Tonight! The Charlie Manson Band

by Michael Beiriger

  “Killing? No. But, I know that shit went down all the time. Check it out! There was some black dealer in Hollywood, a guy named Gary Hinman in Topanga, and Shorty at the ranch. That’s just a few.” She hugged herself. “They are evil, man. I’m so glad I got out of there!”

  “But Sherrie – didn’t the cops ever come?” Alex asked.

  “Nope. Never. And those aren’t nothing compared to the big one!”

  “The big one? What’s that?”

  Sherrie immediately went from chatty to pale and tight lipped, her eyes straining to see in the darkness out the window, fearing the shadows. “I – I shouldn’t tell anyone. They’ll kill me for sure!”

  Alex moved to the other bed and sat next to her. “It’s OK. You don’t have to tell me anything. You’ve already told me more about them than I had ever imagined.” He put his arm around her and gave her a friendly squeeze.

  Now Sherrie started to really sob. “It’s so horrible, Alex! I’ve got to tell someone!”

  Alex waited while Sherrie composed herself and took another swallow of Pabst. She lit another cigarette, and Alex did the same.

  “Well,” she began, shaking a little, “do you know about Charlie believing in a black revolution that’s supposed to happen?”

  “Yeah. I heard about that.”

  “He calls it Helter Skelter – from the Beatles’ record. Charlie thinks that all the Beatles songs on that album have hidden messages in them, just for him, and that he is the only person that can understand them – dig?”

  “OK.”

  She took a drag, and blew the smoke out the side of her mouth. “So – Helter Skelter says that the blacks are going to rise up and start killing all the whites and take over. Except – it hasn’t caught on yet.”

  “But - that’s a good thing, though, right?” Alex asked, trying to understand.

  Sherrie laughed sarcastically. “Not in Charlie’s mind. He wants it to go down! He thinks we … I mean they, the stupid Family, are going to the desert to wait out the killing. Later, they will come back out from hiding and take over from Blackie.”

  “So,” Alex said, nodding, “if all that doesn’t happen, he’s going to lose credibility with his people.”

  Sherrie frowned. “What’s cred-a-bill-”

  He kicked himself again for not keeping it as simple as possible. “Oh – it means that his people won’t believe in him anymore.”

  “Right on! Exactly!” Sherrie nodded, then paused. “So – so he thinks that he needs to help move things along, right? Get the blacks going, show them how to get started.” She stubbed out her cigarette and took another hit of Pabst. “So … . Charlie sent Tex and some of the girls out to kill some rich white pigs and make it look like it was the blacks.” Sherrie looked down. “They killed those five people, man! Even that pregnant movie star girl!”

  Alex could not believe her. “You mean - the Sharon Tate murders in the Hollywood Hills?” he asked, incredulous. Sherrie just nodded and nodded, staring at him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He could tell that she wasn’t creating this story – she believed every word, and was scared to death. But how could Alex know if the story itself had any truth? “But - no cops? They just completely got away with it? Sherrie – this is hard to believe.”

  “I know. But it’s totally true, Alex! I think one reason the cops didn’t figure it out is that Tex and the girls didn’t know any of those people – Charlie just sent them there. And –” Sherrie stopped, and began to cry again. “After – after they were finished at the house that night, they had a car accident when they were driving back. They crashed off a cliff, and the car and everything burned up completely!” She covered her face with her hands, weeping. “They were all burned up, man! Tex, Linda, Sadie … The cops got no ID. They found out it was Shorty’s car, but Charlie told them that Shorty had sold it and gone to Portland.”

  Alex’s mind was moving too fast - he had to hold it back. “So … who else knows about this? Could anyone ever prove it to the police?”

  Sherrie’s eyes locked with Alex’s again. “Just me, Alex! At first, I was supposed to go with them, but Tex said no. He didn’t trust me. He didn’t like me.” She took a drag on her smoke. “It could have been me, man! I could have been burned to death!” She caught her breath. “But - Tex was right. I couldn’t kill anybody.” Sherrie shuddered. “Especially with fucking knives, man!”

  Alex thought for a moment. “You say the cops came, asking about the car. If I checked, there should be police record of that crash, right?”

  “I guess so. I think it was off of Mulholland Drive somewhere, back then, in August, I think. I don’t remember the exact day. Oh – and Charlie made them write stuff on the walls at the house, to make it look like a message from the niggers.”

  Alex froze when he found that Sherrie knew this detail, but then remembered that the writing on the Cielo Drive house was now public knowledge - much to the LAPD’s anger. Crime scene details like that are usually kept secret so that a suspect’s knowledge of them could prove that they had really been at the scene. Then, startled, he remembered the writing on the walls the Manson boys had left at Crib Notes’ office. BLACK POWR. For the first time, he began to think there was a chance he could fully believe Sherrie’s story.

  “Jesus, Sherrie. I’m sorry. That’s a lot to carry around by yourself for so long.”

  “Well, now it’s the two of us.” She sniffed. “And when Charlie finds out that I’ve talked to you … you’re as fucked as I am, now,” she said, then sighed. “Thanks for listening. I know it sounds fuckin’ crazy, but it’s all true, I swear!” Sherrie reached for her paper bag. She was talked out. “Can I take a shower? I haven’t had a real shower in a long time.”

  “Of course - sure!” Alex said, but his mind was a long, long way away from the room by now. As Sherrie went into the bathroom he stood up, lit another cigarette, and sipped from the last beer. My God! Could it all be true? That little freaky singer, also a maniac killer? Alex stared at the twinkling lights on the mountains across the Valley. If it was true, it would be the biggest story of the new decade – maybe the century. The town had not stopped talking about the horrific, unsolved crime since it happened. The LAPD had come to be seen as a clown show - fools in their black, tough-guy uniforms. Politicians and newspapers were foaming at the mouth, keeping the Fear alive.

  What was the next step? How can I convince anyone? Should I go to the LAPD? Alex’s mind was spinning. Am I really in danger? How did I become part of this story?

  As he thought about his next move, Sherrie came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. She walked up to Alex as he smoked and stared at the mountains, and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

  “You are such a cool dude, Alex. So nice.” She kissed his neck and the towel dropped away.

  “Sherrie?” he said, not turning around. “We can’t do this, babe. I’m trying to get back together again with my girlfriend in Ann Arbor, and I’m already mixed up too deep in this this story. You need to go to a quiet, safe place. I’ll try and help as much as I can.” He turned and kissed her forehead. “I think you need to sleep for a few days. And I’m a doctor, so I should know.” He smiled at her, but she was disappointed and didn’t laugh at his joke. Sherrie walked to the bed near the bathroom and climbed in. “Goodnight!” she said. “And thanks.” Sherrie turned her head to the wall, but then rolled over to look at him once more. “Will you check to make sure the door is locked?” She returned to facing the wall and was asleep almost immediately.

  Alex watched her with envy. He knew there would be little sleep for him tonight.

  Suspicion – Deep In My Heart

  1962 Doc Pomus, Mort Shulman

  October 16, 1969

  10 am.

  The fall morning was bright and clear, and Alex was glad his motel room faced north - south or east would allow the glare from the rising sun to blast into the room. No blinds or curtains could block the direct California sun. After a lon
g night of runaway thoughts and plans, Alex’s body had finally taken over and pulled the plug on his brain, letting him sleep for at least a few hours. But now he was awake and charged.

  Alex was in a hurry to get down to the magazine’s office. He really needed to discuss these new developments with Phil, the incredible accusations. What does it mean for the article? Is it a heavy criminal investigation thing now?

  “Sherrie! Get up!” Alex shook the sleeping girl. She let out a mumbled groan and pulled a pillow over her head, hiding from his voice. “Sherrie, c’mon! We’re going to the office!” Sherrie just dug deeper into the sanctuary of a real bed.

  He pulled out a five, put it on the table, and scribbled a note with the office number. “I’ll call you later,” he said as he grabbed his notebook, typed notes, and car keys.

  Stepping into the bright October day, he still found himself looking over his shoulder. OK – That’s enough! he chastised himself. He walked to the car and realized that without the need to take Sherrie to the office, it would be a good time to go downtown and check out some of the ‘facts’ of her story. Chances were that no one would be at the office yet, anyway.

  He stopped at Phillipe’s north of downtown for an early lunch. After wolfing down a French Dip sandwich, Alex took Broadway into the traffic mess downtown and parked near LAPD headquarters. Inside, he approached the information desk, palming his press badge from the concert. If necessary, it could be useful to flash the card, showing only the top edge that said ‘PRESS.’ The trick had worked in the past, but in much smaller cities.

  “Hi,” Alex said casually to the sergeant, an older cop, at the desk. Alex guessed the cop was old enough to be long gone with his pension, but wouldn’t leave the force. The sergeant looked at him sourly. Alex was not a complete long-hair, but the cop’s radar was telling him that Alex was probably not a ‘cop-friendly’ citizen.

  “Can I help you?” the sergeant said, barely making it a question.

  “I’m trying to get some information about a car accident that happened about two months ago. How do I check police records for something like that?”

  The older cop spread his hands wide in a plaintive gesture, rolling his eyes. “You know how many accidents we got in L.A. even in one day? We don’t have reports on every single –”

  “No,” Alex said, interrupting. “No, this wasn’t minor. This would have been big – four people killed – burned to death.”

  The cop was not happy about being interrupted. “Really. But you don’t know where, or when,” he pointed out sarcastically.

  “Um, in the Hollywood Hills? East of the 405?”

  The sergeant sighed, shaking his head. “Alright, at least that’s something. Your best bet is the West L.A. Division on Purdue, off Santa Monica. Request the reports for those days from the ‘R and I’ room.” He looked away from Alex and returned to his open Argosy magazine.

  “Thanks!” Alex offered, and got no response. Cops! he muttered to himself as he walked away. Alex had a respectful disregard for the police, even after such a relatively short time of having to deal with them as a journalist. Tough to get the truth out of them, even about the smallest things.

  His reception at the Purdue headquarters in West LA was friendlier. Alex was met by a younger sergeant, a detective named Beaudry. He wore a suit instead of a uniform, and sported a trim moustache all the younger cops seemed to have. Alex made him to be in his mid-thirties. After Alex explained what he needed, Beaudry took him to the Records and Information office. “Normally,” Beaudry said, “there is a charge for this, but we are in a campaign to encourage anyone and everyone to come in to the station, for any reason. It’s all because of the Tate case. So – what days do you want to start with?”

  “Early August – and if it helps, the accident happened late at night. A car went over a cliff and caught fire. There would have been four bodies.”

  Beaudry looked at him. “Something like that would have caused quite a commotion around here – and in the press. You say you don’t know if it actually happened?”

  Alex realized that Beaudry, in his friendly, helpful mode, was also slyly doing his work as detective. Smart guy. “I wasn’t in town when this happened. I just heard about it, and it’s important to me to find out if it’s true,” Alex said. He was glad he still didn’t need to use the ‘press’ angle. Everything changed when the police dealt with a reporter rather than with an ordinary person.

  “Actually, I do remember something like that,” Beaudry said. “I can’t remember the day, either. Not one of my cases.”

  A secretary brought out the first stack of folders, starting with August 1. They were able to quickly run through the early days, especially because the reports were organized by the time of day they were logged in. The early days of August had been slow, as well. When she brought the next stack, Alex saw that one thick folder was actually several folders bound together with rubber bands. He saw the date – August 11 – and it took his breath away: the Tate murder day. Alex said nothing.

  As he reached for the August 11 folders, Beaudry laughed sarcastically. “Oh yeah! That’s the day of the Tate murders. Our Waterloo.”

  “That was the day?” Alex asked.

  “Technically, the murders were committed the night before. The case was opened on the eleventh, when the bodies were discovered.”

  All the Tate reports had been conveniently collected in their own group, so there was no need to examine those records for the accident. Beaudry put them aside. It wasn’t much longer before they found the record of the first calls about the crash in the early hours of the eleventh of August.

  “Yeah –” Beaudry said, lighting a cigarette. He offered one to Alex, who shook his head.

  “Here it is. ‘11-80,’ 2:01 am: Car accident, 11034 Mulholland. Then, ‘10-70,’ call for L.A. Fire. No calls for an ambulance.” Beaudry read a few lines in silence. “Took a while to put it down. Bad terrain in some of those little canyons.”

  “So … OK,” Alex said slowly. “It did happen.”

  “Yeah. And they did find four bodies. But there was no ID’ing any of them. Totally incinerated. Barely got the VIN number off the engine.”

  “Three women and a man?” Alex asked.

  Beaudry looked at him in a new way, and exhaled his smoke. “Yep, that’s right. That’s what the coroner said.” He leaned more closely toward Alex. “But that isn’t public information, Mr -?”

  Alex tried hard not to gulp, to show his best professional disinterested face. But he had blown it. He had volunteered knowledge of information instead of drawing it out by asking questions - basic Journalism 101. Fucking rookie mistake! he screamed to himself. “Swain. Alex Swain. I’m a journalist working a story. I just finished a piece on the rock festival last weekend.” He handed Beaudry the festival press badge.

  Beaudry examined the badge and nodded. “So, Mr. Swain. How did you come to know about the bodies in that car?” He waited for Alex to speak.

  “One of my sources told me. I didn’t know any of them – I don’t even know their names. But my source knew about the accident,” Alex told him, truthfully.

  “Anything else? Any reason you’re checking this out?” Beaudry asked. “Why didn’t anyone come forward to claim the bodies?” Now, Alex realized, it was an interrogation.

  “Don’t know yet. I may be onto something, but it’s completely murky.” Alex lit a cigarette of his own, stalling for a little time. “Trust me – I got no problem reporting crimes to you guys.”

  “That’s always good to hear, uh, Alex, right?” Beaudry said. “Where can I reach you, if I get some more news about this?”

  Alex knew Beaudry simply wanted to keep track of him, not feed him information. But Alex had no choice but to give him the hotel and magazine contact numbers. He respected smart detectives, and despised the hacks that he had met passing for pros in most towns.

  “Well,” Alex said, standing. “That is what I needed to know.” He held out his ha
nd, and Beaudry shook it. “So … thanks!”

  Beaudry said, “Good luck with whatever you’re writing. We would really like to know who those people were, if you ever find out.”

  “Sure thing. Be glad to help.”

  Alex left the building in an emotional twist, his stomach churning. If Beaudry began to consider the odds about nine people dying horrible deaths in one night, one mile apart, within one hour, Alex would easily become a ‘person of interest.’ I hope he’s not as smart as he seems to be.

  From a window on the second floor Det. Frank Beaudry watched Alex Swain walk down the headquarter steps and into the street. Beaudry noted the make, model, and color of Alex’s car as he drove off. Then he picked up his desk phone.

  Alex left the headquarters and drove to a corner grocery, looking for a pay phone. He needed to call the office and find Phil. He had a lot more work to do, and if Phil wasn’t in the office a trip to Hollywood would be waste of time. The office manager, Betsy, answered.

  “Hi, Betsy. Is Phil there?” Alex asked.

  “Alex – oh, great! We’ve been trying to get you. You gotta get down here as soon as you can. Phil needs to talk to you.”

  “I need to talk to him! Don’t let him do anything with the Manson Ranch story until I talk to him!” Alex said.

  “Sure, sure,” Betsy said. “But I know that’s why he needs to talk to you. I think we’re shutting that story down.”

  The Big Hammer

  October 16, 1969

  6 pm.

  Phil’s office was darkening. No lights, blinds drawn, the sun low and sinking fast. His left hand was still bandaged but out of the sling, the bandages there really only to keep the splints and fingers aligned and tight. He smoked with his right hand, when he wasn’t using it to prop up his head.