seeing any bodies, or any blood, or…Coroner Noguchi was a rambler: he had to be carefully prepared so he would stick to the subject. Danny DeCarlo hadn’t been believable in the Beausoleil trial: I had to make sure the grand jury believed him. It was necessary not only to extract from very disparate witnesses, many of them experts in their individual fields, exactly what was relevant, but to bring these pieces together into a solid, convincing case.

  Seven murder victims, multiple defendants: a case like this was not only probably unprecedented, it required weeks of preparation. Because of Chief Davis’ rush to break the news, we’d had only days.

  It was 2 A.M. before I finished. I still had to convert my notes to interrogation. It was 3:30 before I finished. I was up at 6 A.M. In three hours we had to take the Tate and LaBianca cases before the Los Angeles County grand jury.

  DECEMBER 5, 1969

  “Sorry. No comment.” Although grand jury proceedings are by law secret—neither the DA’s Office, the witnesses, nor the jurors being allowed to discuss the evidence—this didn’t keep the reporters from trying. There must have been a hundred newsmen in the narrow hallway outside the grand jury chambers; some were atop tables, so it looked as if they were stacked to the ceiling.

  In Los Angeles the grand jury consists of twenty-three persons, picked by lot from a list of names submitted by each Superior Court judge. Of that number twenty-one were present, two-thirds of whom would have to concur to return an indictment. The proceedings themselves are usually brief. The prosecution presents just enough of its case to get an indictment and no more. Though in this instance the testimony would extend over two days, the “star witness for the prosecution” would tell her story in less than one.

  Attorney Richard Caballero was the first witness, testifying that he had informed his client of her rights. Caballero then left the chambers. Not only are witnesses not allowed to have their attorneys present, each witness testifies outside the hearing of the other witnesses.

  THE SERGEANT AT ARMS “Susan Atkins.”

  The jurors, seven men and fourteen women, looked at her with obvious curiosity.

  Aaron informed Susan of her rights, among which was her right not to incriminate herself. She waived them. I then took over the questioning, establishing that she knew Charles Manson and taking her back to the day they first met. It was over two years ago. She was living in a house on Lyon Street in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, with a number of other young people, most of whom were into drugs.

  A. “…and I was sitting in the living room and a man walked in and he had a guitar with him and all of a sudden he was surrounded by a group of girls.” The man sat down and began to play, “and the song that caught my attention most was ‘The Shadow of Your Smile,’ and he sounded like an angel.”

  Q. “You are referring to Charles Manson?”

  A. “Yes. And when he was through singing, I wanted to get some attention from him, and I asked him if I could play his guitar…and he handed me the guitar and I thought, ‘I can’t play this,’ and then he looked at me and said, ‘You can play that if you want to.’

  “Now he had never heard me say ‘I can’t play this,’ I only thought it. So when he told me I could play it, it blew my mind, because he was inside my head, and I knew at that time that he was something that I had been looking for…and I went down and kissed his feet.”

  A day or two later Manson returned to the house and asked her to go for a walk. “And we walked a couple blocks to another house and he told me he wanted to make love with me.

  “Well, I acknowledged the fact that I wanted to make love with him, and he told me to take off my clothes, so I uninhibitedly took off my clothes, and there happened to be a full-length mirror in the room, and he told me to go over and look at myself in the mirror.

  “I didn’t want to do it, so he took me by my hand and stood me in front of the mirror, and I turned away and he said, ‘Go ahead and look at yourself. There is nothing wrong with you. You are perfect. You always have been perfect.’”

  Q. “What happened next?”

  A. “He asked me if I had ever made love with my father. I looked at him and kind of giggled and I said, ‘No.’ And he said, ‘Have you ever thought about making love with your father?’ I said, ‘Yes.’

  And he told me, ‘All right, when you are making love…picture in your mind that I am your father.’ And I did, I did so, and it was a very beautiful experience.”

  Susan said that before she met Manson she felt she was “lacking something.” But then “I gave myself to him, and in return for that he gave me back to myself. He gave me the faith in myself to be able to know that I am a woman.”

  A week or so later, she, Manson, Mary Brunner, Ella Jo Bailey, Lynette Fromme, and Patricia Krenwinkel, together with three or four boys whose names she couldn’t remember, left San Francisco in an old school bus from which they had removed most of the seats, furnishing it with brightly col
ored rugs and pillows. For the next year and a half they roamed—north to Mendocino, Oregon, Washington; south to Big Sur, Los Angeles, Mexico, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico; and, eventually, back to L.A., living first in various residences in Topanga Canyon, Malibu, Venice, and then, finally, Spahn Ranch. En route others joined them, a few staying permanently, most only temporarily. According to Susan, they went through changes, and learned to love. The girls made love with each of the boys, and with each other. But Charlie was complete love. Although he did not have sex with her often—only six times in the more than two years they were together—“he would give himself completely.”

  Q. “Were you very much in love with him, Susan?”

  A. “I was in love with the reflection and the reflection I speak of is Charlie Manson’s.”

  Q. “Was there any limit to what you would do for him?”

  A. “No.”

  I was laying the foundation for the very heart of my case against Manson, that Susan and the others would do anything for him, up to and including murder at his command.

  Q. “What was it about Charlie that caused you girls to be in love with him and to do what he wanted you to do?”

  A. “Charlie is the only man I have ever met…on the face of this earth…that is a complete man. He will not take back-talk from a woman. He will not let a woman talk him into doing anything. He is a man.”

  Charlie had given her the name Sadie Mae Glutz because “in order for me to be completely free in my mind I had to be able to completely forget the past. The easiest way to do this, to change identity, is by doing so with a name.”