Helter Skelter

DECEMBER 26–31, 1969

A call from LAPD. A cook at the Brentwood Country Club says that the chief steward there, Rudolf Weber, was the man in front of whose house the Tate killers stopped to hose off about 1 A.M. on August 9.

Bringing along a police photographer to take photos of the area, Calkins and I went to see Weber at his home at 9870 Portola Drive, a side street just off Benedict Canyon Drive, less than two miles from the Tate residence. As I listened to Weber’s story, I knew he was going to be a good witness. He had an excellent memory, told exactly what he remembered, didn’t try to fill in what he did not. He was unable to make a positive identification from the large batch of photos I showed him, but his general description fitted: all four were young (Watson, Atkins, Krenwinkel, and Kasabian were all in their early twenties), the man was tall (Watson was six feet one), and one of the girls was short (Kasabian was five feet one). His description of the car—which had never appeared in the press—was accurate down to the faded paint around the license plates. How was it he could recall such a detail about the car but not their faces? Very simple: when he followed the four down to the car, he turned the flashlight on the license plate; when he saw them on the street, near the hose, they were in the dark.

Weber had a surprise—a big one. Following the incident, thinking perhaps the four people had committed a burglary in the area, he had written down the license number of the vehicle. He had since thrown the piece of paper away—my heart sank—but he still remembered the number. It was GYY 435.

How in the world could he remember that? I asked him. In his job as steward he had to remember numbers, he replied.

Anticipating that this point might be brought up by the defense, I asked Weber if he had read the Atkins story. He said he hadn’t.

On returning to my office, I checked the impound report on John Swartz’ car: “1959 Ford 4 Dr., Lic. # GYY 435.”

When I interviewed Swartz, the former Spahn ranch hand told me that Manson and his girls often borrowed the car; in fact, he had taken the back seat out so they could fit the big boxes in when they went on their “garbage runs.” With the exception of one particular night, they always asked his permission before taking the car.

What night was that? Well, he wasn’t exactly sure of the date, but it was a week, two weeks before the raid. What happened that particular night? Well, he’d already gone to bed in his trailer when he heard his car start up. He got up and looked out the window just in time to see the taillights pulling away. Any idea what time that was? Well, he usually went to bed around ten or thereabouts, so it was after that. When he woke up the next morning, Swartz said, the car was back. He’d asked Charlie why they’d taken the car without asking, and Charlie had told him that he hadn’t wanted to wake him up.

Any other nights during this same period when Manson borrowed the car? I inquired. Yeah, one other night Charlie, the girls, and some other guys—he was unable to remember which girls and guys—said they were going downtown to play some music.

Swartz was unable to date this particular night except that it was around the same time they took the car without permission. Before or after? He couldn’t remember. Consecutive nights? Couldn’t remember that either.

I asked Swartz if he had ever belonged to the Family. “Never,” he very emphatically replied. One time, after the raid, and after Shorty had dropped from sight, he and Manson had an argument, Swartz said. Charlie had told him, “I could kill you any time. I could come into your sleeping quarters any time.” After that Swartz quit his job at Spahn, where he had been working off and on since 1963, and got a job at another ranch.

What did he know about Shorty’s disappearance? Well, a week or two after the raid Shorty just wasn’t around any more. He’d asked Charlie if he knew where he was, and Charlie had told him, “He’s gone to San Francisco about a job. I told him about a job there.” He didn’t exactly feel confident with that explanation, he said, not after having noticed that Bill Vance and Danny DeCarlo each had one of Shorty’s .45 caliber pistols.

Shorty would never willingly part with those matched pistols, Swartz said, no matter how hard up he was.

Under the Constitution of the United States, extradition is mandatory, not discretionary.[44] When a state has a valid and duly executed indictment—as we did in the case of Charles “Tex” Watson—there is no legitimate reason why the accused shouldn’t be extradited forthwith.

Certain powers in Collin County, Texas, felt otherwise. Bill Boyd, Watson’s attorney, told the press he’d fight to keep his client in Texas if it meant going all the way to the United States Supreme Court.

Bill Boyd’s father, Roland Boyd, was a powerful southern politician of the Sam Rayburn school. He was also the campaign manager of a candidate who was running for attorney general of Texas. It was his candidate, Judge David Brown, who heard the Watson extradition request, and granted delay after delay after delay to young Boyd’s client.

Bill Boyd was himself an aspiring politician. Tom Ryan, the local DA, told a Los Angeles Times reporter: “I’ve heard it said that Bill wants to be President of the United States. And after that he wants to be God.”

Time magazine reported: “As swarms of reporters begged for jailhouse interviews with his client, Boyd began dropping ten-gallon hints that Watson’s family might go along ‘if the offer is substantial.’ One photographer offered $1,800. ‘We need lots and lots of money,’ retorted Boyd. How much? ‘About $50,000,’ said the lawyer. Though the press balked, Boyd still has not lowered his client’s price—and he is quite sure that eventually he will get it.”

Meanwhile, Tex apparently wasn’t suffering unduly. We heard, from various sources, that his one-man cell was comfortably furnished, that he had his own record player and records. His vegetarian meals were cooked by his mother. He also wore his own clothing, which she laundered. And he was not completely lacking company, his cell adjoining that occupied by the female prisoners.

Though the extradition of Watson was proving difficult, there were indications that Katie Krenwinkel might decide to return voluntarily, on Manson’s orders. Squeaky, acting as Charlie’s liaison, had sent Krenwinkel a barrage of letters and telegrams, photocopies of which we received from the Mobile, Alabama, authorities: “Together we stand…If you go extra is good…”

I also presumed that the togetherness referred to in each of the messages meant that Manson intended to conduct a joint, or umbrella, defense.

Since the Family had contacted Krenwinkel but, as far we could determine, not Watson, I carried my conjecture a step further, guessing that when the case went to trial Manson and the girls would try to put the hat on Watson.

Presuming they would try to prove that Tex, not Charlie, was the mastermind behind the Tate-LaBianca murders, I began collecting every bit of evidence I could find on the Manson-Watson relationship, and the role each played in the Family.

When interrogated in Los Angeles, sixteen-year-old Dianne Lake had been threatened with the gas chamber. And had said nothing. Inyo County Deputy DA Buck Gibbens and investigator Jack Gardiner tried kindness, something Dianne had known little of during her life.

Dianne’s parents had “turned hippy” while she was still a child. By age thirteen she was a member of the Hog Farm commune, and had been introduced to group sex and LSD. When she joined Manson, just before her fourteenth birthday, it was with her parents’ approval.

Apparently not finding Dianne submissive enough, Manson had, on various occasions: punched her in the mouth; kicked her across a room; hit her over the head with a chair leg; and whipped her with an electrical cord. Despite such treatment, she stayed. Which implies something tragic about the alternatives available to her.

After her return to Independence, Gibbens and Gardiner had a number of lengthy conversations with Dianne.