Manson Murders, 50 Years - August 9, 1969...

Courtesy Framepool & Rightsmith

 “It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, that you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in the cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.” ~ Vincent Bugliosi, Helter Skelter

Fifty years is a long time…

Gary Hinman would be 84 this December.

Steven Parent would be 68.

Jay Sebring would be 86 this October.

Voytek Frykowski would be 83 this December.

Abigail Folger would be 76 this August.

Sharon Tate would be 76.

Sharon’s baby, Paul Richard, would be 50.

Leno LaBianca would be 94.

Rosemary LaBianca would be 90 this December.

Donald “Shorty” Shea would be 86 this September.

Instead, every soul listed above has been dead and buried for a half century while their killers — minus Atkins-brain cancer and Manson-heart attack — breathe quite comfortably above ground in prison.

I will not list the killers’ names. It was hard enough on this anniversary to list the two above who finally gave the world some measure of peace by keeling over. It’s amazing how long base and vile humans can live.

Since 2008, I have written countless words about the victims, the murders, the scenes and the times on my forensic/pop culture site,

And yet today it feels as if I haven’t written a single word, and this is August 9, 1969 and I’m frightened all over again. I was only five years old when the murders took place but by the grace, or curse, of an eidetic memory, those murders are burned into my mind and will remain so until I’m dead. Since that horrid weekend in L.A., I cannot look at a window screen in the summertime and not feel a sequestered panic.

Adults across North America were panicked, too, the main thought on everyone’s mind: if hippies there can do THAT, can the hippies HERE do that, too? Trust in the counter-culture exploded and it became an “Us vs. Them” mentality. Local police were far more vigilant and everyone gave the “Flower Children” a second glance and a wide birth, choosing to cross the street to avoid that hippie-slippie scourge instead of risking a confrontation by buck knife, bayonet or Buntline revolver.

I was one of the Us, albeit small. Rational came down to this for me: I like baths and I like life.

My mother needn’t have worried I’d join some kind of hippie commune and sell daisies for a dollar at the Toronto International Airport for the greater good. I’m rather fond of speaking my own mind and a lover of reason over Speed and LSD-induced mania.

Manson was and remains a nobody, but like similar pond scum before and after him — Lee Harvey Oswald and Jim Jones spring to mind — they all devised ways to annihilate and destroy what they coveted most, and in the end, their heinous acts didn’t raise their self-worth one red cent. Borderline beings live borderline lives and die in borderline ways, no matter how many innocents they hi-jack along the way.

People often wonder why The Family killers remain behind bars. The answer is simple. Every reasoned society has a moral red line, and if you cross it, you are simply left behind to suffer the retribution you’re owed, whether or not it’s 48 years ago via San Quentin’s “Green Room.” Some acts can never be excused. There is no place for forgiveness or rehabilitation for sociopathic domestic terrorists, and that is precisely what each of The Family murderers were, and are to this very day.

What a California Supreme Court legal hick-up didn’t do by throwing away the Death Penalty in all of those cases, rotting in prison has done over time, but at extreme emotional expense to the victims’ surviving family members who must attend each and every parole hearing to ensure the killers continue to rot behind bars. Sadly, the death toll goes far beyond the initial ten, as it shortened the lives of Paul, Doris and Patti Tate and other relatives connected to these murders. Such metastasizing ripples are still being suffered today as Debra Tate prepares her younger family members to carry the torch once God calls her home. Having to consider this fight as generational is bloody outrageous. 

With such an emotional and legal albatross on one’s shoulders, one wonders who really ended up in prison.

And still the murderers rest easy with three squares a day, heat and air conditioning, and a nice roof over their demented heads.

Know this: The Family was NOT a cult. I repeat. NOT a cult. Ignore the so-called “experts” and the former Family members who take interview fees for TV time and bemoan their victimization. These were drop-outs and bored rich kids who wanted to escape life’s responsibilities and CHOSE to follow a guy who offered them free food and lodging, free drugs, free sex and a 24/7 fantasy life that came with the “fun times” of creepy crawling houses late at night while the owners slept and killing The Establishment’s Beautiful People for bail money. Any one of those idiots could have left, and did, exemplified by Linda Kasabian doing just that even at risk to her own child forcibly being held behind at Spahn Ranch. Atkins, Watson, Beausoleil et al. came and went numerous times but they ALL chose to return and ALL chose to kill.

Unless you were alive in ’69 and remember living through this nightmare, don’t talk to me about forgiveness and rehabilitation. It will never exist for the remaining seven murderers. You cannot rehabilitate Anti-Social Personality Disorder. Death will be their only escape. 

California Governor, Jerry Brown, well remembers the summer of ’69 even if some Cumbaya parole board members do not.

To ponder this anniversary and wonder what lives the victims may have led makes one stop in one’s tracks. The losses are so great, your mind freezes, and all that roils to the surface are blank slates of black sorrow, to include the public’s loss of innocence.

By August 11th 1969…

You lock your doors.

You buy a guard dog.

You install CCTV.

And your community becomes gated.

You no longer pick up hitch hikers and you give a wide birth to the unkempt and unwashed, who after these murders and the following muddy fiasco at Woodstock, start to ebb away and disappear. Thank God.

A free-loader good thing never lasts for very long. You can escape into the country and make daisy chains and poo-poo the working class, but once you run out of food and water and your tie-dye togs become threadbare, even the Cumbaya Crowd has to come in from the cold and realize that it isn’t faeries who make stuff and put a roof over one’s head. Even a bloody melee with buck knives, a Buntline and a thirsty bayonet won’t change that fact.

Yes, 50 years is a long time, but it might as well have been yesterday for those of us who were there and saw and touched that fear and felt that rage.

As each murderer dies off, we survivors of their hate breathe a sigh of relief, and whisper, “Who’s next?” for we will never receive a lasting peace until each and every one of the killers is wiped off the face of this earth. Scourge is scourge. Their kind of hate is immune to psychiatry or penicillin.

From July 25th to the end of August, I will choose to think about Gary, Steven, Jay, Voytek, Abigail, Sharon, Paul Richard, Leno, Rosemary and Donald and know in my heart they have been in a better place for this half century. Some time ago, I created a fictional place where those lost souls could meet, so for this anniversary, I have dusted off the tale and republished it here. Let us hope there is light wherever they are, and that such a vile darkness shall never again touch any of our souls.

Potluck for the Dead

Every year since ‘69, a house is chosen for the potluck. Ten people attend. Every year.

It's held on the evening of the 8th of August. Sharon's chosen date. It seems reasonable. After all, it was her idea to have these potluck affairs.

Sharon loves having people over, cooking herself, trying new foods, and having Jay bring the wine. And she's long accepted the fact that this odd band of souls would be forever linked. So why not get together and become good friends? That's Sharon's thinking.

And through these 56 years, the ten have indeed become close, bonding better than blood relatives over an inevitable coming-together of fated moments in time. And well, summer's end wouldn't be with this annual feast.

This year, Gary's place is the location. 

LASO

It's never a big deal for the guys to host the party, for they know Sharon, Gibby, and Rosemary will help them in the food and party essentials. The potluck dinner is never stressful.

No, not for the food.

Around 7:30 p.m. people begin to arrive. The time roughly coincides when Sharon, Jay, Gibby, and Voytek head to the El Coyote on a similar summer's eve.

Tonight, each of the ten will "materialize," arriving in cars having a late 60's look and feel. For everything and everyone is frozen in time, you see.

Darkness hasn't yet cloaked Topanga, but headlights are clearly visible as they make their way up Gary's drive.

First to arrive is Jay's Porsche. He gives a ride to Sharon as her Ferrari is still in the mechanic's garage, and will forever remain.

Steven Parent's Rambler wheels up. You hear it before you see it. The car-radio is blaring The Byrd's tune, Turn, Turn, Turn.

It's followed by Leno's Thunderbird with his dear wife, Rosemary, in the passenger seat. The T-Bird still hauls the speedboat.

Gibby's Camero thrums up next. Her ever-present partner, Voytek, rides shotgun. Forgive the choice of words.

Shorty Shea's '62 Mercury is the last up the hill, for he has the longest way to drive. And he's never rushed in any instance.

Soon, all are present and accounted for — cars and company. What is missing in the Gary's driveway are the VW micro-bus and Fiat station wagon. Not surprising, for we know they are stolen by Bobby Beausoleil, Mother Mary, and Sadie on July 27th, never to return.

Carrying various well-wrapped dishes, all climb Gary's bedraggled wooden steps. Jay hauls a cardboard box filled with various Chardonnays and Sauvignon Blancs. Jay enjoys being in charge of the drinks for these dos.

Steven runs up the steps. He's balancing the night's board game and the Sony AM/FM clock-radio in one arm and a bean casserole in the other. Years ago, Sharon put Steve in charge of the after-dinner entertainment. Tonight's game is Mouse Trap. Steven gives the casserole to Gibby and lays the game and radio on Gary's coffee table. Steve beams happiness. He plugs in the alarm clock, so they can have some swinging 60s tunes. He tries to set the right time, but the numbers flip back to 12:15 every year. Oh well, no matter, it's the music they are interested in anyhow.

The line stalls when it's Sharon's turn to head up the stairs, as she's carrying a wicker bassinet bedecked in white linen. Inside is Paul Richard. No one can see the wee tike, but they hear the soft tinkle of a baby rattle. They know he's here.

Hugs and kisses are exchanged all around. It's always so wonderful to see everyone again. Once Sharon finds a nice place for Paul Richard, she joins Rosemary and Gibby in Gary's kitchen to prepare and reheat the buffet. The men get-together in the living room. Jay uncorks the wine. Steve preps the board game. Everyone laughs and jokes, room to room, exchanging pleasantries.

Alone, in the dark, coffined deep within the earth, one surely thirsts for company by August 8th.

And everyone is famished. You get like that not eating for a year.

Each dish is incredible and tastes so fine, and the wine flows brightly. There's a big smile on Jay's face. He is thrilled again to be by Sharon's side. Shorty puts everyone in stitches with his down-home ranch-hand humor. Leno trades horse-betting secrets with Steven. And Voytek asks after Rosemary, trying to make her feel more at ease.

It doesn't matter what place they meet after 1969, Rosemary never quite relaxes. The poor woman always wrings her hands. She secrets those hands under the table, trying to hide her nervous habit. But Leno knows, and is so infuriated. Why can't she settle down, relax, and enjoy herself for one evening? The only evening we have.

Amid the food and wine, the conversation is lively.

Leno is the first to speak. He leans in, hands animated, talking between great gulps of roast pork.

"I never lose bets anymore, you know. I'm at Santa Anita race track every day now, and I always win! But there's no place to spend the money up there." Leno points skyward. "So, I'm piling the bills in $5,000 stacks and building walls to make convenience stores strategically placed around heaven. I don't care where you end up: location, location, location. Everyone gets the munchies, even on Cloud 9."

"Good for you!" says Steven. "I over-see the Geek Squad at that new tech store, Best Buy, the one in the Valley near my parents' house. When those guys get stuck repairing a mother board or installing a car or house stereo, I 'assist.' They don't know it's me, of course. But I get thrills knowing I helped. You should see the components they have today. Man! Wish I had stuff like that in '69. What systems I could have built!" Steven sighs and leans back in his chair, daydreaming, rocking it on the two rear legs.

Leno smiles and nods, displaying a kind of fatherly pride for Steven, who he knows misses his family deeply. Leno enjoys his annual talks with the teen. Nothing keeps you young like talking with youngsters.

"How's the hair business going, Jay?" asks Shorty. "I don't know much about cutting hair, but I know what I like, and that's short hair, not that hippie-girly look. Had enough of that in '69 to do me a lifetime!"

Jay laughs out loud. "Well, Sebring International is still a going-concern. Maybe more so once that movie came out, the one called, ‘Shampoo,' starring Warren Beatty as me. Seriously? Warren looks nothing like me. And I always kept my pants on while working with the stars."

Everyone roars with laughter. Sharon blushes. A tinkling from Paul Richard's baby rattle.

"After I helped Larry Geller get together with Elvis to cut his hair, and seeing how screwed up Elvis's thinking became under Larry's ‘tutelage,' a bad taste got in my mouth about the whole styling business."

"What do you do now between our potlucks?"

"I pal around with McQueen. He's up there with us, you know. I ‘appear' with him at Le Mans every year, and at the Twelve Hours of Sebring. We hit the Land Speed Racing over at el Mirage in the Mojave, too. We quietly tool up and race our own cars and bikes, and we usually come in first, but no one sees us, of course. And if we aren't doing that, we're haunting Clint Eastwood out in Monterrey. We play pranks on the guy, you know, having pens drop or hiding stuff on the dude, just messing with him enough to make his day a little less perfect out there in 'Pacific Coast Heaven.'"

People chuckle in between sips of wine.

"Steve and I used to keep a close eye on Clint's neighbor, Doris Day. She has always been such a ray of sunshine. Doris is up there now, too, you know." Jay points skyward, his expression wistful. "You can often hear her singing Que Sera, Sera with her son, Terry, on a far off cloud."

"You miss working?" Shorty looks at work as fun, always did.

"Nah, not really. Business stresses. I've left them all behind. I choose to enjoy myself these days. I never did enough of that when I was here, always trying to climb some business or social ladder that in the end was meaningless. Now I cherish what's truly important." Jay reaches for Sharon's hand and their eyes glisten.

"You still working with horses?" asks Jay of Shorty.

"Yeah, mostly. I'm at peace when caring for those critters. I brush 'em, feed, and water 'em like I did at Spahn's. And they like me for it. Horses don't talk back. They don't betray you or hurt you. I can't say the same for some people." Donald chuckles. "It doesn't take much to make me content, Jay. It never did. I was never any threat to anyone. Well, not really. Think people got the wrong idea about me, because of my size, or that I would sometimes spout off before thinking. Turns out spouting off can get you killed."

"Yeah," Jay says, thinking back…

Jay and Shorty clap sober eyes across the table. The uncomfortable silence broken when Jay offers to fill Shorty's glass. Donald Shea hates wine, but he never admits it to Jay, never one to hurt feelings. Besides, everything since September 26th, 1969, tastes like a good old American beer to Shorty, anyhow. There are benefits to living "up there."

"Your place looks great, Gary. This must be such a pleasant retreat for you from all the din at UC Berkeley, huh?" asks Gibby. The Folger coffee heiress always show up to these potlucks so well dressed… in anything but white.

"Yeah. It's only here I can think or write music or play my guitar. Be myself, really. Luckily for us, we get to see my house as it was in '69. The new owners have improved on it since then. But for me, my eyes only see my long ago pad. Sometimes it's good not to see into the future."

Everyone nods. No smiles this time.

They watch as Gary rises from the table, walks over to the exterior wall, and tries to wipe away lingering red stains with his napkin. The stains won't disappear.

Gibby turns away. She has no tolerance for red stains. She leans in, takes a sip of white wine, and says, "I'm still reading the same paperback I had in bed with me that night. Darned if I don't turn to a new page and the next thing I know, it's back to the last page!" Gibby laughs and laughs.

A paralytic silence overtakes.

Clearing her throat, Gibby adds, "Have some more ziti, Gary. Rosemary outdid herself this year!"

"Don't mind if I do." Gary returns to the table to accept the casserole dish. The two of them gobble down another helping. Eating kills disturbing thoughts.

At the other end of the table, Voytek and Sharon are seen leaning into one another, quietly exchanging stories on being parents. "How is Bartek doing these days, V?"

"Amazingly well. He's 'up there' with me now. And you know what? He writes, too, just I like I did. I think he writes for the two of us. I'm so proud of him, Shar, so very proud. He's so responsible, mature, and such a hard worker. Everything I never was. He did more with his life maybe because I did so little with mine. Maybe my loss was his gain, but my hurt lived in him, too, and took him too early. We're so close now, closer than we ever were. That's good, right Shar? That's good?" Voytek's eyes beam desperation.

"You bet!" Sharon lives to put others at ease. "Bartek is as good as he is because of you and your life. Nothing is ever in vain, you know. Here or up there, I have no doubt that Bartek is the man he is because of you. A published book or play wouldn't have got you any further or made you any more valuable as a human being, or as a father." Sharon smiles.

"Thank you, Sharon. Thank you for your kindness towards me. I know I didn't always deserve it. But I never meant to cause you any harm."

Softly touching his arm, Sharon's big bright eyes look into his. "Hey, hey, I know that. We're friends forever, and now parents to boot!" Sharon "knows" things about being a mom maybe more than anyone at the table.

All is not perfect in heaven. Voytek still carries so much guilt and regret. Being "up there" doesn't wash away everything.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful? Little Paul Richard is looking so well, such a handsome fellow. But why not? You're a stunner, and even with Roman's hound-dog looks, how could Paul Richard lose?" Voytek makes a funny face.

The two burst out laughing, clinking their wine glasses, and toasting to Roman. Their American absentee, sadly for more reasons than one.

Sharon has the rare ability to know everything after 1969, and so does Voytek. But ability and desire can mix like oil and vinegar in the After Life.

Sensing utter quiet to her left, Sharon turns to Rosemary. "How's the dress store doing?"

For the first time that night, Rosemary's face lights up, her smile wide, her eyes beaming. "Oh, Sharon, so kind of you to ask. It's going gang-busters. So many pretty designs and such lovely store decor. I'm so content when I'm there. I moved it right onto Rodeo, you know. Hit the Big Time. I think Leno is jealous. I spend so much of my time at the store."

Sharon laughs and flashes her doe eyes at Leno. "Hey, ignore him. If it doesn't have four legs and hit Win, Place or Show in the 4th, it doesn't count."

Voytek, Sharon, and Rosemary get the giggles, clinking glasses, and sneaking glances at Leno, who by now catches on he's being talked about, and displays a curious look. He reaches down to hold Rosemary's hand. She meekly smiles, squeezes his hand, then releases her grip, returning to her hand wringing.

Another baby rattle tinkle, a cooing in contented delight.

After the lovely feast, the evening festivities begin. With Gary's dishes all washed and put away, Jay uncorks bottles from vineyards in Napa Valley. The sun long since set, everyone moves to the living room to play Mouse Trap. Whenever they play the game, Voytek always sets off the trap. Everyone stifles snickers as the red plastic trap slams down on the little gray mouse. Voytek pounds a fist on the coffee table and swears in Polish. The sight is just too funny for words.

As time wears on, the gang becomes less jovial and a little more ill at ease. Not in any overt way. It's a vibe you pick up on in the room… if you were there. More awkward silences birth between more stilted conversation. Light and breezy are the topics but they don't defend against the indefensible.

No matter the potluck location, each year the phone rings at ten o' clock. It's Gibby's mom asking if she's all right, and if she's still taking tomorrow's flight to San Francisco. Every year, Gibby lies and says she's fine.

By 11:45 p.m. Steven makes his own phone call but, of course, no one answers like on that night in '69.

No matter, Gibby and Steven repeat the inevitable each year. They don't want to do, but Fate compels.

Mouse Trap played, the phone calls made, and the last wine drank are signs the get-together is winding down. Jay's wine box holds merely empties now. The women wrap up the leftovers and re-pack the containers. The food will go nowhere, of course. It will simply disappear. But that doesn't matter. When the clock strikes twelve, all slowly, and with sober resignation, put on their wraps and coats and head for Gary's door.

The women hug for such a long time and kiss one another lightly on tear-stained cheeks. Handshakes and pats on the backs for the men, who fiercely will away their tears.

"Until next year. Same time, but which place?" asks Shorty.

"Right! Which place?" echoes Steven.

"How about my place next year? I am dying, uh, eager to go for another swim in the pool. I miss floating in my inner tube. And I'd like to splash and play with Paul Richard. He never got the chance to… you know. So, is everyone up for Cielo Drive?"

Everyone silently nods. They stay mum, look away, forcing back more tears. Their throats are choked with emotion at the time lost a mother should have had with her son.

Steven is the first to clear his throat and pipe up. He so wants to distract Sharon from seeing the group's many tears pelt to the floor. "And what about the board game? Any suggestions?"

With her head bowed, and in a barely audible voice, Rosemary says, "How about The Game of LIFE? Anyone for LIFE?" Her tearful eyes rise to meet theirs, desperately waiting for the right answer, the answer that should have been.   

Slowly, silently, nine hands rise. A cooing and a rattle tinkle come from the bassinet.

All who are there, and all who know best, voted for LIFE.

That settled, the ill-fated group of ten slowly exit Gary's home, one by one heading down the long flight of stairs. Sharon is first in line with Paul Richard, Jay guiding her way.

Car engines start. All sound pretty darn good for being over a half century old. Headlights beam. A slight dirt and gravel dust-up colors the warm, dry desert air as they reverse and pull out of the lot. From their respective car windows, everyone waves goodbye to Gary… but the house is already in darkness, his aura long gone.

Each soul slowly fades away in the order in which they were killed, so by midnight on August 9th, Gary is well and truly gone. Shorty's presence is the last to fade. Each in their turn will "depart," making their way down Topanga Canyon.    

Their soul's pixels of light will extinguish like dying stars in the heavens. Ten auras will float for a time over Malibu Beach and out to sea where they are embraced unto God.

The clinking of empty wine bottles, the click-hum of Steve's clock-radio, and the tiny coo and rattle tinkle from Paul Richard are the last remaining signs this Potluck of the Dead ever occurred. Even those everyday sounds must die. They have to.

Rest well, 'til next year, our dear ten. Rest well.