Manson: The Life and Times of Charles Manson Hardcover

by Jeff Guinn

  During their first weeks of friendship, Bobby Beausoleil’s most lasting favor to Charlie was introducing him to Gary Hinman, who lived near the Spiral Staircase. Charlie glommed on to Hinman right away. The guy was a music teacher, so he might have some useful industry contacts. He cooked up and sold drugs, mostly speed, so he had those kinds of connections, too. Hinman had a nice house and was willing to let friends crash there as needed—Charlie made certain that Hinman began counting him as a friend. Mary and Susan both liked quiet, somewhat standoffish Gary, so they gladly helped make a good impression on him. Hinman also had two cars, and that was handy whenever Charlie and his gang needed transportation other than the school bus. The only thing wrong with Hinman was that he was into Eastern religions, Zen or whatever, and that left him impervious to Charlie’s spiritual raps. But at least, along with Bobby, he could serve as a long-term asset, if not full member, of the group.

  There was a lot to enjoy in Topanga, but Charlie was wary about hanging around the Spiral Staircase for too long, mostly because he didn’t want his women to have an opportunity to fall under the influence of others. Charlie had learned in the Haight that it wasn’t wise to open himself up to competition from other would-be gurus. On any given day at the Spiral Staircase there might be two or three or a dozen individuals yammering about their beliefs and urging everyone listening to join them. Satanists, vegans, anarchists, smack addicts, born-again Christians—it was a virtual bazaar of paths to true enlightenment. So in December Charlie got the girls back on the bus and took off on another extended road trip, this one initially probing the farthest reaches of the Mojave Desert, where the women had no guru options other than Charlie. He took full advantage, hammering home the importance of complete obedience to him and leavening the lectures with new music from the Beatles. They had just released Magical Mystery Tour, the soundtrack to a British TV holiday special in which the band and assorted colorful hangers-on boarded a bus and set out to have random adventures. See, Charlie reminded the girls, we’re just like the Beatles out here on our bus, driving around and waiting to see what happens next. He loved the Mojave, its barren beauty and isolation. The women griped about the dust and bugs, but they stayed in the desert as long as Charlie wanted because he knew best. Then for about two weeks they went to a few other places, too, Arizona and New Mexico and Texas, meeting people and briefly hanging out with them. In Texas, Charlie’s teeth started hurting so much that he went to see a dentist, who recommended pulling some. Charlie refused, saying that if he lost teeth he might not be able to sing properly afterward.

  By the time around the end of the year that Charlie was ready to head back to L.A., Susan was pregnant—she was certain the father was some guy she’d had sex with in Arizona. Charlie was fine with that; it would be another baby to go with the one of his that Mary was going to deliver sometime in the spring. When Mary’s baby was born, when Susan’s arrived, all the grown-ups would share equally in parenting. That way their individual hang-ups wouldn’t be passed on to the infants.

  Charlie was interested in the communes that were cropping up, groups much like his where a leader brought together some like-minded others and everyone lived together, separating themselves from whatever it was in society that they disdained. Charlie had no interest in combining his followers with those of anyone else. Instead, as he had in prison with Dale Carnegie courses and Scientology, he wanted to appropriate the best ideas of others and adapt them for his own purposes. One of the best-known L.A. area communes was the Hog Farm, led by former Haight resident Hugh Romney, who rechristened himself Wavy Gravy. Romney and his fellow Hog Farm denizens provided free medical assistance at rock festivals and ecological charity events. Charlie didn’t see anything worth emulating in that because there was nothing in it personally for him, but he was intrigued by Dianne Lake, a fourteen-year-old girl living at the Hog Farm with her parents. Dianne liked the school bus, and begged her parents for permission when Lynne and Pat asked if she’d like to come along with them. The Lakes agreed, and Charlie had another convert. He immediately began holding up Dianne to the other women as someone to emulate, claiming she hadn’t yet been corrupted by parents or society the way that they had. Charlie favored Dianne in another way, too. Though he felt obligated to spread his sexual favors among the other women, for the next year Dianne would be by far his most frequent partner.

  By the end of December, Charlie and the group were settled back in Topanga. They stayed in a series of houses, sometimes briefly renting, other times squatting, often crashing with Hinman or at the Spiral Staircase for a few days. Everything was meant to be fluid; the only certainty was that Charlie constantly angled for new music industry contacts who could get him a recording contract. There were potentially lots of them in Topanga, among them some of the current biggest stars in the business—Neil Young, Stephen Stills, Linda Ronstadt, Chris Hillman, Barry McGuire. Charlie did what he could to make their acquaintance, which in itself was typical of many rock star wannabes and something the established musicians accepted as part of the price of fame. Most of their addresses were common knowledge; it was not unusual for Frank Zappa to get up in the morning to find total strangers sitting in his living room, waiting for the chance to sing him their songs. Every one of them, Zappa told friends, believed that he or she was the most gifted performer in the universe with something original to say with their music. Few if any did, but Zappa, like his other famous neighbors, usually would at least listen politely and, in rare cases, suggest the musician call some club owner who was willing to give unknowns a chance to perform. It was important not to let any of them attach themselves permanently; the art of gentle, firm disengagement was something the Topanga celebrities had to learn.

  Charlie distinguished himself from the other Topanga wannabes by being pushier. He tried to catch the attention of the popular band Spirit by crashing one of their home rehearsals, and was sent packing with shouts of, “Man, you got bad karma!” Producer David Briggs got so fed up with Charlie—who, in addition to demanding a record deal, also asked for Briggs’s truck—that Briggs threatened to shoot him if he ever saw him again. Nothing could shake Charlie’s belief in his superstar destiny. Still, at year’s end, he was no closer to that goal than he’d been back on McNeil Island when he first heard the Beatles on a prison cell radio, and sometimes his frustration boiled over. Charlie constantly preached selflessness and love to his followers, but after a while all of them noticed that Mary Brunner always seemed to have a black eye. Lynne and Pat, who’d been with Charlie and Mary the longest, knew it was even worse. Sometimes Charlie administered full-scale beatings to Mary, knocking her down and kicking her while she was on the floor. He tried not to let most of his followers see this side of himself, but warned Lynne and Pat that if they didn’t do exactly what they were told, the same thing would happen to them.

  • • •

  About the same time Charlie and his women returned to L.A., the Beach Boys left for Paris, where they performed a benefit concert for the United Nations. The band had arguably been the second-most popular in the world behind only the Beatles, but in recent years it had fallen on hard times. In October 1966 the single “Good Vibrations,” all about the wonder of hippie love and lifestyle, topped the charts and became an anthem of the counterculture. But Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys’ founder and composer of the music that propelled the band to prominence, rapidly deteriorated from the crushing combination of mental illness and drugs. First he quit touring, then seemed to lose his knack for crafting irresistible pop anthems. Without Brian to write hits, the rest of the band had to shoulder some of the composing load, and though several members would eventually emerge as fine composers in their own right, the immediate results were mostly forgettable fluff. The band also blundered by backing out of a scheduled appearance at the seminal 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, where a new generation of rock idols emerged—Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who. Among hip youth, the Beach Boys were no longer considered relevant. The band s
taggered forward mostly as a concert draw, with audiences cheering performances of golden oldies like “Fun, Fun, Fun” and “California Girls” and glumly enduring renditions of generally undistinguished new material. The Beach Boys were in trouble, and everybody in the band knew it.

  While the Beach Boys were in Paris, drummer Dennis Wilson dropped into a rehearsal by sitar virtuoso Ravi Shankar, and another Shankar guest there was the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who had recently rocketed to prominence when the Beatles publicly became his followers in the discipline he called Transcendental Meditation or TM, the use of daily meditation and individual mantras to achieve serenity. Dennis found himself drawn to the diminutive guru, and touted him to the other Beach Boys. The Maharishi, savvy in publicity as well as philosophy, invited Dennis and the rest of the band to a private audience with him soon afterward in New York. Mike Love, the lead singer on many of the Beach Boys’ hits, was especially charmed, and instantly embraced TM. The Beach Boys had recently opened their own production company, Brother Records, and Love wanted Brother to do a film about Transcendental Meditation. The project never developed, mostly because the band’s main focus was on rebuilding its own sagging fortunes. But all of its members—impulsive, trusting Dennis Wilson in particular—yearned for some all-knowing savior to guide them back to prominence. Maybe it would be the Maharishi. They also desperately needed great new songs.

  Early 1968 was savagely unsettling for America. The nation was rocked by news of January’s Tet offensive, where insurgents from North Vietnam briefly overran the grounds of the American embassy in Saigon and brought the first heavy, sustained assaults to the heart of the South. Antiwar spirit spread into more college campuses and CBS news anchor Walter Cronkite, perhaps the most revered member of the media among older Americans, gravely editorialized on the air that despite optimistic reports from the White House and the military, the undeclared war in Vietnam was no better than a stalemate. Incumbent Lyndon Johnson was challenged in his party’s first presidential primary by Minnesota senator Eugene McCarthy, whose entire platform was getting out of Vietnam as soon as he was sworn in. Masses of college students volunteered for McCarthy’s campaign. Meanwhile, the first race riot of 1968 broke out in South Carolina in February. It was only the first of many—there would be more than 130 in major U.S. cities by year’s end.

  While Charlie had no interest in what caused the latest tidal waves of discontent among American youth, he was happy to benefit from the portion that turned up in Topanga. Many kids from L.A. and most of those flooding into the area were bewildered by events around them, if not the war or racial strife, then at least problems with parents and the strong desire to get away from the overwhelming pressure of fitting into an increasingly chaotic world. Charlie had his alternative to offer—surrender ego, give up individuality, come with him, join a real family, all of it field-tested now on Mary and Lynne and Patricia and Susan and Dianne. Charlie in full recruiting mode was something to behold. He’d chat with a likely convert, turning the subject quickly to how obvious it was that the system wasn’t working. Charlie would turn whatever reply he got into more detailed conversation, always seeming to agree with every word the other person said. It was impossible for any of them not to feel flattered, and most were intrigued by Charlie’s insistence that he and some other friends were doing their part to bring about the right kind of change, starting with jettisoning the very things the potential convert disliked most about ordinary life—he or she should come hang out with them for a while. He cast out his psychological net and began hauling in potential converts at a rapid rate. The girls already in his thrall helped by wandering around, chatting with youngsters and telling them about this amazing man named Charlie who had all the answers—they should come talk to him, hear what he had to say.

  Most days, possible followers would be brought to or drop by wherever in Topanga Charlie happened to be living, and he would offer his hybrid philosophy and get a sense of who seemed most interested. Some weren’t, sensing something phony or else put off by Charlie personally or the raggedy appearance of the girls already following him. Those who seemed to buy into what they were hearing were individually tested, mostly by Charlie himself. Men were valued for mechanical skills—the bus was always breaking down, and the cars and motorcycles, mostly used, that the group kept acquiring from generous acquaintances needed lots of maintenance. Too, Charlie simply enjoyed the company of men much more than being around women. He believed that he could sometimes let down his guard around other guys. Most of the men who spent much time with him were soon aware of his extreme racial prejudice, but women joining the group believed that Charlie loved all races equally. Charlie’s fascination with guns and knives surprised many of his women in the months ahead, but men in the group knew about it all along.

  The most important male initiate was Paul Watkins, a cherubic eighteen-year-old dropout who immediately established himself as Manson’s most effective recruiter. Watkins’s ambition was to become Charlie’s second-in-command. Charlie’s leadership skills were never more shrewdly demonstrated than the way in which he encouraged Watkins and Bruce Davis to believe that each was his most indispensable subordinate. Davis would be sent on long-term scouting expeditions, one all the way to England, seeking out financial support and studying ways in which other groups and cults operated. Watkins was more useful at Charlie’s side, where his boyish charm helped disarm warier women.

  Though it was relatively easy for men to pass muster with Charlie, he was much more demanding of women who wanted to join the group. He tested them in the same way he had potential hookers during his days as a pimp, isolating himself with them and breaking them down mentally and sexually. The women were exhaustively quizzed about their lives, their experiences with their parents, peers, at school or in church. The more Charlie knew about each one, the better he could weave individual webs to bind them to him. Charlie’s immediate goal was to alienate the women from everything in their past. If they had little self-esteem, if there were things wrong with their lives, then that was the fault of their parents, their teachers, people who forced them to go against their own nature. Great wrongs had been done to them all of their lives, Charlie stressed. What they needed now was the guidance of someone who would love them for who they really were.

  Then Charlie mastered the women sexually, both to establish his dominance and to assure himself that they would be willing to give themselves to anyone in any way at Charlie’s command. He started by crudely insisting on a blow job. Any girl who refused to perform something Charlie considered so basic was unsuited to joining the group. From there, Charlie indulged his varied appetites. No matter the extent of her previous sexual history, a woman being initiated into the group by Charlie was certain to have new experiences with him. Within the group, Charlie’s sexual prowess became the stuff of wonder, additional proof that he was more than human.

  One female addition who didn’t need extensive vetting by Charlie, sexual or otherwise, was Ruth Ann Moorehouse. As he’d promised, Charlie summoned her, and the precocious teenager deserted the husband she’d married only to emancipate herself from her parents. Charlie was pleased when Ruth Ann arrived in Topanga. Like Susan Atkins, she was sexy enough to seduce men into joining the group. But unlike moody, attention-addicted Susan, Ruth Ann cheerfully did what she was told and never caused problems.

  Women who didn’t make it through Charlie’s sexual initiation still had a chance to join the group for a while if they had something else to offer—specifically money (cash or bank accounts), active credit cards, or vehicles. Once their money was completely contributed, their credit card limits reached, or the auto pink slips signed over to Charlie, they were urged to leave, usually by being told they needed to go through more personal changes before they were worthy of membership.

  Charlie’s prime money catch was teenaged Didi Lansbury, daughter of actress Angela Lansbury. Didi never actually left home to join the group full-time, but so far as Charlie was concerne
d, she didn’t need to. He and some of the others would pick up Didi at her high school after class was out and go stock up on clothes or car parts without any concern for cost, because Didi paid for everything with her mother’s credit cards. Eventually, the cards were cut off and Didi withdrew from Charlie’s clutches, but not before he’d greatly benefited from their association. The experience left Charlie convinced that there were no better pigeons than the children of stars. He hoped to meet many more.

  In the early months of 1968, the group grew to twenty or more members, some not staying long, others clearly determined to cleave to Charlie forever. He preached that their given names were one more way society forced them to conform and encouraged them to take on new identities, changing what they called themselves as frequently as they liked. This made it difficult, later on, for authorities and the media to keep straight exactly who was who, and the given names of some members have been entirely lost, leaving them to be identified only by group nicknames. Pat Krenwinkel became and mostly stayed Katie, though she also experimented with Marnie Kay Reeves. Susan Atkins went through several identities before Charlie, wanting to suppress her obvious delight in her looks and sexuality, dubbed her Sadie Mae Glutz. Susan shortened it to Sadie. Mary Brunner became Mother Mary in honor of her pregnancy. Young Dianne Lake was Snake. In tribute to his diminutive stature, Paul Watkins became Little Paul. Newcomer Nancy Pitman was renamed Brenda McCann. Ella Jo was soon known by all as Yeller. Ruth Ann became Ouisch, pronounced “Ooh-WHEESH.” Subsequent Manson legend often had it that her name was derived from the slithery noise knives made slitting flesh, but the truth was more mundane. Ouisch got her new name based on the sound men supposedly made whenever they saw her for the first time—“Ooh-WHEEE.”