In 2008, I reached out to Manson again through Gray Wolf. This was after my many run-ins with Manson’s former followers, many of whom were not as former as I thought. The people I’d asked about Filippo Tenerelli and other possible victims must have relayed those communications to Manson. Gray Wolf told me never to get in touch again.
“People are upset with you and you’re in trouble,” he said. “You don’t have permission to do what you’re doing.” He wouldn’t say more. I was cut off. “And I don’t know you,” he added. He hung up.
So concluded my dealings with Charles Manson and his inner circle. When Manson died, in November 2017, the moment aroused little feeling in me. My investigation orbited him, but he mattered hardly at all to me. At some point, as a cottage industry rose up around him and he became a true-crime icon, he’d been made brittle, toothless. His image had become a repository for our fears. Everyone preferred the idea of him to the reality, and in death, he was more ideal than ever: the killer hippie from the sixties, a decade that feels further removed from the present than many that occurred before it.
Always willing to play the madman, he slipped too easily into our understanding of the criminal mastermind. In that rictus of his, those glinting eyes, the X carved into his forehead, we’re supposed to recognize what Bugliosi famously called “a metaphor for evil.” But the full extent of that evil isn’t in what we know about Manson. It’s in what we don’t know. That’s what kept me going all these years, even when I was broke, even when people said I was crazy, even when I had death threats lobbed at me.
As Manson said to me with an air of disgust: “The bottom line is that you want information.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Charles Manson sitting opposite his lawyer, Irving Kanarek, at the 1970 trial for the Tate–LaBianca murders. (Bettmann Archive)
Vincent Bugliosi, chief prosecutor in the Tate–LaBianca trial, speaking with reporters outside the courtroom in 1971. (Associated Press)
Four of Manson’s followers (from left: Cathy Gillies, Kitty Lutesinger, Sandy Good, and Brenda McCann) kneel on the sidewalk outside the Los Angeles Hall of Justice, March 1971. (Associated Press)
Roman Polanski, Sharon Tate’s husband, at the house on Cielo Drive mere days after the murders in August 1969. (Courtesy Julian Wasser)
Jay Sebring (far left), Roman Polanski, and Sharon Tate at a party in London. (Bill Ray / The Life Picture Collection)
Terry Melcher with Candice Bergen at the Whisky a Go Go in the summer of 1967. During Manson’s trial, Melcher would become one of the prosecution’s most important—and most suspicious—witnesses. (Phil Roach/ipol/Globe Photos, Inc.)
Rudi Altobelli, standing and speaking to Candice Bergen during a gathering at the house on Cielo Drive. Altobelli, who owned the house, suggested that the true story behind the murders has never been told. (Courtesy Dominic Pescarino)
Altobelli in 1999, with one of his many adopted cats. (Courtesy Dominic Pescarino)
One of several memos in Bugliosi’s handwriting suggesting that Melcher continued to see Manson after the Tate–LaBianca murders. (Public archive)
A police drawing of the Spahn Movie Ranch, the Family’s hideout. Deputies from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Office raided the ranch on August 16, 1969, but they apparently failed to connect the Family to the rash of murders it had recently committed. (Courtesy John A. Kolman)
A mug shot of the Family’s Bobby Beausoleil, who participated in the murder of Gary Hinman. (Courtesy Lee Koury)
Reeve Whitson with his wife, Ellen, in the winter of 1961–62. Whitson claimed to have been at the house on Cielo Drive in the hours after the Tate murders. (Courtesy Liza Josefson)
Whitson disguised as a hippie. His friends and family believed he was an intelligence agent with ties to the Manson case. (Courtesy Liza Josefson)
At work in my home office in Venice Beach, around 1999. (Author collection)
At work in my home office in Venice Beach, in 2014. (Courtesy Errol Morris)
At work in my home office in Venice Beach, in 2014. (Courtesy Errol Morris)
The whiteboard on which, to the concern and amusement of my friends, I tried to keep track of all the connections I’d made in the case. (Author collection)
Susan Atkins, right, leaving the grand jury proceedings for the Tate–LaBianca murders with her defense attorney, Richard Caballero. Atkins’s testimony was critical to securing indictments against Manson and others in the Family, including herself. But Caballero came to represent her only through an arrangement by prosecutors. (Ralph Crane / The Life Picture Collection)
Caballero also sold his client’s story to the press and arranged to have it published as a quickie paperback, released the same month as her grand jury appearance—a move that only bolstered the state’s case against Atkins and her coconspirators. (Author collection)
Mary Brunner, one of Manson’s earliest followers, with their child, Michael “Pooh Bear” Valentine. (Life magazine)
Roger Smith, Manson’s parole officer, with his assistant, Gail Sadalla. Manson formed the Family during his time under Smith’s supervision in San Francisco. (Elaine Mayes)
A stern letter to Manson from the Federal Probation Office. Manson often ignored his responsibilities as a federal parolee, but he never faced any consequences. (Public archive)
Dr. David E. Smith (facing the camera), the cofounder of the Haight-Ashbury Free Medical Clinic, during the summer of love in 1967. Manson and the Family frequented the clinic. (Wayne F. Miller / Magnum Photos)
In clinical experiments, David Smith injected drugs into groups of rodents in confinement. His research echoed the work of John B. Calhoun, a scientist who used rats to study the effects of overpopulation. Illustrations in his landmark 1962 paper, “Population Density and Social Pathology,” showed the rodents growing violent in increasingly crowded environments. (Scientific American)
Through his clinic, Smith launched the Journal of Psychedelic Drugs, a research periodical that later included a study of the Manson Family’s “group-marriage commune.” (Haight-Ashbury Medical Clinic)
Dr. Louis Jolyon West, circa 1955. The Central Intelligence Agency subcontracted West for its top-secret MKULTRA program, although he denied it for the rest of his life. (Louis Jolyon West files, UCLA)
West found notoriety in 1962 when one of his experiments led him to inject an elephant with enough LSD to kill it in an accidental overdose. While the fact never came out, funding for this debacle came from the CIA. (The Oklahoman digital archive)
In the 1950s, around the time he researched mind-control techniques for the CIA, West inserted himself into the case of Jimmy Shaver, a Texas airman convicted of raping and murdering a three-year-old girl. Shaver claimed to have no memory of the crime. (San Antonio News)
Sidney Gottlieb, West’s handler at the CIA, wrote to him under the pseudonym Sherman Grifford, using letterhead from “Chemrophyl Associates,” a front company. Their correspondence, which confirms West’s participation in MKULTRA, has never before been published. (Author collection)
In 1969, at age twenty-three, Filippo Tenerelli was found dead in a Bishop, California, motel room. Although his death was ruled a suicide, police covered up an abundance of evidence suggesting he was another victim of the Manson Family. (Courtesy Caterina Tenerelli)
After his death, Tenerelli’s Volkswagen Beetle was found overturned near the Family’s hideout in Death Valley. Manson and his followers routinely stole Beetles to convert them into dune buggies for use in the rough desert terrain. (Courtesy Dallas Sumpter)
A coroner’s drawing of the scene of Tenerelli’s death. The autopsy physician later said he was never confident that the incident was a suicide. (Author collection)
The Family in Death Valley, November 1968, in a never-before-published photograph. Manson appears in the back row, fourth from the left. (Special Collections department, University of Nevada)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The twenty-year journey
culminating in this book began with a phone call from Leslie Van Buskirk at Premiere magazine. For that I am forever grateful and, yeah, sometimes resentful. Jim Meigs bet the bank on this—I wish he could’ve stuck around to the end, but who wants to live with Manson that long, except for me? Others at Premiere who kept me on my toes for nearly two years were Kathy Heintzelmen and Anne Thompson.
Without my agent, Sloan Harris of ICM, this book wouldn’t exist. His tenacity and faith—not to mention his extraordinary ability to think outside the box when cancelations, lawsuits, and threats became routine—should be enshrined in the Agentry Hall of Fame. Also life-preserving at ICM were Sloan’s assistants over the years: Kristyn Keene, Heather Karpas, and Alexa Brahme. Kudos, too, to the lawyers who kept me out of jail or, at least, bankruptcy court: John DeLaney and Heather Bushong. And to Rich Green, Michael McCormick, and Will Watkins, who wrangled much-needed sustenance from Hollywood.
At Little, Brown, editor-in-chief Judy Clain went where others before her wouldn’t (or did, then fled). Reagan Arthur bravely put pen to paper, making it real. Their team—Alex Hoopes, Katharine Myers, Alyssa Persons, Ira Boudah, Ben Allen, Trent Duffy, and Lauren Harms—pulled off the amazing feat of producing and publicizing this book. Thanks also to Eric Rayman and Carol Ross, whose close reading safeguarded (hopefully) my future mobility.
When you work on a book for twenty years—examining crimes that occurred decades prior—you lose many of your sources along the way. Among the many who are no longer with us, but who must be acknowledged for excavating memories of a dark, horrifying time, are: Rudi Altobelli, Bill Garretson, Elaine Young, Dominick Dunne, Bill Tennant, Shahrokh Hatami, Richard and Paul Sylbert, Polly Platt, Charles Eastman, Julia Phillips, Denny Doherty, Christopher Jones, Gene Gutowski, and Victor Lownes.
From the law enforcement and legal worlds, and also gone: Charlie Guenther, Paul Whiteley, Bill Gleason, Preston Guillory, Mike and Elsa McGann, Danny Bowser, Paul Caruso, Gerald and Milton Condon, Paul Fitzgerald, Lewis Watnick, Buck Compton, and George Denny.
To thank everyone I interviewed would require dozens of pages—and many of my sources never appear in this book. I’ll limit this list to the ones who endured my inquiries for years, if not decades, and who deserve accolades for their patience.
From the world of Cielo Drive and slightly beyond: Allan Warnick, Gregg Jakobson, Sharmagne Leland-St. John, Jim Mitchum, Elke Sommer, Peter Bart, Tanya and Michael Sarne, Corrine Sydney, Joe Torrenueva, Witold Kaczanowski, Sheilah Welles, Joanna Pettet, Bob Lipton, and Mark Lindsay.
From the Beach Boys’ arena, including authors, researchers, and associates of the band: Alan Boyd, Brad Elliot, Karen Lamm, Nick Grillo, Steve Despar, John Parks, David Anderle, Stanley Shapiro, Ryan Oskenberg, and especially Eddie Roach and Jon Stebbins. Richard Barton Campbell, the webmaster of CassElliot.com, was a tremendous help.
Witnesses who testified at the trial or provided information that helped break the case: Virginia Graham, Jerrold Friedman, Harold True, Joe Dorgan, Father Robert Byrne, and Christine and Michael Heger.
The Hinman case: Cookie Marsman, Marie Janisse, Jay Hofstadter, Eric Carlson, John Nicks, Glen David Giardenelli, Glenn Krell, Michael Erwin, Mark Salerno, Jim and Julie Otterstrom.
Los Angeles Sheriff’s Office: Bill “Moon” Mullin, Louie Danhof, John C. Graham, Jim White, Harold White, John Kolman, Lee Koury, Tony Palmer, Frank Merriman, Bill McComas, Michael Devereaux, Garland Austin, Gil Parra, Jerome Stern, Frank Salerno, Bob Lindbloom, Beto Kienast, George Grap, Samuel Olmstead, Bob Wachsmuth, Bob Payne, George Smith, Paul Piet, Robert Osborne, Don Dunlop, Paul George, Carlos DeLaFuente, John Sheehan, D. C. Richards, Fred Stemrich, and Donald Neureither. Los Angeles Police Department: Carl Dein, James Vuchsas, Charles Collins, Mike Nielsen, Bob Calkins, Jerry Joe DeRosa, Robert Burbridge, Dudley Varney, Wayne Clayton, Walt Burke, Freddy McKnight, Sidney Nuckles, Danny Galindo, William Lee, Cliff Shepard, Ed Lutes, Ed Meckel, and Edward Davis.
Federal law enforcement and the U.S. Attorney’s Office: Roger “Frenchie” LaJeunesse, Werner Michel, John Marcello, Rich Gorman, Samuel Barrett, Richard Wood, Bob Lund, Bob Hinerfeld, Timothy Thornton, Gerald O’Neill, and Ray Sherrard. Los Angeles District Attorney’s office: Stephen Kay, Burton Katz, Jeff Jonas, Robert Schirn, Ronald Ross, Anthony Manzella, and John Van de Kamp. Defense attorneys for Manson Family: Irving Kanarek, Gary Fields, Leon Salter, Jeffrey Engler, Deb Fraser, and Rich Pfeiffer.
Los Angeles media: Sandi Gibbons, Mary Neiswender, Pete Noyes, Dick Carlson, and Brent Zackie.
Las Vegas Police Department: Loren Stevens.
San Francisco: David Smith, Roger Smith, Al Rose, Gail Sadalla, Ernest Dernburg, Eugene Schoenfeld, Steve Pittel, Lyle Grosjean, Charles Fischer, John Frykman, Bob Conrich, John Luce, and Joel Fort. Mendocino County: Margo Tomkins, David Mandel, Thomas Martin, and Duncan James.
Inyo County Sheriff’s Department: Jim Bilyeu, Wayne Wolcott, Harry Homsher, Joe Redmond, Alan George, Dave Walizer, Dennis Cox, Ben Anderson, Jerry Hildreth, and Randy Geiger. Inyo County District Attorneys: Art Maillett and Tom Hardy. California Highway Patrol: officers Jim Pursell, Doug Manning, and George Edgerton. Regarding the investigation and capture of the Family in Death Valley, thanks also to former Death Valley National Park superintendent (and author of the indispensable Desert Shadows) Bob Murphy, and Parks Department rangers Homer Leach, Al Schneider, Paul Fodor, Don Carney, and Richard Powell. And thanks to Darlene Ward, the daughter of late Inyo deputy sheriff Don Ward.
The Tenerelli case would’ve remained in the shadows were it not for the invaluable assistance of Bee and Kermit Greer, Robert Denton, and Billy Kriens, the original investigating officer at the Sportsman’s Lodge. A special thank you to Sue Norris, a medical doctor with experience in forensic pathology who provided a detailed analysis of the Tenerelli coroner’s findings. Finally, while I wasn’t able to comfort Filippo’s mother, Caterina, with a final answer about what happened to her son, I hope I have provided some solace to his sisters, Angela, Lucia, Maria, and Chiara, and his nieces and nephews, especially Cosimo Giovane, who has worked so tirelessly to have the cause of death on his uncle’s death certificate changed from “suicide” to “unknown.”
Lastly, in Inyo, a heartfelt expression of gratitude to Paul Dostie, who has committed the last twelve years of his life to searching for the remains of possible unidentified victims of the Manson Family.
My detour into the murky world of government intelligence and covert operations would have been impossible without the pioneering work of previous CHAOS, COINTELPRO, and MKULTRA authors and researchers, many of whom provided guidance, moral support, and files. Among those who offered generous help are Eric Olson, John Marks, Alan Scheflin, Doug Valentine, Dick Russell, Sid Bender, William Turner, Peter Dale Scott, John Judge, Rex Bradford, Larry Hancock, John Kelly, Phil Melanson, Robert Blair Keiser, Shane O’Sullivan, Brad Johnson, Jim DiEugenio, and Rose Lynn Mangan.
Especially helpful in my investigation of Reeve Whitson was his daughter, Liza, and his former wife, Ellen. Likewise, thanks to Cindy Hancock and Margot Silverman for welcoming me into their homes and opening their fathers’ (William Herrmann and Charles Tacot, respectively) files. A big thanks also to Paul LePage Jr. for allowing access to his late father’s files, and to Joseph Boskin, who served on the Riots and Disorders Task Force with William Herrmann and gave me his entire archive on the committee.
I interviewed dozens of Jolly West’s colleagues and associates. I must express gratitude to the few who helped me understand him the most: Elizabeth “Libby” Price, Gilbert Rose, James R. Allen, and Margaret T. Singer, West’s partner in studying the returned prisoners of the Korean War who beseeched me not to publish the West-Gottlieb letters because they’d destroy “all the good research” they’d done “showing how brainwashing and thought reform works.”
I talked to relatives of the doomed airman Jimmy Shaver and his victim, Chere Jo Horton. His sister, Brenda Hoff, shared family secrets with me as well as t
he absolute conviction that her brother did not wittingly kill Horton.
Thanks to the archivists across the country who endured my unending requests: at the Los Angeles Court of Appeals, Oscar Gonzalez; Los Angeles Superior Court, Mark Hoffman and Don Camera; Federal Bureau of Prisons, Dana Hansen, Ben Kingsley, Traci Billingsly, and Ann Diestel; Federal Parole Office, Pamela Posch and Debbie Terrell; Inyo County District Attorney’s office, Janet and C.J.; University of Nevada Reno, Jacque Sundstrand; National Archives, Greg Badsher, Richard Boylan, Will Mahoney, John Taylor, Fred Romanski, Marjorie Ciralante, Martha Murphy, Marty McGann, Carl Wisenbach, Sam Bouchart, Ken Schlesinger, Rod Ross, Steve Tilley, Ramona Oliver, and Janis Wiggins; National Security Archive, Kevin Symonds; California State Archives, Linda Johnson; and the Special Collections Department of the Charles E. Young Library at UCLA, Charlotte Brown.
Chaos : Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties (9780316529211) Page 44
