![]() They show all the wounds, the nakedness, the blood. The snapshots are homey little numbers, color polaroids taken by staff photographers from the County Coroner’s office and the Los Angeles Police Department. ![]() He once, in fact, gave the Manson family his Toyota, although the circumstances surrounding that gift have since come into question. Gary Hinman, music teacher, bagpipe player, and onetime friend of Charlie Manson’s.They knew nothing of Sharon Tate and her friends, living miles away in different neighborhoods and different worlds. Leno La Bianca, owner of a grocery store chain, and his wife, Rosemary, an ordinary couple of the upper middle class, fond of such quiet pleasures as boating, water skiing and watching late night television in their pajamas.Had fortune been on his side, he would have so remained. Steven Parent, an 18-year-old from Los Angeles suburb of El Monte, a friend of Polanski’s caretaker, unknown to the others, a nobody like the rest of us.The photographs show her in her eighth month.Ĭharles Manson Today: The Final Confessions of a Psychopath After her biggest film, Valley of the Dolls, she retreated to private life to enjoy her first pregnancy. Sharon Tate, considered one of Hollywood’s prettier, more popular promising young stars, wife of genius film sorcerer Roman Polanski.Slowly he turns each page, studies each snapshot, each personality: The entire sixth floor belongs to the District Attorney and his staff, a member of which, now alone on his lunch hour, unlocks a file cabinet and withdraws several neatly bound, family-type photo albums. Ten blocks from the new County Jail stands the old County Hall of Justice, a grotesque, brown brick fortress that for decades has guarded the Los Angeles Civic Center from aesthetic inroads. Surely they realize that he knows, he understands their glorious revelation that he understands the whole fucking double album.Ĭlutching forks and knives to eat their bacon. ![]() Surely they’ve received the telegrams, the letters. Meanwhile Charlie sits blissfully in his cell at the Los Angeles County Jail, composing songs, converting fellow inmates to his gospel of love and Christian submission, and occasionally entertaining a disturbing thought: Why haven’t they gotten in touch? A simple phone call would do it. Her real name is Susan Atkins, but the family calls her Sadie Glutz because that’s what Charlie named her. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to have the others standing around too, the rest of the family, the others imprisoned? Tex Watson and Patti Krenwinkel and Linda Kasabian and, oh yeah, the snitch, Sadie Glutz. It’s for Charlie to wear in court.” And Squeaky adds, “Wouldn’t it be beautiful to have a photograph of Charlie wearing it? And all of us standing around close to him, hugging him like we used to?” ![]() “We’ve been working on this vest for two years,” says Sandra, “adding things, sewing on patches. There’s Lynne Fromme – they call her Squeaky – Sandra Good, Gypsy, Brenda, Sue, Cappy, Jeany. Most of them are early members of Charlie’s three-year-old family. Thirty miles northwest of the courthouse, seven miles due north of Leonard Nimoy’s Pet Pad in Chatsworth (Supplies – Fish – Domestics – Exotics), a circle of rustic women at the Spahn Movie Ranch weave their own hair into an elaborate rainbow vest for Charlie. A convicted bank robber who met Charlie in jail writes “The Gospel According to Pawnee Fred, the Thief on the Other Cross,” in which he asks: They come from New Hampshire, Minnesota, Los Angeles. Charlie gets letters from little girls every day. ![]()
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