BACK AT THE OFFICE . At break time Dr. Landau and I stepped outside the office building, crossed the street and walked along Oakland’s Lake Merritt. Gusts of wind nudged the Goldfish sailboats along the artificial inland lake.
Dr. Landau stoked his pipe laden with cherry-flavored tobacco and lit up. “You want my impressions of Manson?” he asked. I nodded.
“The reason Manson appeared lifeless is because he’s brain-dead,”
the psychiatrist said. When he exhaled the smoke I realized the cherry was mixed with maple.
“His brain has been fried from all those acid trips.” Perhaps this dynamite information might be useful in my letter.
First Manson Letter FIRST MANSON LETTER
(transcription)
Dated Aug 20 1975 from San Quentin. 4 pages on legal-sized paper. Richard, So I see you have hooked your image with Hemingway—Shot guns are on sail or is that Sale—you are an uninformed dumie liveing in a past illusion—what quotes you got from Bugliosi you can ask him what he does for his money—you as a wrighter should know garbage thats written for money & not the truth—
Ive never said “I got them grils hoofing for me your school trained brains can find no resureance (reassurance) in your mothers graveyard by playing me down for not being programmed by books written by people who have been dead in anything in reals real—
Dead thoughts in your mothers minds—Prison has been my home all my life—Hows your prison
You write books about other people who live life & you lock me up because I know how to live life without your book confusion— Had you any brains or eyes to see—you would of seen I was on TV because Im holding up your world thoughts & trying to git out from under your schooled confusion before it all falls on me—
“Perhaps prison is no longer your home”—your whole world is a prison & as far as you confronting me with inconstancies—you couldnt confront me with your eyes or stand in front of me without shakeing in your shoes
and as for confronting me with inconstancy Each day is a new world— if you wasnt stuck in your book mind—Prison in 1967 isnt the prison of 1975 or 1914 or tomorrow—and the physician friend of yours gona say what I say & he dont even know what he is—yes Im a bit wasted from carrying a bunch of fools who try to find resaureance in there own realities by running that bull down on me—
as far as 4 year of isolation gitting me down—Ive had 29 years of that loneliness & constant fear has been my hole life & aint no new trip
your weak mind would of busted your book brain Im a smart person— meek—your brains are backwards I was only a servant (to his people)—your right about one thing—as for your conclusion “CM is dead” you let him die—I wish you what a dumie got coming git off my back with that shit—loneliness & constant fear indeed—your old woman—go ask your wife for a permit to ask what she thinks cause she been doing your thinking
I have gain the disapproval of every one & can hold it & yell louder than people who have the approval of the world—where ever I go your thoughts go & as much as you lie
I cant trust you unless I had a gun to your head & then I would need to find it & Im sure your head must be on a 12 year old— Are you willing to come in the same room with me in no hand cuffs just the 2 of us to wright your book & ask your questions—are you afraid or is it I who am afraid or do I ask myself questions & answer my own questions & wright my own book or should I go to the boat house for a nut ship or play fear to heart beets or tryps that I dont give a fuck about to start with Im fuck up with all this B.S.—wright what you want or dont wright at all
Any doubt or inconsistencies you raised are in your own misunderstandings I never been constintant so therefore inconsistencies are impossible—as far as raised what you raise or dont raise is up to you—in your mind—Im here in my own fool me
P.S. It would be nice Manson is dead--& no one would be looking for me & then they would set them selves mindless with another dead god to pray to for another 2000 years—suck an onion—Dumie you unreal & how you doing kid & I knew you was in there with that Richard playing over you—
Am I to die lonely in the nut house feeling sad & rejected HA HA I was broke at 14 & re-broke at 15—16 I say yes sir fence post & bowed to the mind & was dead 50 times in your mothers thinking
Tell your Dr. I could send this building to him frontwards or backwards & that your both crazy—
Im flashing a taste of madness on you but
Richard Im only playing with you because you wright like a old school teacher—all is consistency—the universe is that—the world circles you play in are that—a game that can say anything backwards forwards say you I been word play—Read that forwards backwards & laugh at yourself—
Your reality been coming from a difficult (cannot make out the next few words)--& the little kid sayed the king got no close on—for now & what your words wright or right your own words rit.
I was playing with your word playing like mom & dad & just forget you were only running after images—so you would take me to the nut house & kill your own thought—go an do your thing its your thughts
Second Manson Letter SECOND MANSON LETTER
(transcription).
Dated August 21, 1975. from San Quentin One page on legal-sized paper.
(NOTE: See Appendix 2 for the actual letter)
On top of the page is a cute drawing.
Dear Richard— Ive been thinking about that smart letter I wrote to you yesterday, I was mad at the world yesterday. (Another drawing; cuter than the first one.)
I dont know what we can do about some kind of interview. If I had an kecit recorder & you had one—you could ask questions & send & I could answer & you may be able to put down some kind of book together & your Dr. friend could probably git good research out of it for science (smiling face drawing).
If I can get the kids to go for it its got to be what they can understand— they are through most of it already—Nixsons tape are waring (wearing) out & even your book minds have reached a high peek (peak) of knowing the new thought that we must keep pace with
Ive been in darkness so long that Im kinda blind cause I cant see whats going on outside—anyway see about this kecit & we can work up a grate book with your schooling & my experience in darkness of the pits of deep thought (drawing of a smile)
Easy Richard P.S. Forget that other letter OK—there may be brain damage what do I have to compare with—Ive tried to realy help the world & I dont think thats rong (he blackened out the next five or six words)
First Showdown: Enter Elf, Manson’s Commando With A Hidden Agenda FIRST SHOWDOWN: Enter Elf, Manson’s Commando With A Hidden Agenda
In a postcard Manson informed me that Elf, a family member, is going to visit me. He asked me to take care of his friend as I would take care of myself.
Within a few days after receiving notice that the man with a mysterious name, my doorbell rang. I went down the serpentine stairs of my flat.
Through the glass door window I saw a tall, slender man with hair spouting all over his face. He resembled Rasputin, the mad monk that brought down the Czar in 1917 and stirred Russia into the Revolution. Elf was lean, emaciated, with wild-looking eyes—Rasputin reincarnated.
“This is an honor,” I said. “You’re the first Manson family member to enter my temple.”
We hugged each other. Once upstairs, he told me that Charlie viewed me as a brother.
“I can see why Charlie digs you.”
He accompanied me into the kitchen. On the alcove table were four tuna sandwiches and two plates of salad. His choice of beverage was a beer.
“What’s your real name?” I asked.
“Dennis Rice. Listen man, I just got out of the joint (San Quentin). Can I camp here for a few days?”
“Sure, Elf, you can stay in my den.”
After finishing the tuna sandwiches he gulped the salad down. It was obvious he wanted to read the precious Manson mail.
“Thanks, man. The letters Charlie sent you.
Can I see them now?”
We entered the den down the hallway. Sprawled on the floor were the dozen letters and two postcards from Manson.
Elf, ecstatic, sniffed the mail, as though he was absorbing Manson’s energy.
“Can I hang out here and read them?”
“I’ll leave you alone.”
While he was ensconced in the den, mesmerized, I went to my bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway, shut the door, opened the Helter Skelter book and searched the remarkable Index, hoping to find Dennis Rice’s name. To my delight, there were many entries. I read the following:
Shortly after closing time on the night of Saturday, August 21, 1971, six armed robbers entered the Western Surplus Store in the Los Angeles district of Hawthorne—
While one kept a shotgun on the female clerk and two customers, the others began carrying rifles, shotguns, and pistols to a van parked in the alley outside. They had collected about 140 guns when they spotted police card in the alley, blocking the van.
The first police car. LAPD, alerted by a silent alarm, had already sealed off the alley. Gunshots in the alley. The robbers came out shooting. In the ten-minute that followed, the van was riddled with over fifty bullets, and some twenty bullets crashed into the black and whites.
Firearms exchanged between the Manson followers and police.
Surprisingly, no one was killed, though three of the suspects received slight wounds.
Two of the male suspects are felled from the gunfire.
All six robbers were Manson family members Apprehended were Mary “Brunner, 27, first member of the family.
Catherine Share, AKA Gypsy, 29 and Dennis Rice, 32, both recently freed after serving a 90 day sentence for their act in the attempted silencing of Barbara Hoyt.
A family member, Barbara Hoyt decided to turn state’s evidence and testify for Bugliosi and the prosecution. Dennis Rice took her on a trip to Hawaii where they OD’ed her on sleeping pills and acid. She was left to die on the beach. Through divine intervention she was discovered by a social worker who recognized the symptoms of overdose.”
A young woman, unconscious, lies on the sand while a social worker attends to her.
Barbara Hoyt’s life was spared. The purpose of the aborted robbery was to storm the Los Angeles courthouse and perform a commando style raid to free Manson during his trial for the murders.
I put the book down. So that’s my house guest. Dennis Rice, AKA Elf. He was willing to steal and kill for Manson.
Also important—he was willing to die for Manson.
I paced the room, wondering what to do next. While reflecting on the course of action, it was obvious—brew coffee for me and Elf.
On my way to the kitchen I noticed Elf, totally absorbed, totally mesmerized by Manson’s magic.
In the kitchen I prepared the coffee cut some vegetables and made a dip. Soon its aroma would waft into the den. In a few moments Elf entered the kitchen, sniffing. “Man, is that coffee?”
“Take a seat, Elf. I’ll pour you a special treat.”
I extended my cup in a toast. The cups clink.
“Man, we don’t get anything like this in the joint.”
“It’s Jamaica Blue Mountain, Elf.”
“Man, what dreamy coffee.”
“Try the veggies and the special onion dip.”
Elf dipped into the treat.
“Hmmmm, how tasty. Thank you.”
“My privilege to serve you.”
That statement reverberated through Elf’s psyche. From his body language the statement resonated at a deep level of his being.
“How did you and Charlie get connected on such a deep level?
”He’s buried in prison and he needs mental and emotional stimulation.”
”Are you working on a book, a play, an article?
”All of the above plus a movie version.”
“I appreciate you letting me camp out here. I’ll notify my parole officer. I’m sure he will approve.”
I motioned Elf to follow me into the den. Once there, I unrolled a sleeping bag from the closet and placed it, along with a pillow and blanket on top of the bag. Elf could cuddle up next to the letters. I gave him directions to the bathroom, at the end of the hallway. Then I handed Elf a key.
Surprised, he accepted.
When I left for work in the morning I noticed that Elf’s door was closed. I left him a note on the table in the kitchen alcove. “Elf, help yourself. There’s plenty of orange juice, pastries. For the coffee, just push the start button and you’ll have Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee for breakfast. I’ll be home around 3:00 p.m.”
I added a postscript: “A horse rode a cowboy into town.” Around 3:05 in the afternoon I climbed up the serpentine stairway. The door to the den was open. No Elf; no letters.
“Elf, are you here?”
“I’m in the living room, Richard.”
There he was, sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the dozen Manson letters, two postcards and my typed transcriptions of the correspondence. Once again, he was drawing Power from magnetic Manson.
From his body language, he was distressed. The reason for being forlorn soon became obvious.
He frowned as he spoke: “Richard, I don’t like the way you’re interpreting Charlie,” he said, holding up one of my transcriptions.
“We have to talk,” he said.
Immediately, without thinking, I began to move in a circle. My facial expression changed from a smile to a grotesque Manson pose.
Elf, confused, looked up, his eyes follows the moving figure that stalked him.
I maintained the demonic pose as I continued my foray on the battlefield.
“Elf, you’re a venomous little man playing Mr. Big—you schoolbrained dummy robot.”
I continued to encircle my prey. “A few days out of prison and you think you know how to interpret Charlie.”
The truth shamed Elf.
“I can see through you. A scared little boy trying to play big. You don’t want to be Charlie’s mouthpiece on the outside. You want to be Charlie.”
Elf, in shock.
“I may not tell Charlie how Mr. Little is trying to play Mr. Big.”
Elf, relieved. “
Then again, I may tell him.”
Elf, scared.
”Tomorrow have your parole officer find you a new place.”
Elf, speechless, nods.
“And I don’t appreciate you bad-mouthing me to Sandy Goode and Squeaky. They’ve been calling me. I don’t want to deal with Charlie’s subordinates. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Elf nodded.
“You can stay here tonite. When I come home from work tomorrow afternoon you’ll be gone.”
Having said that, I slowly left the room.
On my way home from work the following afternoon I kept saying, “Charlie, thanks for giving me clues about “Manson Talk.”
I climbed up the serpentine stairs. The den door was open. No Elf. I went into the living room. The letters and transcriptions were intact.
I returned to the den and looked into the closet. The sleeping bag was neatly rolled up. On top of the sleeping bag and folded blankets was the house key.
For some unknown reason, I picked up the blankets and sleeping bag. A postcard drops to the floor.
I read the message from Manson:
Elf, I want you to get those letters from R&R. I told him too much that can bring harm to us And don’t get into any more trouble.
“So that’s what Elf’s mission was about,” I thought.
In the living room I did an inventory. All was there. With the experience over, I began to shake in my boots.
Second Showdown: Manson Sends Hail Mary To My San Francisco Flat SECOND SHOWDOWN: Manson Sends Hail Mary To My San Francisco Flat
I decided to report Elf ’s attempt to “play Charlie.” In my letter I told Manson what had transpired.
In a postcard, Manson wrote: R&R, you can lift me a
little and that’s good. You’re right about Elf trying to play Mr. Big. He won’t bother you any more.
I’m sending Hail Mary to hook with you—she’s studying Earth Balance in college—she will take better care of you than Elf
R&R, you can lift me a little and that’s good. You’re right about Elf trying to play Mr. Big. He won’t bother you any more
FLASH FORWARD. Later on, through one of my contacts in the prison system,* I found out that Manson took umbrage with Elf over the latter’s failure to accomplish his mission. What follows is the letter exchange between Manson and Elf.
Manson reads Elf’s letter:
“Charlie, I see why you told me that R&R is your soul brother. You won’t believe what happened. MANSON What do you mean you let him circle you into a state of confusion. Be straight out and admit you fucked up again.
Elf cowers before the onslaught.
MANSON: Who told you that you were my voice on the outside--R&R sees more from his fuckin’ innocence than you ever will.
Elf cringes.
MANSON: You keep working with Hail Mary on the other projects. BACK TO THE PRESENT. Three days after Manson informed me about a female coming to visit me, my phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Hello. Am I speaking to Richard?”
“Richard speaking. Are you Hail Mary?”
Momentary silence followed by laughter. “Charlie said you were psychic.”
“He said you would like to come and see me.”
`Yes, yes. Can I come and visit you tomorrow after my last class?”
“Sure. What time does school let out and what school do you attend?”
“I cut loose at two o’clock. I’m a sophomore at San Francisco State. I study in my dorm until six.”
“Ok. See you after six tomorrow, Friday evening. A question: did Charlie name you that because you always pray for him?
Charles Manson's Blood Letters: dueling with the devil Page 2
