Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (35 page)

Eight months later, in October 1982, an officer tried to get into the chapel and was impeded by something blocking the door. Pounding and shouting, Manson finally let him in. The officer discovered that the door had been bound from the inside by an electrical wire. Manson was immediately interrogated and gave evasive answers. A search was commenced. In the ceiling of the clerk’s office—Manson’s office—a trapdoor was discovered that led to the attic. (I hadn’t even been aware that it was there!) Although the door had been bolted down and locked, its hinges were removed. Officers climbed through the door and entered the dark attic. They discovered a well-stocked “escape kit” consisting of a tape recorder, a glass vial containing a volatile white liquid, two pieces of metal stock—one of which was sharpened and taped into a shank—sandpaper, a pair of tin snips (wire cutters), four bags of marijuana, one hundred feet of nylon cord, and a hot-air balloon catalog. A ladder was standing in the chaplain’s office tall enough to reach the ten-foot-high ceiling. A search of Manson’s cell turned up a hacksaw blade, marijuana, and LSD.

Charlie had obviously been preparing to make a break for it. Although the attic was enclosed, it was connected to numerous air ducts and passageways that led to who knows where. If the plot hadn’t been discovered, Manson would have stood a good chance of making it.

Despite the evidence against him, Charlie was able to escape punishment because too many inmates had access to the chaplain’s office and it was impossible to pin it on anyone. That said, it was unmistakably Charlie’s operation from the get-go. Who else but Manson would include four bags of marijuana in his stash? The only question in my mind was how many others he had intended to take with him. Despite our relationship, he was unusually nimble on the subject, steadfastly denying any part.

“I don’t want to get out of here!” he claimed. “You know me. I’m like Frankenstein. I’d be recognized everywhere. The townsfolk would chase me down and string me up to the nearest tree. No sir, I’m staying right here where it’s safe!”

There was some truth to that, but not enough to keep him from trying to bolt. I closely monitored his behavior and moods to see how he was taking the discovery. Inmates frequently go nuts or become suicidal when their long-planned escapes are foiled. It’s not so much the loss of potential freedom that gets them down, it’s the sudden loss of the hope that they had fed on during the months of preparation.

Charlie didn’t appear any different than before. If the aborted attempt was eating at him, he hid it well. It turned out that he did like most prisoners and simply began work on his next attempt. On February 26, 1983, a routine search turned up a pair of khaki coveralls in his cell. They were the exact color and style of those worn by the officers assigned to the security squad, and could easily be used by an escaping con to “filter in.” This time Manson went berserk. Although he knew as well as anyone that the gig was up the moment the clothing was spotted, he refused to fork them over, hitting number 9 on the tantrum Richter scale. When the dust settled, he had destroyed yet another guitar and trashed virtually everything else in his cell, including his latest television set. That effectively ended his days in population.

Charlie sulked for a long time after that, alone in his cell with no guitar to play, no radio to listen to, no television to watch. Once again, a few minutes of anger resulted in months of boredom and despair. Still, he remained incapable of understanding the concept of cause and effect. He became especially mean during this period, spewing threats and jumping on everyone, including me. He made some veiled references to Squeaky and “mail,” coming as close as he ever had to exposing his festering resentment over my campaign to free her from his influence.

At the same time, Squeaky’s letters took on an ugly, menacing tone. She wrote of killing me just as she had tried to murder President Ford. For all my help, Squeaky still viewed me as a barrier, a disapproving Peeping Tom who intruded upon her most intimate moments with her beloved master. I stubbornly persisted in trying to convince her to break away, even after I became thoroughly convinced that it wasn’t possible. We fought constantly through the mail, firing letter after letter arguing points that would never be resolved. I often wondered why we kept it up. For Squeaky, I was the closest she could get to Manson, so it made sense. In fact, many of her letters addressed to me were written directly to him, as if I were nothing more than an invisible conduit. Plus, she had a lot of time on her hands, so writing was no doubt cathartic.

Why did I keep writing to Squeaky? It’s hard to say. I think it boils down to the simple fact that I was unable to throw in the towel. As long as I could scribble some logic on a notepad, I’d keep trying to pump some sense into her.

Usually, it was me who broke. As mentioned before, her letters were often so touching I couldn’t bear to keep them from Charlie. I’d pull him from his cell, slip him a letter, and let him savor it in my office. At times like that, I hated having to stand between them, but realized it was necessary. Left to themselves, there was always the fear that their correspondence would quickly transform from love and kisses to talk of hate and violence.

Charlie had consorted with all his girls, yet somehow managed to keep them from becoming jealous. This always intrigued me. He treated them as one in his “truth.” And yet, in this socialistic world, Squeaky stood out as something special. “I married her in a dark prison cell,” he said once after reading a particularly moving letter. “I was alone, and I never gave her up.”

Squeaky, in turn, fed on the fact that a man who belonged to no one was hers alone on a mystical, higher plane. “I love him and all his instincts you find so dirty.… Day by day, we became more aware of Charlie, who was ever aware of us, and each tree, each branch and each leaf.… The reason I love Charlie is he lets me be myself. Simple. My parents never let me be myself. The harder they pushed me, the farther I went from their reality.… A pair of hands, a feeling, the silent shadows of a lonely, quiet ocean rolls, the sun on my tears and a smile only you can see.”

She called a few days after Charlie’s violent tantrum. Her voice quivered as she fought to control her emotions. “Let me talk with Charlie,” she begged. “Please, I have to. He’s all I got.” It didn’t appear that something traumatic had occurred or that there was an emergency of some kind, but that Squeaky was coming unglued and needed a word or two from her master to keep from falling apart, “Please,” she continued. “I have to. Don’t you understand? He’s all I’ve got! Please let me talk to him. Why do you do this to us? Why? You hope the spell will be broken and I’ll forget him like the others. Well I won’t. I’ll never forget!”

I let her go on like that for an hour, using me as a whipping boy to purge her soul of whatever demons were haunting her. She even reiterated that she had gone after President Ford because of me, an accusation that always made me feel creepy. “I was desperate. No one would let me see Charlie. They kept sending me away, one prison after another. You were my last hope. After you refused to let me see him at San Quentin, that was it. That’s why I am where I am today. That’s why all this happened to me! It’s your fault!”

When she finally wore out, I updated her on Charlie’s day-to-day life, then gently explained that I couldn’t bring him to the phone. He was in isolation at the time, being punished for his latest hissy fit, and I couldn’t spring him even if I’d wanted to. She eventually accepted it and said goodbye, her spirit calm.

Not long afterward, a letter came in that spoke directly to Charlie. “You are my life.… How real you are since people have lost nobility and understand so few things about love being all that you put into it. And you put all.”

Meddling, I wrote back: “You say you know yourself and what you’re doing, but nobody else does. For fantasy’s sake, I’d like to see you two give up your ‘truths,’ escape to the mountains, raise a family and live a harmonious life with the environment until death does you part. You’d probably be so damn happy, you couldn’t stand it! It’s too bad you have so big a world mission.”

“I don’t care what you say to my mind,” she scolded in her next call. “He’s my Charlie too. We’re married in case you didn’t understand. You don’t need a contract to get married. Stop trying to control us or force your ideas on me. I resent your interference. I’m mad, and you could make me madder.… I want to be calm and do my time.… But please don’t try to take care of me with your conception of help. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything. I’m not going to ask you to understand. I’m just asking you to maintain your dignity between us that transcends opinion.

Squeaky’s unbreakable devotion to Manson can best be described by quoting Saint Paul in his letter to the Galatians (chapter 2, verses 20-21). Substituting Manson for Christ—a horribly blasphemous thought, but applicable from Squeaky’s perspective—one begins to understand the level of her worship. “With Christ I am nailed to the cross. It is no longer that I live, but Christ lives in me. And the life that I know lives in the flesh, but I live in faith of the Son of Man who loved me and gave himself up for me.”

With all this, it’s no surprise that Charlie was especially protective of Squeaky—and furiously hated my interference. “There are things you’ve done that you will have to pay for,” he snarled that afternoon, eyes on fire with hate and anger. “Don’t think I don’t know. And don’t think I’ll ever forget! It’s time I sent my people to pay you a visit!”

Charlie had aired similar threats before. I generally ignored them, realizing his mood would change and all would be forgotten the next day. This time, however, the words carried an edge I’d never felt before, an edge that caused my subconscious fight-or-flight instincts to come alive. Goose bumps swelled on my arms. My body hair stood on end as if electrified. Considering Manson’s lingering foul disposition and festering rage, I had to take this threat seriously.

If that wasn’t bad enough, another incident occurred later that same day that resulted in a new series of threats. I was walking down a mainline corridor, lost in thought about Manson’s threat, when I noticed a violent con named Barns strolling down the hall with Dr. Dean Morgan, a staff psychiatrist. Barns was an armed robber who had killed two people in Nevada shortly after being paroled. He was at CMF under a life sentence with no possibility of ever getting out again.

“What the hell is this man doing on the mainline?” I demanded in a loud voice, my irritation with Manson showing through. “He should be locked up in Willis Unit!”

Dr. Morgan was shocked by my confrontational approach and angry tone. “He’s close B custody, Ed. He doesn’t have to lock up until the four-thirty count.”

“Hell, Doc, I figured that, but I looked at his file this morning. Nevada’s got him for life without. In my book, he’s a high escape risk. I know I’d be.”

“Can’t we lock him up tomorrow?” the doctor countered. “I’ve been his therapist for years. He’s having trouble dealing with his life sentence and I can help him.”

Oh? Was the poor murderer having problems with the punishment he so richly deserved? How about the people he had slaughtered? Think they’re having problems adjusting to being dead, Doc? I was about to express those exact thoughts when I caught myself. “That’s his problem,” I snapped instead, sounding like a San Quentin gooner. “You’re never going to help him. I want him locked up now!”

The doctor continued to plead his case as I looked around for a custody officer to drag this SOB to lockup. Barns stared at me with intense hatred, but said nothing.

“Okay, Doc,” I relented, unable to find an escort guard. “Go do your thing. But tomorrow morning, I’m ordering him locked up until they transfer his sorry ass back to Nevada!”

That evening, I paced the hallways of my home, worrying about Manson’s threat. Had he finally given the word? Were the assassins on the way? Would they be a drugged, bloodthirsty gang of sociopaths intent on cutting up my entire family and smearing words from Van Halen albums on the walls with our blood? The phone interrupted my anxiety. It was Dr. Morgan. His voice betrayed his fear. “Barns missed the four-thirty count. They can’t find him anywhere. They think he escaped.”

“Damn it, Doc, I knew it! Do you know how?”

“They’re not sure, but an inmate told custody that Barns hid in a garbage can and went out the back of the garbage truck.”

“The garbage truck! That old trick? I can’t believe it. The way they check those trucks is a joke. I knew somebody would get out that way. So he left from the dump?”

“Probably.”

“Well, thanks for the call. Not much we can do now.”

“Uh, Ed, there’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“Uh, in our interview today, Barns expressed a real rage toward you for ordering him locked up. He said, ‘If I ever get out of here, I’m going to kill that fuckin’ son of a bitch.’”

“He threatened to kill me and you didn’t lock him up?”

“I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I can say. But I must warn you. My professional opinion is that he meant it. He has nothing to lose.”

“The guy threatens to kill me if he escapes, remains in population, then promptly rides the garbage truck out a half hour later? Hell, he must be walking up my sidewalk right now! Thanks Doc!” I yelled, slamming down the receiver. Great. Now it had become a race to see who’d kill me first, Barns the enraged psycho, or a drug-crazed neo-Manson mob. My money was on Barns. He was out, close, and had the most intense immediate motivation. Plus, my home was set on a pasture three miles from the prison. The only thing that stood between the garbage dump and my back door was hilly rangeland. The single obstacle was Highway 80, and that could easily be crossed by scurrying under the bridge at Alamo Creek.

For the first time in my life, I felt unsafe in my home. The odds of somebody trying to take me out that night had suddenly doubled, making me tense and agitated. For once, I felt it was necessary to share the bad news with my family. I wanted everybody to hang tight that evening and be on their toes. I called the local police, explained both threats, and asked them to make frequent patrols. Meanwhile, my daughter Susan went outside and jumbled our address numbers around, which was pretty clever.