-Caveat Lector- an excerpt from: child of Satan, child of God Logos International �1977 Susan Atkins W/ Bob Slosser Logos International Planview, NJ 07061 ISBN 0-88270-229-7 --[2]-- 13 SLAUGHTER Tex and I had been secretly snorting, or inhaling, Methedrine�crystal speed-for three or four days. In violation of the unspoken family code, we had kept our own private stash and were using it constantly. I had become fond of Tex. He was a tall, string bean, bony Texan with beautiful blue eyes. Suave and at the same time very gentle, he was demonstrably grateful for favors and kindness, unlike many of the men at Spahn's. He was important to life at the ranch because of his mechanical ability. He knew how to maintain machinery and had an uncanny ability to repair just about anything. To Charlie, he was valuable in maintaining our motor vehicles and especially in building and caring for dune buggies. This gave him an independence and high standing among the men at the ranch, especially Charlie. He was also popular with women, but seemed to prefer only one at a time. It is unclear now, but this high standing probably was the reason we felt we could get away with keeping our stash. At any rate, Tex was as sold out to drugs as I was. He had an unusual way, for example, of maximizing the effect when he was tripping out. He would shake his head violently back and forth�his hair whirling and whipping. Then he would hold his head perfectly still while his eyes rolled and a strange, inhuman noise came from his mouth. He would become stoned beyond belief. Tex and I, both stoned, were lounging around the boardwalk on the movie set with seven or eight others on the sweltering night of August 8, 1969. It was Friday night. Charlie walked up and called four of us aside�Tex, Pat, Linda, and myself. He spoke to each of us, together, yet separately: "Get a change of clothes and your knife and go with Tex. Do whatever he says to do." I knew inside we were going out to kill someone. I hesitated. But Charlie looked at me. "I want you to go." When I returned with my things, Charlie and Tex were talking. I was unable to hear what they were saying. Tex was apparently the only one who knew where we were going. I climbed into the front seat of the old Ford alongside Tex. Linda was the only one with a valid driver's license, but Tex did the driving. We were both stoned, but our senses were keen. We were alert. We knew what we were doing. We didn't know who lived there, but we were going to a house Tex had been in before-formerly the home of Terry Melcher, Doris Day's son. We were going to take all the money we could find and kill everybody there. We were racing out of control. We looked at the fence at 10050 Cielo Drive. With a pair of wire cutters brought from the ranch, Tex had cut the telephone wires leading into the house before we parked the car at the bottom of the hill. Cielo Drive is a narrow street winding up sharply from Benedict Canyon Drive, a major thoroughfare running northwest off Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills out into Bel Air. It is a breathtakingly rugged and luxurious residential area, secluded and quiet. Suddenly that whole section, number 10050, was cut out of the world and lifted up into another existence. We were separated from the whole world. Perhaps for the first time in my life I was deeply aware of evil. I was evil. But the four of us-darkly dressed, I in black jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt, and barefoot-didn't stop. Avoiding the high metal gate, we picked a spot in the fence and climbed over one at a time. As I reached the top, the hot air of the ninety-degree night smothered me. I looked around in a fraction of a second. It was crazy. Some multicolored outside Christmas lights were still up along a wall, and they were lighted. I dropped down into a bed of ivy and fell to my hands and knees. Together we began moving up the hill toward the house, keeping low and quiet. The house was about one hundred feet away. Suddenly headlights flashed across the yard. A car was coming down the driveway. "Get down!" Tex whispered sharply. "Stay here." I flattened myself on the grass and the sour taste of panic rose in my throat. Tex disappeared into the darkness and in a moment I heard his voice. "Halt." Silence. Then a different voice sounded in the night. "Please don't hurt me! I won't say anything." Then came four gunshots in quick succession. Tex returned immediately and motioned us forward. When we reached the car, a white Rambler, I saw a young man (Steve Parent, who had been visiting the caretaker, William Garretson, in the guest house at the rear of the property) slumped in the seat. Tex reached inside the car and turned off the lights. The four of us pushed it back up the driveway to the garage area to the right and rear of the main house. We went to the house and three of us waited at a window next to the front door while Tex disappeared around back. In a few minutes he opened the window and Pat and I went inside. Linda remained outside to watch. Quiet in our barefeet, we went into the living room. At first it seemed unoccupied, but we saw a man asleep on a couch. Pat and I moved around behind the couch and Tex, a long .22-caliber revolver in one hand and a knife in the other, stood in front. A coil of rope was slung over his shoulder. Pointing the gun at the man's head, he said sharply, but not loudly, "Wake up." The man, whom we determined later to be Wojiciech (Voytek) Frykowski, a playboy of Polish background, opened his eyes, understandably startled. "Who are you?" he blurted. "What do you want?" Tex then, very matter of factly, uttered the words that still echo in my mind, "I'm the devil, and I'm here to do the devil's business." Still holding the gun on the man, Tex told me to get something to tie his hands. He obviously had other uses for the rope still coiled over his shoulder. I looked all over the living room and went into several others. All I could find was a towel. I grabbed it and rushed back. Tex looked at me rather exasperatedly and told me to tie the man's hands. I did the best I could with the towel, but I knew it wasn't very secure. Tex then told me to go check for other people in the house. I walked down a hall and passed a room where a woman wearing glasses was reading a book. I waved at her, smiled, and kept going. The woman, Abigail Folger, heiress to the Folger coffee fortune, smiled and waved back. I continued on down the hall and came to another bedroom. A very pretty, pregnant woman was in bed, and a man was sitting on the bed. They were talking. They turned out to be Sharon Tate, the actress and wife of movie producer Roman Polanski, and Jay Sebring, an internationally known hair stylist. I was to learn later that this was the home of the beautiful Miss Tate and Polanski, who was out of the country at the time. A noted movie man, Polanski had produced the controversial Rosemary's Baby, a film about a woman who bore a child by Satan. Miss Tate and her visitor continued to talk, apparently not seeing me. I found no one else in the house. Walking back toward the living room, I waved at the Folger woman again, and reported to Tex. "All right," he said. "Take your knife and go bring them in here." So once again, I walked back down the hall to the far bedroom where the man and woman were talking, only this time I burst into the room with my knife thrust out in front of me. I surprised them, and they seemed rattled. "Come with me," I said evenly. "Don't say a word or you're dead." Walking behind, I herded them down the hall, and taking them into the Folger woman's bedroom, I ordered her to follow. And surprisingly, she came too, saying nothing. I held the knife menacingly in my right hand-although I write with my left-and my costume and bold manner obviously intimidated them. In the living room, Tex told all of them to fine up in front of the fireplace. At that, Sharon Tate started crying. "Shut up," Tex shouted. Sebring looked hard at Tex. "Can't you see she's pregnant?" She was very pregnant, and with the bikini panties and flimsy top she was wearing, it showed plainly. Sebring stepped toward Tex and started to reach for him. Tex turned the gun and shot him twice. He fell over in front of the fireplace, apparently dead, or dying. The Tate woman screamed, but then quieted into sobbing and weeping. Tex told Pat to turn down the lights. He continued talking, "Where's your money?" The Folger woman spoke first. "I have some credit cards." I moved swiftly and grabbed her, holding my knife to her abdomen. I walked her to her bedroom. "Please don't hurt me," she sobbed. "You can have everything." "Shut up!" I spoke fiercely to her. Tex took her wallet. It had seventy dollars in it. "Is this all you have?" Tex demanded. "Yes," she sobbed. Tex's stony eyes passed from one to another. "Prepare to die." Tex took the rope he had brought and tied it around the necks of all three. He threw the end over one of the living room beams and pulled it tight, forcing each of them to stand erect or choke. Tex, looking vicious and cruel, yet blank and pale, turned to me. "Kill him." He motioned toward Frykowski. I raised my knife to plunge it into his chest, but my hand would not come down. I tried to swing the knife down, but my hand wouldn't move. The seconds flashed by. I yelled, "Tex, I can't do it!" Suddenly Frykowski, still tied about the neck, but free of the towel around his hands, grabbed me and we began to struggle. Apparently the rope over the beam pulled loose and we fell to the floor, rolling and twisting. I was fighting wildly but was aware that Pat and the Folger woman had begun to struggle also. There were screams, yells, curses, wrestling, stabbing, and kicking as a desperate fight for life was waged in that luxurious house of horror in the hills of Bel Air. It was total chaos. Frykowski grabbed me by the hair and pulled desperately, violently, literally tearing it out by the roots. He had me from behind and I flailed wildly with my knife, stabbing him over and over in the legs. Blood was everywhere. Strangely, right in the middle of the battle for life, Linda came into the house, obviously terrified, horror-stricken. "Do something!" she screamed. "Sadie, can't you stop it?" Still struggling, I somehow managed to converse with her. "No, I can't do anything!" I yelled. And above everything, I could hear Sharon Tate crying, sobbing. The fighting with Frykowski probably lasted only thirty seconds, but it seemed like an eternity, until Tex jumped in and began to battle Frykowski, too. He hit him over the head several times with the gun. I heard the crack of bone�Frykowski's skull. I thought he was surely dead. But he struggled on, and finally broke free, running out of the house and onto the lawn, screaming. Just then, Linda came back in. "Give me your knife," I yelled. "I've lost mine." Apparently Linda did give me her knife, for I soon had another one. My own turned out to have fallen between cushions on the couch and was to be found by the police the next day. Folger, Tex, and Pat all ran out onto the lawn after Frykowski, and it was there that the bodies of Miss Folger and her lover, Frykowski, ended up, unbelievably battered and punctured. As they raced and clawed their way out of the living room, my burning mind recorded a scene I'd never forget. It was a picture of my good friend Tex�a gun in one hand and a knife in the other, both arms extended and a terrible mixture of scream and laughter coming out of his wide-stretched mouth. He was four feet off the floor, suspended in the air, a man possessed, driven. Even in that second I recalled the unusual words of Linda one night after she had made love to Tex: "I feel like I'm possessed." In that flash, I knew Tex was not a human being. He was another creature. Suddenly, I was alone in the house with Miss Tate and Sebring's body. The bedlam had turned to silence. It was so quiet that I could hear the gurgle of Sebring's blood. Miss Tate had fallen on the couch and continued to weep. I turned to her. "Shut up, you bitch. You're going to die." Immediately Tex was back in the room. "Kill her," he said. I grabbed her and held the knife to her. But that's as far as I could go. "I can't, Tex." "Kill her!" he yelled. "I can't." He snarled, "Get out of the way, then." He plunged the knife into her. Once again, it was very quiet. Everyone was dead. I could distinctly hear the sounds of death. In that quietness, I wondered why no one had heard the awful noises coming from the house�the gunshots, the screams. There was no explanation except one later given by the prosecuting attorney: The canyons play tricks with sounds, sometimes causing a soft sound to be heard distinctly a quarter mile away, while other loud sounds aren't heard a few yards away, even as close as the guest house where young Garretson was alone. The three of us�Linda was gone again�looked quickly around the room. It was a shambles, and blood was spattered everywhere. Little was said, and we left through the front door. We were almost to the gate when Tex said, "Did anybody write anything on the door?" "No, I forgot," I said. We had determined to leave a message that would hopefully establish a pattern that would recall the Hinman case and cause the police to suspect revolutionaries, probably black, and thus lead them to release Bobby. I went back to the house alone. Inside, I saw Sharon Tate on the floor. Blood was all around her. I knew I shouldn't use my fingers because of the possibility of prints, so I settled on the towel we had used on Frykowski. I knelt beside Miss Tate and dipped the end of the towel into her blood. It was still warm. My mind began to race madly. I thought of her baby. I had a strong urge to remove the baby, to save it. But I knew that was impossible. Then I pictured myself tasting her blood. I nearly threw up at the thought and a wave of disgust swept over me for even having the idea. I found myself looking at the woman. She was very pretty. I took the blood-dipped towel and went to the front door. On the bottom section, I wrote the word "Pig." Then I threw the towel back into the room and left. To get out of the door, I had to step in blood with one foot, so I hopped on the other foot down to the grass and wiped my bare foot back and forth several times. I joined the others at the fence and we climbed over and walked quickly and silently down the hill to the car. Linda was sitting behind the steering wheel. Tex told her to get out of the way, and he got in behind the wheel. I climbed into the back seat. All of us were angry at Linda for having left us. She remained silent as we changed our clothes and drove away. I had a lot of blood on my clothes. My head was aching terribly, and I reached my hand up to it. A large clutch of hair came away. Frykowski had battled with all his might. There was little talking as we drove. We made several stops at embankments to throw away our soiled clothes and weapons. When I realized I didn't have my own knife, we talked it over and decided it was not worth the risk to go back and look for it. Somewhere along the way we stopped at a house on a side street where we spotted a garden hose. We washed our hands with it until a man came out of the house and yelled at us, "What are you doing?" Tex told him we had just stopped for a drink of water. But the man persisted and reached into the car to try to grab the keys. Tex hit him and we sped away. Back at Spahn's Ranch, we drove up to the boardwalk where we were met by Charlie and Clem. Tex told them we'd have to clean the blood off the car-around the door handles and the steering wheel primarily. We went into the bunkhouse and Tex began to tell Charlie about the night. I couldn't hear everything they were saying, but I did hear Charlie ask, "Did you go to the next house?" "No," Tex said. Charlie became agitated. It was obvious he was angry. "Man," he said sharply, "I told you to go to every house on that street. Now we'll have to go back." Tex was also angry, but I couldn't hear everything he said. I heard a phrase something like "it was crazy . . . everything went wild. . . ." I couldn't believe my ears. "What does Charlie want?" Dragging myself into the next room, I fell on the bed exhausted. I felt as though I, too, were dead. I wasn't alive any more. The next day I learned the identities of the people we had killed. Business was going along as usual at the ranch, but I decided to go into the house trailer parked alongside one of the buildings to watch the news on the television set there. The show contained little else but the account of "the Sharon Tate murders." I ran to get Pat and Linda. As we watched, someone said�I believe I was the one�"The Soul really knew what he was doing this time." The Soul was one of Charlie's many nicknames. I have no explanation for how hardened I had become in only a few hours. As I watched the TV reporters, I even laughed as they described the details of the horror. That night, Charlie came up to me again. "Come on. We're going out again." I knew he meant there would be more killing and I was immediately afraid. But I was obedient. Charlie, Tex, Linda, Pat, Leslie, Clem and I drove off in the old Ford. Charlie was behind the wheel and he drove and drove, covering many miles, but I wasn't sure where we were most of the time. There was little conversation, at least about where we were going or what we were going to do. It was mostly light talk. I'm not sure about the others, but I was once again quite stoned on Methedrine and was pretty much preoccupied with my own thoughts. At one point, Charlie stopped in front of a large church. "I'm going to kill a priest and hang him upside down on the cross," he said nonchalantly. No one said anything. In a few minutes, he was back. "Nobody was there." We also stopped in a residental district, and Charlie got out and headed for a house. He returned soon, saying he had seen pictures of children on the walls through a window and didn't want to harm the little children by killing their parents. Again, we drove away and continued for many miles, eventually coming to a stop in front of a house on Waverly Drive in Hollywood, not far from Griffith Park. I recognized the house. We had known a guy who lived there and some of us had been to one of his parties. Charlie got out once more, but he didn't go to the house we knew. He went next door. He was gone for a considerable time, although none of us was keeping track of the time. Charlie walked rather casually up to the car and motioned Tex outside. They talked for several moments and then Charlie told Pat and Leslie to go into the house with Tex. I know nothing first-hand about what happened in the house, which was the residence of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. I know that Charlie had somehow got control of the LaBiancas and tied them together in the living room. Apparently when the girls arrived, they took Mrs. LaBianca into the bedroom, where according to police reports, her body was found full of stab wounds, with a pillowcase around the head and a lamp cord wrapped around the neck. Mr. LaBianca's body was found in the living room with a pillowcase and a throw pillow over the head and a lamp cord wrapped tightly around the neck. The body contained multiple stab wounds, and a carving fork had been left protruding from the stomach. The word "war" had been carved into the abdomen. Writing in blood had been left in three places. High on one living room wall were the words "death to pigs." On the opposite wall was the word "rise." And finally on the refrigerator door in the kitchen were the words "healter skelter," with the word "helter" misspelled. In the car, meanwhile, Charlie, Clem, Linda, and I drove around some more. Charlie showed us the woman's wallet he had taken from the LaBianca house. He said he wanted to plant it somewhere in a black neighborhood to try to mislead the police. He finally drove into the parking area of a service station and told Linda to hide it in the ladies' room, which she did, putting it in the water tank, where it wasn't found for a long time. Charlie's efforts to arouse suspicions among the blacks failed, since the service station turned out to be white-operated and situated only on the fringe of a black neighborhood. When Linda returned, Charlie asked her, "Do you know anyone we ought to kill?" Linda, apparently trying to keep herself in Charlie's good graces, replied that there was someone in Venice she'd like to see dead. So Charlie drove to Venice. Dawn was approaching when Linda, Clem, and I got out of the car and went into an apartment complex. Linda led us to a door and knocked. No one answered, so we left. I found out later that she had chickened out and purposely led us to the wrong apartment. When we got back down the street, Charlie was gone. We soon realized that he had left us, so we decided to hitchhike back to the Spahn Ranch. First, we buried a gun Clem was carrying, and then with several rides arrived at the ranch in daylight. Meanwhile, Tex, Pat, and Leslie had also been left to hitchhike back from the LaBianca home. It was a weird thought: A gang of killers hitchhiking home from the scene of their crimes. The killing did not end with the Tate-LaBianca murders. A ranch hand at Spahn's, Donald Shea, an aspiring actor whom we called Shorty, died shortly after the two nights of savagery. Shorty apparently was thought to have known too much about the killings, having overheard a lot of our conversations. I have no direct information regarding his death, but it was believed and widely reported that he had been dismembered and buried near the ranch. His body was never found. ===== 14 BUSTED Something clicked. Metal on metal. I opened my eyes and looked into the barrel of a rifle aimed at my head. Holding it was a man in strange garb; he looked Eke a combination astronaut and frogman. It took five seconds for me to realize he was a policeman. "It's all over," I said to myself, rising from the bed. I wasn't alone in my fear. All twenty-five of our group at Spahn's ranch that August morning, one week after the Tate-LaBianca slayings, were experiencing the same treatment at that moment. A two hundred-man tactical police force, including the famous S.W. A. T. group, swept down upon the ranch. They came in trucks, cars, helicopters, decked out in combat gear and camouflage, catching us completely by surprise. Our ragtag gang was no match for them, twenty-four-hour guard or not. Indeed, we were unable to offer any significant resistance. Charlie and Danny, a motorcycle gang member, were roughed up, so badly in fact that Charlie received two broken ribs. They rounded us up into the street in front of the movie set and searched the ranch inch by inch. They tore up the place, breaking down doors, ripping up walls and floors, knocking furniture and belongings every which way. They later took pictures of the wreckage and told reporters we had been living there in that mess. We learned that we were being arrested for auto theft-in connection with the vehicles we had been using to make dune buggies. But they were unable to find much evidence. Nevertheless, we were taken off to jail-the women to Sybil Brand in Los Angeles, and the men to the Los Angeles County Jail. Our children were taken into custody and prepared for placement in foster homes. The Los Angeles police and sheriffs departments were beside themselves with bafflement over the Tate-LaBianca murders. Meanwhile, the killers were in custody right under their noses on charges that were quickly dropped. I was in Sybil Brand, a tomb of a prison, for only seventy-two hours. However, once released, I did not feel free. I continued to be more dead than alive. My feelings were vague, but I was afraid constantly. To my companions, however, I revealed only bravado. I was cocky and arrogant, openly defiant of the law and society. >From jail, most of us fled as quickly as possible to Death Valley. The desert was our only hope. But I had other things on my mind. As dead as I was inside, I still wanted my baby. From the last of August through October 9, 1 spent all my time working on ways to get him back. I finally found the name and address of the family he had been placed with, and I determined to kidnap him. First, I made several checks on the home, plotting thoroughly its layout and the surrounding neighborhood. My creepy-crawling experience paid dividends once again. Early one morning, close to two o'clock, Tex drove Sandra and me to the home. I left them in the car and went to the window of the baby's room, prepared to cut the screen and enter. But, oddly, the screen on the window was off, and the window open. I crawled into the room, and there was my baby. I have no explanation for it, but he was standing up in his crib, watching me enter. He merely stood, looking at me and smiling. I talked in whispers. "Hello, my sweetheart. How are you tonight? Are you glad to see your mommy? I've come to take you home." He remained silent, but continued grinning widely. I made my way in the dark, keeping low, to the kitchen and then to the refrigerator. I opened the door without a sound and took out the baby's bottle. It was full. I went back for my son, and then walked undetected out the front door. I had become a master in crime, a first-rate creepy-crawler. We went from there out into the desert, to Barker's Ranch in the Panamint mountain range on the fringes of Death Valley. Barker's was a quarter to a half mile from Myers' Ranch, which was the one owned by Cathy's grandmother. We moved in and out of those small, rundown ranch houses and had begun, as well, to dig big holes in the ground and in the sides of the hills to live in and to store our goods in-food, weapons, gasoline, and vehicle parts. We had several stolen dune buggies and other vehicles to use for transportation as we waited expectantly for the police to link the Gary Hinman slaying with the Tate-LaBianca murders and thus release Bobby. But it didn't happen. Things just seemed to get tighter and tighter. We had been undergoing constant indoctrination from Charlie on survival-on how to hide from the police, who from time to time were nosing around trying to find out what we were up to, and on how to maim and even to kill. Quite a few of the kids with us had no knowledge of the murders already behind us. They still considered us a bunch of antiestablishment young people seeking a better world. Immediately after my arrival at Barker's with my baby, two of the girls became frightened by all the talk about survival and killing. They ran away in the middle of the night, and several of us searched unsuccessfully until daylight for them. The girls, meanwhile, had stumbled upon Inyo County police and asked for protection. The next day came a full-scale raid on the Barker and Myers Ranches and our other hideaways out in the wilderness known as Golar Wash. The charges ranged from auto theft to arson. The raid was spread over three days, with the police apprehending more of us each day. My baby and I were among those seized the first day. A total of twenty-four people were arrested, including Charlie. Since I saw those three days from my own perspective and was aware only of what was going on around me, I have pieced together many of the details of those hours and days from Prosecutor Bugliosi's account, which I have excerpted and paraphrased as follows: On the night of October 9, officers from the California Highway Patrol, the Inyo County Sheriffs Office, and National Park Rangers assembled near Barker for a massive raid on the ranch, to commence the following morning. At about four in the morning, as several of the officers were proceeding down one of the draws some distance from the ranch, they spotted two men asleep on the ground. Between them was a sawed-off shotgun. The two, Clem and Randy, were arrested. Though the officers were unaware of it, the pair had been stalking human game: Stephanie and Kitty, the two seventeen-year-olds who had fled the previous day. Another man, Soupspoon, was apprehended on a hill overlooking the ranch. He had been acting as a lookout but had fallen asleep. There was still another lookout post, a well-disguised dugout, its tin roof hidden by brush and dirt, on a hill south of the ranch. The officers had almost passed it when they saw a girl emerge from the brush, squat, and urinate, then disappear back into the bushes. While two officers covered the entrance with their rifles, one climbed above the dugout and dropped a large rock on the tin roof. I was one of three women inside. We all rushed out to be met by pointed guns and handcuffs. Those inside the ranch house-three other women-were caught unawares and offered no resistance. Other members of the raiding party surrounded nearby Myers Ranch and arrested four women. Two babies were also found (including mine). A search of the area revealed a number of hidden vehicles, mostly dune buggies, mostly stolen; a mailbag with a .22 Ruger single-shot pistol inside, also stolen; a number of knives; and caches of food, gasoline, and other supplies. Also found were more sleeping bags than people, indicating there might be others. The second phase of the raid occurred two days later. A California Highway Patrol officer and two Park Rangers arrived in the area before their support did and were hiding in the brush, waiting for the others, when they saw four males walk from one of the washes to the ranch house and enter. The patrolman spotted a sheriff's deputy from the backup unit approaching in the distance. It was already six o'clock, the dusk rapidly becoming dark. Not wanting to risk a gunfight at night, he decided to act. While one of the rangers covered the front of the building, the patrolman drew his gun and moved to the front door, flung it open and ordered all the occupants to remain still and place their hands on their heads. Arrested were three females and four men. There was no sign of the leader, Manson. The patrolman decided to recheck the house. Using a candle in the dark, he went into the bathroom. "I was forced to move the candle around quite a bit, as it made a very poor light," he said. "I lowered the candle toward the hand basin, and small cupboard below, and saw long hair hanging out of the top of the cupboard, which was partially open." It seemed impossible that a person could get into such a small space (it was later measured at three by one-and-a-half by one-and-a-half feet), but, without the officer's saying anything, a figure began to emerge. It was Manson, dressed entirely in buckskin. Another man, an ex-convict, was found in still another part of the house. On arriving in Independence, the county seat, everyone was charged with grand theft auto, arson, and various other offenses. Charlie was fingerprinted, photographed, and booked as "Manson, Charles M., aka (also known as) Jesus Christ, God." There wasn't enough evidence to hold many of our group, so in a few days more than half were released. I was not one of them. After two days, I was called out of my cell to talk with two detectives about the Gary Hinman murder. They said that Bobby had told them I had been at Gary's house and that they had found a fingerprint of mine. Actually one of the runaway girls had told them of my involvement. I then made up a story about having been there, but I said that Gary had been beaten up by some black men and that he had been alive when I'd last seen him. "Stop kidding us, Sadie," one of the detectives said. "You killed him." I was suddenly very afraid. I knew this was the end of the road. I then said Bobby and I had been the ones at Gary's, but I insisted I didn't know who had killed him. They didn't believe me, and on October 13, 1969, 1 was booked on suspicion of murder and flown in a four-passenger plane to Oxnard and then taken by car to the Sybil Brand Institute, the women's house of detention in Los Angeles, which was to be my home for the next twenty-two months. I wasn't going to have to run any more, dig holes in the sides of the hills, or watch for police airplanes. Deep inside, I was very afraid, and yet strangely, I was relieved. pps. 135-155 ----- Aloha, He'Ping, Om, Shalom, Salaam. Em Hotep, Peace Be, Omnia Bona Bonis, All My Relations. Adieu, Adios, Aloha. Amen. Roads End Kris DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance�not soapboxing! These are sordid matters and 'conspiracy theory', with its many half-truths, misdirections and outright frauds is used politically by different groups with major and minor effects spread throughout the spectrum of time and thought. That being said, CTRL gives no endorsement to the validity of posts, and always suggests to readers; be wary of what you read. CTRL gives no credeence to Holocaust denial and nazi's need not apply. Let us please be civil and as always, Caveat Lector. ======================================================================== Archives Available at: http://home.ease.lsoft.com/archives/CTRL.html http:[EMAIL PROTECTED]/ ======================================================================== To subscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email: SUBSCRIBE CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED] To UNsubscribe to Conspiracy Theory Research List[CTRL] send email: SIGNOFF CTRL [to:] [EMAIL PROTECTED] Om
