Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders

by Vincent Bugliosi

  I asked Gregg about Manson’s attitude toward women. I was especially interested in this because of the female defendants.

  Women had only two purposes in life, Charlie would say: to serve men and to give birth to children. But he didn’t permit the girls in the Family to raise their own children. If they did, Charlie claimed, they would give them their own hangups. Charlie believed that if he could eliminate the bonds created by parents, schools, churches, society, he could develop “a strong white race.” Like Nietzsche, whom Manson claimed to have read, Charlie “believed in a master race.”

  “According to Charlie,” Gregg continued, “women were only as good as their men. They were only a reflection of their men, all the way back to daddy. A woman was an accumulation of all the men she had been close to.”

  Then why were there so many women in the Family? I asked; there were at least five girls to every man.

  It was only through the women, Gregg said, that Charlie could attract the men. Men represented power, strength. But he needed the women to lure the men into the Family.

  As with others I interviewed, I asked Gregg for examples of Manson’s domination. Gregg gave me one of the best I’d yet found: he said he had had dinner with the Family on three occasions; each time Manson sat alone on the top of a large rock, the other members of the Family sitting on the ground in a circle around him.

  Q. “Did Tex Watson ever get up on the rock?”

  A. “No, of course not.”

  Q. “Did anyone else in the Family get up there?”

  A. “Only Charlie.”

  I needed many, many more examples like this, so that when I offered all of them at the trial, the jury would be led to the irresistible conclusion that Manson had such a hold over his followers, and specifically his co-defendants, that never in a million years would they have committed these murders without his guidance, directions, and orders.

  I asked Gregg about Charlie’s ambitions. “Charlie wanted to be a successful recording artist,” Gregg said. “Not so much as a means to making money as to get his word out to the public. He needed people to live with him, to make love, to liberate the white race.”

  What was Manson’s attitude toward blacks?

  Gregg replied that Charlie “believed there were different levels when it came to race, and the white man occupied a higher level than the black.” This was why Charlie was so strongly opposed to black-white sex; “you would be interfering with the path of evolution, you would be mixing up nervous systems, less evolved with more evolved.”

  According to Jakobson, “Charlie believed that the black man’s sole purpose on earth was to serve the white man. He was to serve the white man’s needs.” But blackie had been on the bottom too long, Charlie said. It was now his turn to take over the reins of power. This was what Helter Skelter, the black-white revolution, was all about.

  Gregg and I would talk about this on more than a half dozen separate occasions. What before had been only fragments, bits and pieces, now began slipping into place.

  The picture that eventually emerged, however, was so incredibly bizarre as to be almost beyond belief.

  There is a special feeling you develop over years of interviewing people. When someone is lying or not telling everything he knows, you can often sense it.

  On reinterviewing Terry Melcher, I became convinced that he was withholding something. There wasn’t time for pussyfooting. I told Terry I wanted to talk to him again, only this time he should have his attorney, Chet Lappen, present. When we met in Lappen’s office on the seventeenth, I put it to him bluntly: “You’re not leveling with me, Terry. You’re keeping something back. Whatever it is, eventually it will come out. It would be far better if you told me about it now rather than have the defense surprise us with it on cross-examination.”

  Terry wavered for a few minutes, then decided to tell me.

  The day after news of Manson’s involvement in the Tate murders broke, Terry had received a telephone call from London. The caller was Rudi Altobelli, the owner of 10050 Cielo Drive. Rudi had told him, in confidence, that one day in March 1969, while he was taking a shower in the guest house, Manson had knocked on the door. Manson claimed to be looking for Terry, who had moved out some months before, but Altobelli, who was a successful business manager for a number of theatrical stars, suspected that Manson had actually come looking for him, as Manson had worked the conversation around to his own music and songs. In a rather subtle fashion, Altobelli had made it clear that he wasn’t interested, and Manson had left.

  The guest house! “Terry,” I said, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I wasn’t sure it was relevant.”

  “Christ, Terry, this places Manson inside the gate of the Tate residence. As you well know, to reach the guest house he’d have to first pass the main house. This means Manson was familiar with the layout of the house and grounds. I don’t know what could be any more relevant. Where’s Altobelli now?”

  “Cape Town, South Africa,” Melcher reluctantly replied. Checking his address book, he gave me the number of the hotel where he was staying.

  I called Cape Town. Mr. Altobelli had just checked out of the hotel, leaving no forwarding address. However, Terry told me that Rudi was planning to return to Los Angeles for a few days sometime soon.

  “The minute he hits L.A. I want to know it,” I told him. As a safeguard I put out a few feelers of my own, asking others who knew Altobelli to contact me if they saw or heard from him.

  The same day I talked to Melcher, half our extradition problems were solved: Patricia “Katie” Krenwinkel waived further proceedings and asked to be returned to California immediately. When she made her first courtroom appearance on the twenty-fourth, she requested Paul Fitzgerald of the Public Defender’s Office as her attorney. Fitzgerald told the judge that, barring a possible conflict of interest, his office would be willing to represent her.

  Actually there were two possible conflicts of interest: the Public Defender’s Office was already representing Beausoleil on the Hinman murder, and Fitzgerald had earlier represented Manson, albeit briefly, before he went in pro per.

  A month later Paul Fitzgerald resigned from the Public Defender’s Office, after that office decided there was indeed a conflict of interest involved. Whether Fitzgerald’s motive was purely idealistic, or he hoped to make a name for himself in private practice by winning an acquittal for his client, or both, the fact remained that he gave up a $25,000 a year salary and a promising career as a public defender to represent Patricia Krenwinkel with virtually no pay.

  Terry Melcher didn’t call. But another of my contacts did, reporting that Rudi Altobelli had returned to Los Angeles the previous day. I called Altobelli’s attorney, Barry Hirsch, and arranged a meeting. Before leaving the office, I prepared a subpoena and stuck it in my pocket.

  Rather than ask Altobelli whether the guest house incident really occurred, and risk a possible denial, I simply laid out: “Rudi, the reason I’m here is because I want to ask you about the time Manson came to the guest house. Terry told me about it.” Fait accompli.

  Yes, Manson had been there, Rudi said. But did this mean he would have to testify?

  Rudi Altobelli was a bright, urbane, and, as I’d later discover, at times quite witty man. The roster of entertainment figures he’d represented included such stars as Katharine Hepburn, Henry Fonda (who for a time had rented the guest house at 10050 Cielo Drive), Samantha Eggar, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Christopher Jones, and Sally Kellerman, to name only a few. However, in common with almost all the other witnesses in this case, he was scared.

  On his return from Europe following the murders, he’d found that 10050 Cielo Drive had been sealed by the police. Needing a place to stay, and unsure whether he might have been one of the intended victims—and still might be—he picked the safest place he could think of. He moved in with Terry Melcher and Candice Bergen, who were occupying a beach house in Malibu owned by Terry’s mother, Doris Day. Though Ter
ry and Rudi had spent many hours discussing the murders, and possible suspects, Manson’s name was never mentioned, Rudi said. When the news broke that Manson had been accused of the murders, a possible motive being his grudge against Melcher, Altobelli decided that he had probably chosen the least safe place in Southern California. He still shivered when recalling it.

  He had another reason for fear. In a sense, he too had rejected Manson.

  “Tell me about it, Rudi,” I suggested. “Then we’ll discuss whether you have to testify or not. But first, how do you know it was Manson?”

  Because he’d met Manson once before, Altobelli said, during the summer of 1968, at Dennis Wilson’s house. Manson was living there at the time, and Rudi had dropped in while Dennis was playing a tape of Manson’s music. He’d listened politely, commented that it was “nice,” the minimal courtesy possible, then left.

  At various times Dennis and Gregg had tried to interest him in Manson and his philosophy. Having worked hard for what money he had, Altobelli said, he was not sympathetic to Manson’s sponging, and had told them exactly that.

  The incident had occurred about eight or nine on the evening of Sunday, March 23, 1969—Rudi remembered the date because he and Sharon had flown to Rome together the next day, Rudi on business, Sharon to rejoin her husband and to make a movie there. Rudi was alone in the guest house, taking a shower, when Christopher started barking. Grabbing a robe, he went to the door and saw Manson on the porch. While it was possible that Manson had knocked and the shower had muffled the sound, Rudi was irritated that he had opened the outside door and walked onto the porch uninvited.

  Manson started to introduce himself but Rudi, somewhat brusquely, without opening the screen door that separated the porch from the living room, said, “I know who you are, Charlie, what do you want?”

  Manson said he was looking for Terry Melcher. Altobelli said Terry had moved to Malibu. When Manson asked for his address, Altobelli said he didn’t know it. Which was not true.

  Prolonging the conversation, Manson asked him what business he was in. Though Altobelli felt sure Manson already knew the answer, he replied, “The entertainment business.” He added, “I’d like to talk to you longer, Charlie, but I’m leaving the country tomorrow and have to pack.”

  Manson said he would like to talk to him when he returned. Rudi told him that he wouldn’t be back for over a year. Another untruth, but he had no desire to talk further with Manson.

  Before Manson left, Rudi asked him why he had come back to the guest house. Manson replied that the people at the main house had sent him back. Altobelli said that he didn’t like to have his tenants disturbed, and he would appreciate it if he wouldn’t do so in the future. With that Manson left.

  Though one question was uppermost in my mind, before asking it I had Altobelli describe Manson, the lighting on the porch, exactly where each was standing. Since he had met Manson on a prior occasion, there was no question that this was a positive identification, but I wanted to be absolutely sure.

  Then I asked it, and held my breath until he answered. “Rudi, who was up front that night?”

  “Sharon, Gibby, Voytek, and Jay.”

  Four of the five Tate victims! This meant that Manson could have seen any or all of them. Prior to my talking to Rudi, we had assumed that Manson had never seen the people he had ordered killed.

  “Rudi, all those people are dead. Was there anyone else up front who could testify to this?”

  Rudi thought a moment. He had been up at the main house earlier in the evening, actually returning to the guest house only a few minutes before Manson arrived. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I’m almost positive Hatami was there.”

  Shahrokh Hatami, a native of Iran, was Sharon’s personal photographer, and a good friend of both Polanskis. Hatami had been at the house that afternoon, Rudi knew, photographing Sharon while she was packing for her trip.

  “I don’t want to testify, Mr. Bugliosi,” Rudi suddenly said.

  “I can understand that. If there is any way I can avoid it, I won’t call you to the stand. But realistically, considering the importance of what you’ve told me, the odds are that I will have to call you.” We discussed the subject at some length before I gave him the subpoena.

  I then said, “Tell me about Sharon.”

  In the short time he had known her, Rudi said, he had grown very fond of her. She was a beautiful person. Of course she was physically beautiful, but by this he meant something else. She had a kind of warmth, a niceness, which you sensed immediately on meeting her, but which, thus far in her career, no director had ever managed to bring out on the screen. They’d had many long talks. She’d called 10050 Cielo Drive her “love house.”

  Rudi then told me something he said he had never told anyone else. I knew there was no way I could use it in the trial: it was hearsay, and though there are many exceptions to the hearsay rule, this couldn’t come in under any of them.

  On the flight to Rome, Sharon had asked him: “Did that creepy-looking guy come back there yesterday?”

  So Sharon had seen Manson, the creepy-looking little guy who four and a half months later would mastermind her murder!

  Something must have happened to have caused such a strong reaction. A confrontation of some sort. Could it be that Voytek, who had an unpredictable temper, had got into an argument with Manson? Or that Manson had said something offensive to Sharon, and Jay had come to her defense?

  I called LAPD and told them to find Shahrokh Hatami.

  Lieutenant Helder contacted a friend of Colonel Tate’s, who in turn located Hatami. I interviewed him in my office. Very emotionally, the Iranian photographer told me how much he had loved Sharon. “Not romantic, but”—he apologized for his broken English—“one human being loving qualities other human being has.”

  I told him I doubted if it could be better expressed.

  Yes, he’d once sent someone to the back house. One time. He didn’t know the date, but it was the day before Sharon left for Europe. It was in the afternoon. He’d looked out the window and noticed a man walking into the yard, hesitant, as if he didn’t know where he was going, yet cocky, as if he thought he owned the place. His manner irritated Hatami, and he went out on the porch and asked him what he wanted.

  I asked Hatami to describe the man. He said he was short, like Roman Polanski (Polanski was five feet five, Manson five feet two), late twenties, thin, with long hair. What color hair? Dark brown. He didn’t have a beard but looked as if he needed a shave. How could he tell that? He’d walked off the porch onto the stone walk to confront him; they were at most three or four feet apart.

  With the exception of the age—Manson was thirty-four, but could easily have been mistaken for younger—the description fitted.

  The man said he was looking for someone, mentioning a name Hatami did not recognize.

  Could it have been Melcher? I asked. Possible, Hatami said, but he really couldn’t remember. It had meant nothing to him at the time.

  “This is the Polanski residence,” Hatami told him. “This is not the place. Maybe the people you want is back there,” pointing. “Take the back alley.”

  By “back alley” Hatami meant the dirt pathway in front of the residence which led to the guest house. But, as I’d later argue to the jury, to an American “back alley” meant a place where there were garbage cans, refuse. Manson must have felt he was being treated like an alley cat.

  I asked Hatami, “What tone of voice did you use?” He illustrated, speaking loudly and angrily. Roman was away, Hatami said, and he felt protective of Sharon. “I wasn’t happy that he was coming on the property, and looking at people he doesn’t know.”

  How did the man react? He appeared upset, Hatami said; he turned and walked away without saying “excuse me” or anything.

  Just before this, however, Sharon came to the door and said, “Who is it, Hatami?” Hatami told her that a man was looking for someone.

  Showing Hatami a diagram of the
house and grounds, I had him point to the spots where each was standing. Sharon was on the porch, the man on the walk not more than six to eight feet away, with no obstruction between them. There could be no question that Charles Manson saw Sharon Tate, and she him. Sharon had undoubtedly looked right into the eyes of the man who would order her death. We now had, for the first time, evidence that prior to the murders Manson had seen one of his victims.

  Hatami had remained on the walk, Sharon on the porch, while the man went down the path toward the guest house. According to Hatami, he came back up the path in “a minute or two, no more,” and left the premises without saying anything.

  It was not as abrasive an incident as I was looking for, but, together with Melcher’s rejection and Altobelli’s subtle putdown, Hatami’s “take the back alley” was more than sufficient cause for Manson to have strong feelings against 10050 Cielo Drive. Too, not only were these people obviously establishment, they were establishment in the very fields—entertainment, recording, motion pictures—in which Manson had tried to make it and failed.

  There was one discrepancy: the time. Hatami was positive the incident had occurred during the afternoon. Altobelli, however, was equally insistent that it was between eight and nine in the evening when Manson appeared on the guest house porch. While it was possible one or the other was confused, the most logical explanation was that Manson had gone to the guest house that afternoon, found no one there (Altobelli was out most of the afternoon, making arrangements for his trip), then returned that evening. This was supported by Hatami’s statement that Manson had come back up the path after “a minute or two, no more,” which hardly left time for his conversation with Altobelli.

  I had Hatami look at photographs of a dozen or so men. He picked out one, saying it looked like the man, though he couldn’t be absolutely sure. It was a photograph of Charles Manson.