More Charlie Lies and Two Dummies Do A Dumb

Three dummies actually but one was never charged. Below is the best photograph you will ever see of Kathleen Maddox. Their family brand of crazy shows up in her later photos but here she looks more mischievous than irascible. I doubted this was even her, asked Patty, she asked someone else, and we found out together this is Kathleen's prison intake photo. 

Kathleen looks unconcerned. I'd be a nervous wreck but I probably place a higher value on my toasted Dave's Killer bread with Irish butter and whipped cream cheese so lovingly fortified with a couple of freshly ground coffees (lord have mercy) each morning before a nice bike ride. 

Next comes the uncharged dummy, Dummy #3. Rest assured she would've been in the slammer with Kathleen and Luther Maddox if they committed their crime today. Dummy #3's middle name is Ophelia. Not quite the social status afforded to the daughter of Polonius and possibly not as crazy as that Ophelia but then again Ophelia was a fictional character so who knows. 

Or maybe she's named after the goddess. I actually never thought of that until now. No worries. Just pick whichever origin story you like best and roll with it. That's all Manson scholarship is a lot of the time anyway amirite?

Our Ophelia is pretty but Art Ophelia will always be prettier. Unless you have like an Arbus but really that's more of a modern concept anyway. Millais' Ophelia is my favorite Ophelia since I know you're wondering. I cut my Photoshop teeth on this painting over and over in the years leading up to Y2K when the world was supposed to end. 

Oh, girl. Don't drown yourself. I know my graphics are awful but people occasionally tell me I'm a decent typist. My mom especially. And the friends I make read my posts because I define myself by forced compliments.  

I like them french-fried potaters mmhmm. 

Luther possibly used some of the robbery money at the barber. He should've waited a few days. The haircut would've been free. 

OKAY YEAH SO HERE'S THE BACKSTORY...

I haven't hopped into the Scott family yet. Not sure if I will. Some of you already have the info locked down in private trees and I know it. I see them. Let me in please and I will love you forever. 

Or if you think I'm a killer AND a typist you can tell Matt and he will tell me. 

As far as the Maddox's go, hold on we're pausing at nature vs. nurture again it's unavoidable, I don't see anything different in their history than I see in my own family history or any of the histories I come across in my genealogy work. 

Charlie's maternal grandfather's side of his family, the Maddox's and Carroll's, were in the USA for a good long while before the USA was even a country. They moved westward alongside the big glob moving westward and fought in every war and etc just like Charlie told us. He is a Son of the American Revolution and everything else all the way up to his birth. Relatives who are unaware they're related to Charlie are probably still getting deployed. 

Don't kid yourself. Charlie's story is an American one. He wasn't something other than us. He was us. 

Let's talk about Charlie's childhood. All of us collectively didn't want to deal with raising him, correct? 

Same for the thousands of unwanted little boys living the same awful life right now. Charlie was Kathleen's mess and today's kids are their own mothers' messes, bootstraps and all that, and none of it is ever our problem. 

We didn't kill anyone and neither should any of the killers from any of the eras ever. 

Rise, oh ye creams and creamettes! The folks across town aren't having problems rising. We're in the land of opportunity for crying out loud! 

And then we have the nerve to feign shock and disgust when one of those abandoned little boys emerges from our cages and institutions as a hardened adult who spits at our rules and comes right at us.

The shame. Sure we were busy but our busyness created Charlie. And Charlie was so angry about it he took some suckers down with him so he wouldn't be alone. 

Anyway. I'm doing that cart and horse thing again. Let's go back to the lies that put good-hearted dupes like Lynette Fromme into prison. 

AND DON'T GET ALL FIRED UP. WE'RE COOL. I'M ABOUT TO LET YOU OFF THE HOOK AND BLAME KATHLEEN...

As much as I can, anyway. Kathleen was a couple of months away from turning thirteen when her dad, Charles Milles Maddox, died at forty-seven from lobar pneumonia. Kathleen would've been in the fall of her 7th grade year if you're playing along from home in America.  

Charles Milles Maddox was a career railroad man after he got out of the army. He married nineteen year old Nan Ingram when he was twenty-two. They remained married until his early death. Same address. Four kids spaced every two years. Not quite the wild backdrop our Charlie wanted people to believe when he provided exclusive interviews to author Lynette Fromme for her book Reflexion. 

Fine. Whatever. When he wrote her letters. 

A year and a half after her dad died, Kathleen's older sister Aileen passed at just twenty. Pneumonia again. She was a business school graduate. According to her obit, Aileen was "very popular and well-liked by a wide circle of friends who are deeply shocked and grieved by the news of her untimely death."

Hmm. Doesn't appear super criminal-ish but hey I'm no Mike McGann. I could be missing something.

Again, Aileen earned her business school degree during the Great Depression. 

In case you're keeping score, that's one Maddox sibling removed from the equation. If you read Reflexion, you're aware that Charlie describes his family as such...  

For the most part, everyone believes him. Sure, researchers will call out Guinn over a well-worn prostitute comment and beat him to death with it but who goes farther? 

There's really no reason to anyway. It's easier to have a villain from the lower classes. Absolves us easier. They are animals. 

As usual, I'm using the kindle version of Fromme for easier searching. "Off to another aunt and uncle. Even as a child, I knew they were not smart (93)." 

Okay, one aunt is left. 

There's that word "popular" again. Maybe it meant criminal a century ago. Let's hire an etymologist.  

I don't know what happens to our man Cecil and his bow tie. He immediately drops off the map. Neither Cecil or Glenna look like they live in a shack and lack shoes like Charlie puts out there via his manipulative bullshit. 

Glenna remarries a guy named Bill who is an engineer for the railroad. Both Glenna and Bill attended college during the Great Depression. They have one child not fifteen. Like Nan and Charley Maddox, her and Bill live at the same address forever. 

Charlie likes to say people in his family had no teeth. I'd bet my teeth that most college educated people then and now have their teeth in their late thirties and early forties. 

If you keep reading on to the next page in Kindle Fromme, Charlie has drunk, toothless, uncle Bill acting abusive and doing an improv Boy Named Sue on him in front of Charlie's super-religious, Nazarene, grandmother, Nan. 

Right. 

Maybe you've never been around Bible thumpers for real. It's possible you only think you have. Or perhaps you come from a bunch of dirty teeming Catholics, or Buddhists in their robes, lots of choices, so I will stop what I'm doing and say this to you clearly. 

At no point in the history of holy rollers, I'm from down on that big river and my family is from the hills and I've seen Jethro take handfuls of floppy, wiggly snakes from heavy boxes while a skeleton in an old suit next to him froths at the mouth and believes he's speaking ancient secret languages so please hear me out. There is nary a single religious hillbilly grandmother who would not remove her Bible from her purse and smack the life out of Uncle Bill's skull on the charge of day drinking in front of children alone. Not to mention tormenting a child while drunk. 

Alcohol does not exist in that world in any acceptable way. Not even a single drop. Corn liquor and the devil fight nightly battles with Wesley and Jesus. Sometimes Calvin helps.  

Anyway, and just as a quick aside, Charlie wraps up his charming moonshine story and right away says, "I've never had no one to hold to. The warden, the judge -- they were God to me until I caught them lying (93). "

His comment is so layered. He completely got me. I can't not have empathy for the dude. 

As a critical reader, I notice Fromme arranges her book like that here and there. Did she know Charlie lied on that level? Is she acknowledging it? I probably read too much into things. 

Next page. Charlie is in court. "Then I ran right into my aunt coming to take me back and on the train again out of Kentucky and on to West Virginia to the prison where mom and Luther were (94)." 

And just so we're together on this point, the aunt who retrieves Charlie is Glenna who he said was not smart. All three remaining Maddox siblings are accounted for and Glenna seems to me like she does indeed care about Charlie. 

I know others disagree and think Charlie comes from a long line of criminals. That can be totally true with the Scott's but I need evidence outside of "so-and-so told me" to get me off this hill when it comes to the Maddox's and Ingram's. Until then, I'm going to think dad died too early and mom lost control of two of her kids when the traumas of losing their father and sister and everything that goes with it created rebellion inside of them. 

I'm possibly missing the mark here. Let's see how Luther and Kathleen did on their famous crime spree of 1939. 

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Sorry. One odd fact first. Luther and Kathleen committed their crime August 1, 1939. Charlie shot Bernard Crowe August 1, 1969. Yes, I'm aware that Crowe date is also out there as July 1, 1969. 

But Bo knows Manson and I go with Bo. We collectively owe that dude so much. Thanks for housing the research year after year, Bo. 

I wonder if Charlie knew about the dates coinciding at the time? ooEEoo. 

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That's not exactly how it went down but the gist is there. I grabbed the clipping from this great post from Deb. There is nothing I will ever find online that she has not found already. The article is one of  the shortest of the available options and the deets are almost all in there. Probably why she chose it. 

OKAY LET'S GET TO THE CAPER...

August 1, 1939

North Charleston, WVA. 

Kathleen (Charlie's mom) and Ophelia are hanging out down by the bars in North Charleston. Kathleen is twenty-one and Ophelia is six years older. They remain into the evening. The report you can print from Deb's above linked article is blurry and you can correct me if you're better at deciphering bold blurry typewriter courier font from 1939 but it looks like Kathleen and Ophelia step into a little dairy convenience store to buy some "cheese" at 10 pm. The word could also be choices or a million other things that start with "c" but cheese seems likely. 

Immediately prior to entering what might be named the Valley Doll Dairy, they meet their victim, Frank S. Martin, in the street. Kathleen says in the investigative report that she thought Frank would move on while they were inside the store but he was waiting for the girls when they exited. 

I wonder if Frank had any premonitions to flee while he waited? More likely, he stood swaying and salivating while his little general whispered sweet promises of easy conquests. I pictured him smoothing down his hair. 

The trio of new friends chat for a moment before Frank invites Kathleen and Ophelia to Dan's Beer Parlor on State Street, which was just a short walk from the store. They drink beer at Dan's until approximately 11:20 pm. Frank, possibly already tipsy considering the hour, makes the mistake of flashing his money to the girls when he pays for a round of drinks. 

Frank, Frank, Frank. Not many years away from tripling Kathleen in age but nevertheless thinking he could get some tail from her and or her friend on a random Tuesday night while his wife and kids waited at home. His routine appears kinda practiced at this point but Frankie baby is forty-nine years old and about to find out how much things have changed in the decades since he first debuted in the barroom olympics. 

The girls use the restroom together like ladies have forever. Unbeknownst to Frank he has fallen into the company of a pair of vipers. Over the sound of flushing toilets, Kathleen tells Ophelia that "it's awful that some of these old people had to have all the money" (Kathleen Maddox Statement Linked Above). 

"I said to Ophelia that I thought I would have part of it too (KM Statement)."  

According to Kathleen, Ophelia says something that is blurry but looks like, "I hope I die." That confuses me tbh. I could be misreading her statement or "I hope I die" might be a colloquialism for all I know. After that, Ophelia says, "I feel like reaching out," and does a quick snatching gesture at the air. 

Kathleen says both girls laughed. This prompts Kathleen to ask, "Suppose we call Luther?" Her question hangs in the air unanswered as they return to the booth they shared with Frank Martin. 

Does Kathleen sit down and realize she's acting like an asshole and decide to leave innocent awful Frank alone? Fuck no. Instead, she casually mentions to Ophelia that another girlfriend has told her about the availability of a room nearby. 

Operation Honeypot kicks off and Frank falls right into the trap. Kathleen says he asks her how much the room costs?  

$4.50," She replies, batting her innocent eyelids in his wolfish direction. 

"Do you have the money, my dear?"

"Why no, silly old poor little me still needs $3.50, Frankie-poo. I have but a single dollar." 

(I'm making the dialogue up as I go based on memories of how dames talked in Cagney and Marx Bros movies. You can add your own dialogue in your mind if something works better. I don't judge. I just type.)

Regardless, Frankie-poo peels three fresh greenbacks from his big fat knot, takes two quarters out of his coin purse, and hands it all over while pink cartoon love hearts emerge from the top of his head and flutter above him like adorable little birds. 

The game is already over, friends. Frank is the only person involved who doesn't know it yet.

Kathleen soon after sneaks off to the phone to call Luther. Guess where he is? 

Yep. Stupid and toothless Glenna and Bill's. Glenna answers. Poor Glenna. She puts Luther on the phone when her younger sisters asks for him. Kathleen tells Luther to meet her, Ophelia, and Frank at the Littlepage Service Station at the Two Mile Bridge. Littlepage might be wrong but it's Littlesomething for sure. 

They head over to the gas station. Luther is dropped off soon after. Kathleen says Luther got out of a car but didn't see who was driving or what kind of car it was because of the darkness at the late hour. 

Sure. 

Luther hops into Frank's 1932 Packard convertible with the waiting trio. This isn't Frank's car but it's the same make, model year, and color. Not sure about the white walls but they pop right off the screen so they're staying. 

Straight away, our crew rolls to the Blue Moon Beer Parlor where they drink and dance. 

Here are some 1939 dances in this incredible restored and colorized video I found on YouTube from the 1939 World's Fair. I loved the video so much I watched it for three straight days. There's even a tender, forbidden moment the camera catches and refuses to move on from that is so powerful it almost moved me to tears. All the swoons. 

I'll bet you a million dollars that I do not have that Kathleen Maddox was a good dancer. Somebody had to teach Charlie how to make those sparks fly from his fingertips, right? Luther could probably cut a rug too. 

While they are dancing together, Kathleen says that Luther asks if Frank really has money. She affirms and he's all okay it's on then let's get paid little sis. 

IT'S GO TIME...

I know you want your money shot so let's get to it. Plans for an all-night party are made. Luther and Kathleen convince Frank to take them home to pick up some clothes and etc while leaving Ophelia in the Blue Moon to await their return. Frank doesn't know it but Ophelia is about to cut out as soon as they leave. 

Did I forget to mention that everywhere these dummies went that night they were known by the employees and customers? Yep. Shitting where they eat as they say. Let's see if that mattered. 

I'm not sure how they got Frank to do it, but Luther and Kathleen have him pull off near that big dirty river and Luther exits the car. Maybe he said he had to pee. Not sure. Doesn't matter. 

Luther walks around the convertible to where Frank is sitting. He tells Franks to get out of the car in a quiet, steady voice. 

Frank laughs. 

Luther says he ain't playin. 

Frank complies. 

This is a robbery. Gimme your shit, Frank. 

Now, the amount is always retold as $35 but Frank actually had $27 in his wallet. That's almost $532 in today's American money. Frank was rolling around with a grip on a Tuesday night, wasn't he? 

(And don't be down in the comments talking about how you always have 3k or even 30k on you. It's only going to make me think your penis is small or create some other negative assumption inside my head and same goes for everyone else who reads your comment. Pro tip for pedants.)  

I have to watch my negative comments toward readers btw. Matt threatened to dock my spending account over it. 

How will I be able to afford Packards with whitewalls if that happens? Is my Charlene Cafritz out there? If you are please remember I'm scared of devil stuff and also don't like hippie smells or even lifestyles where I have to go places with other people and order from servers and fake haha and interact and wear pants with buttons or shoes or any of that omg. 

Exhales. 

Apologies. I've only had coffee and brownies today and I am flying while trying to reel in this missed deadline. 

Here's where I go from not giving a fuck about this robbery to thinking Luther is a piece of shit. After robbing Frank of his billfold and keys, there were no phones to take in those days, Luther blasts Frank over the head with a large ketchup bottle filled with salt that he pilfered from the Blue Moon. Since this happens near Pittsburgh, PA, I'm going with Heinz. They make the best ketchup anyway. 

BAM! SMASH! 

Kathleen hears the bottle break over Frank's noggin. Frank falls to the ground, out cold, and ends up a ditch next to the road. Luther walks back to the car, climbs into the driver's seat, and those cold-hearted motherfuckers drive away and leave Frank for dead. 

Ophelia arrives back at "home" the same time Luther and Kathleen do. Together, they go out and dump Frank's car on a side street, walk to a restaurant, get a cab to a local spot that has cabins, rent either one or two, and settle in for the night. 

Before we move on, let that sink in. They didn't even try to sell the Packard or hide it until they could. Criminals do things like sell the car. That's what crime is kinda. Essentially, they stepped over $2k in today's money to make $500. 

Fortunately, a night watchman for a company where one of Frank's sons later has a career sees Frank crumple to the ground and is able to help. The law arrives by one a.m. in the form of Troopers Musgrave and Starcher. Their investigation begins in the early hours of August 2, 1939. 

Luther left the ketchup bottle at the crime scene. He'd told Frank his name was John Ellis so at this point it's still John Ellis' ketchup bottle. 

This all takes place at a railroad stop btw. Same company Luther and Kathleen's dad worked for and where toothless engineer Uncle Bill works at the time. All class and gratitude these two. 

By one the next afternoon, Troopers Musgrave and Starcher (accompanied by Frank) are in the beer parlors asking around for Kathleen and Ophelia. Because the girls are locals, everyone knows them. The bartenders. The other drunks. The guy who delivers the pretzels. 

Even the bar owner at the Blue Moon who immediately went to clean their booth after they left the night before and noticed the missing ketchup bottle. 

I said the postmaster too, right? 

Yep. Morons. 

The investigation doesn't last two hours. The troopers find Kathleen and Ophelia together at home, I'm guessing Glenna's place, Frank id's them, they get arrested, and the party moves downtown. 

Kathleen immediately admits to everything and gives up her brother and Ophelia. She says she doesn't know where Luther is but they'd all been day drinking that afternoon at the Daniel Boone Bar BQ on US 60 near Snow Hill, WVA. 

The cops head straightaway to the Daniel Boone Bar BQ and of course Luther is there. Let's go, Luther. Okay you got me how'dya figure it out. Shut yer mouth, boy. Slam slam slam go the police car doors and they drive away. 

By dinnertime, Luther and Ophelia have given full confessions. 

By 7 pm, Frank is back in his abandoned Packard with only a sore head and an angry wife as punishments for his immoral deeds. 

There is nothing in the police report about the ketchup bottle being used as a fake gun. Luther is matter-of-fact when describing the robbery in his confession. Not quite something I think a criminal would do but what do I know. 

I even asked my cousin Jackie Buns. His real name is a lot like that btw and he's not much of a fan of me calling him that lol. Jackie is a forensic genealogy wizard and I'm always pulling him in on my searches. Anyway, I asked if he thought they admitted to everything so quickly to keep Glenna out of the mix. With a completely emotionless face he sighed and said, "Imagine how many rides she probably gave those two. She likely had no idea what was going on."

Every time I remember that I smile. Jackie cracks me up. 

We're almost there, I promise. Luther gets ten years and Kathleen gets five. Ophelia somehow escapes justice. In his statement, I do give credit to Luther for trying to put the crime solely on himself. He possibly saved Ophelia. 

Luther also breaks out of prison at one point. Guess where he goes? 

Good job. 

Glenna's house where she quickly talks Luther into turning himself in. Toothless, stupid Glenna. Who btw is living in the same place with the same people just like always. 

Eventually, Luther serves his time and is freed. Unfortunately, his $27 robbery turns out to be a life sentence. He dies shortly after returning home from prison to Glenna's house. He appears to have turned his life around. 

Let's put this to bed. We've all seen the same photos. None of these people look like the Hillbilly Bears. They attended college while people starved in city streets. Their environments appear from the outside at least as decently stable. 

Kathleen and Luther immediately admitted to their crime. Criminals don't do that unless there's some benefit in it for them. Denying things and hiring lawyers lessens punishments. Every criminal knows as much. 

Luther's sister talked him into turning himself in when he ran away from the prison. 

The Maddox's were not criminals. Kathleen and Luther went off the rails and paid the price. Charlie paid the price too. Frank Martin got away with it. Ophelia I followed until the end of her life. She never married or had a family. 

There's an interview out there where Charlie says Kathleen committed her crime to feed him. I was going to call that another lie, it surely is, but thinking about him saying that makes me feel awful for him. 

Everything, all these things we type and argue about, it all boils down to Charlie's mom had her own issues, she didn't take care of him, we didn't take care of him and MANY others in this milieu, and we are where we are because of it. 

The rest of it is just plot points really. 

Anyway. I'll see you in the comments. I'm about to lightly nuke another brownie, run my coffee grinder, and start typing up my next things. 

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Oh! An announcement! 

If you'd like to take part in a discussion next weekend hosted by this blog and the members of The Paulcast, I believe we are going live at 1030 pm EST Sunday. We will publish a post here a few hours before the show. 

The topic is Karate Dave. Because every story needs a hero. 

Book Review: The Tragic Death of Marina Habe by Tighe Taylor

As longtime devotees will know, here and there I've reviewed books associated with our topic - well, because MansonBlog is a wholesome and benevolent institution in part dedicated to helping readers find the books they'll love by spotlighting the best in TLB-related literature - but once or twice I've had to put on my black hat and present a deliciously virulent take-down. Unfortunately, this is one of those moments. This one lies prone on the sacrificial altar, ready for... well... this.

Let's get the knives out.

It's not just that The Tragic Death of Marina Habe is bad. It’s that it's bad in ways that seem to cause the space-time continuum itself to wobble. It gives us 65 pages that have the breadth and emotional resonance of the white pages. I finished it on a short flight, but was retching before we left the tarmac. I trudged on because it was only 65 pages and the lavatory was occupied.

In the introduction, Taylor says:

"Our story is told through the eyes of a fictional writer for a true crime magazine. Much of the action, particularly the early stages, centers around meetings between the writer and his editor. In these meetings, the writer explains his plan for an article about Marina and her fate.

This framing allows alternative theories to be presented...

But.. then he really didn't do much of that. It seemed like he stuck this in while reading his draft (he didn't even do THAT well) to distance himself ever so slightly from this 7th grade level school report done on Sunday night after bedtime and belongs in a folder labeled "Stuff We Already Know". He repeatedly says he made attempts to contact many (including Deidre Lansbury), but no one responded to him. My favorite part was when he said that it is rumored that Maury Terry had drafted a book solving this case before he passed. This is the same Maury Terry who believed David Berkowitz acted in concert with a satanic cult in Yonkers. Terry's family (of course) did not respond to Taylor's requests for information.

It devolves into self-satisfied, fish-in-barrel elimination of suspects (ie The Family) using long-known facts most likely gleaned from the very blogs that Taylor takes time to badmouth. All of the facts contained in the book can easily be found in this here WordPress blog. In fact, this Charmin roll is pretty much a series of glorified, padded-out blog posts... a deeply needless book... a rambling mess of facts already known to even novice TLB students... a collection of self-aggrandizing - seemingly copied/pasted, mildly tweaked facts and (of course) self-published - so he can tell women in airport bars that he writes true-crime books. I would mention the grammatical errors, quadruple quotation marks, misplaced carriage returns and repeated paragraphs, but it's Sunday night after bedtime.

For the love of God, don't read this book, or else he might write another.

The Slow Death of William Eston Garretson Jr.

Brethren, lift up your tv dinners and cold cans of Bud and let's toast tonight...

Sometimes I feel like William Eston Garretson Jr. is Charles Watson's ninth victim. Possibly his tenth depending on how you feel about poor Mr. Stubbs. Blog veteran Panamint Patty touches on Watson and Stubbs briefly here in this lovely interview from last spring. I will revisit the interview in an upcoming post, but right now let's talk about the caretaker. 

Other times, I think Tex was just another nail in Billy's coffin. Billy died in 2016. He was likely a longtime sufferer of PTSD that he disastrously self-treated. Tobacco use contributed to his death at age sixty-six. Billy drove a grocery store delivery truck for many years.  

 

He lived in a town where things change slowly and everyone knows everybody's business. This was his final address. 

"My husband, I really don't think anybody in the area here, never gave him a chance of day," Linda Derr, Garretson's ex-wife said. The pair were married for five years and had a son together, she said, adding that their son was born with a severe heart defect and died after his third open heart surgery. 

Derr described her ex-husband, who died in 2016, as a very good man, loving man, and cited those qualities as the reason she married him. 

              - Lancaster Eagle Gazette 20 Nov 2017

Shoutout to Linda up in Heaven for her kindness. She was Billy's second wife. I tried to locate Linda when I was gathering information for this post but I was too late. First, I found her phone number from 2002 on Ancestry. Then, I discovered her Facebook page but noticed she hadn't posted since 2019. After that, Google took me to her obituary. 

Linda Lou Derr died at the end of July 2020. No cause of death is listed but she suffered from genetic heart issues. She was a retired drug store cashier. Her employer, Gray Drug, was founded in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1912. Sherwin-Williams bought them out in 1982. I didn't know other drugstores existed for the first twelve years of my life. 

Linda and Billy were on the same high school yearbook page together. That got me. 

     Billy grew up without a father in this tidy little home. 

Sometime after completing high school, Billy made the mistake of a lifetime when he hitchhiked from Ohio to Los Angeles. Scrolling through the labels along the right side of the blog reveals that this is the thirteenth time blog writers have mentioned Billy (and remembered to make a label). I thought I'd try to add some paint to the outline already laid down herein and elsewhere. Thank you for reading the results of my research today. 

Billy possibly had one lucky day in his entire life and you know when I mean. Maybe two counting when the police let him go. 

Arguably, the aftershocks of August 8, 1969, killed him long before he died. You know already that no one escapes this darkness unscathed. Billy's story should reinforce that belief if you already have it. Or maybe create it if you do not. 

Before we get motoring, I want to assert that one indisputable truth in this whole big Charles Manson milieu is that the road is littered with children no one gave a shit about and often hurt. You can drop a pedantic bootstraps lecture below if you wish but you won't change my mind. 

If you haven't read the Bill (and one post labeled William) Garretson posts on the right, you should. Actually, if you need backstory, start by reading the parts of Helter Skelter that are relevant to Garretson. Like if you have a rainy day or something else keeping you inside. For example, if half of your town has covid and the citizens all want to kill each other because of what they post on Facebook. 

After that, read the Garretson articles on the right over there ------------------------->

For 21st century Billy info, read or refresh yourself on this awesome post by Max Frost. In 2018, I was blown away by Max's post and the song remains the same for me now. It's one of my favorite pieces in the library here. While Billy's house from Frost's account is gone, bits of foundation remain a hundred yards from this barn. Frost's friend possibly heard a story none of us ever heard before beside a bonfire on this property while they shared that case of beer. Neighbors are sparse. 

If you're wondering, I solve the mystery behind August 8th today, so make sure you read through until the end! Just kidding. I never will. But there are lots of people hanging around with the answers. Just ask one. Maybe use your VPN and don't slip up and give away any unnecessary info. Monsters and lunatics are woven in amongst the helpful. 

Billy is thirteen when his dad is indicted in Ohio Amish country for common deadbeatery. Btw, Washington Courthouse is pronounced, you guessed it, Warshington Courthouse. 

Billy wrestled in high school. The above photo is from his sophomore year in 1965. You might think Billy was from the sticks and in a way you're right but his hometown of Lancaster, Ohio, is also basically becoming a distant burb of the state capital these days.

Now, if you want to talk about the sticks, I'm from a place near the river that makes Lancaster look like a full-blown metropolis. If you can believe it, six people lived in my town when I was born. Two were my parents (rimshot). 

Btw, if you ever visit Lancaster, be sure to pronounce the city's name, "Lank-uh-stir." Lancaster is famous for General William Tecumseh Sherman. You can visit Sherman's home online here. The vlog host is from Indiana and mispronounces Lancaster. 

Kids from Lancaster are tough. Sherman was tough. Tecumseh was tough but had an insane brother. And also was not from Lancaster. 

11th Grade. You can almost feel the darkness swirling around the edges. Single mother. Early 60's. Conservative town. Smaller dude. 

Senior Photo. Billy studies business and is on the wrestling team but absent from the team photo. 

Like Max Frost said, Billy's number was in the phone book forever. I know the story as it's told has Billy thumbing a ride to California sometime in 1968, but we are unable to produce an Ohio address for him between late spring of 1967 and early 1970. Yes, he could've lived at his mom's for awhile. Every young person loves living at home after they become adults.  

But if he didn't, where was he? Did Billy split for the West Coast so he could be gay without his mom running the vacuum in the living room while he got his groove on behind his locked bedroom door? And if so, why would he go to Los Angeles and not San Francisco? And why would he marry three women throughout the course of his life and have children with two if he was gay? 

Three wives is deeper than any closet I've ever heard of in the secular world. But spend a couple of minutes in Lancaster and you'll be like oh yeah okay I totally see it now. So who knows? 

Was Billy possibly a naive rumpkin who thought he could go to Hollywood and become the next Steve McQueen? That'd be my bet. Or maybe Lee Marvin. Marvin was bigger in '67. A real tough guy. Billy and so many other youths were drawn west like moths to the flame and it never stops. Has never stopped. 

How many Billy's are running around LA right now believing they're getting their big break except in reality they're being used and abused? A couple thousand? 

You think any young rubes who fell in way over their heads are heading home for good at the end of this month? At the end of every month? Billy was about to turn twenty and return to the heartland when August 8th happened. He said so in his testimony anyway.

Let's back up a bit. We're getting ahead of ourselves. 

Billy Garreston, fresh from his senior year in Ohio, arrives in the City of Angels on the back of a turnip truck and drifts through a year or two of living on his journey to Rudi Altobelli. 

Or, nineteen year old Billy decides to hitch to California to see the country he thinks he'll be drafted to defend before it's too late. Both work for me but I lean early. Billy says in his testimony that he had a few friends over to swim in Rudi's pool. How long does it take to make friends you trust enough to have over for pool parties where you live AND work? 

Seriously. How much time passes before a yokel like Billy can cozy up to a mobbed-up guy like Rudi and have the skill set to make it stick? And then move into Cielo Drive (albeit the not air-conditioned guest house) with the property owner who also btw runs around town with Hollywood stars? Have you ever heard of a caretaker sharing the use of a private pool with his rich neighbors, aka the paying tenants, who live across the walk and can see him swimming? 

Did Ms. Chapman and the gardener brothers also take dips? 

Quick story. I have a friend who is a flower wholesaler. They service big personal accounts too. The richest couple in his wealthy state receive weekly deliveries. The orders are so large that my friend's company delivers in a big diesel reefer truck that typically backs onto loading docks. 

One morning, my friend's driver takes a leak in a staff bathroom attached to the massive kitchen at the front mansion when no one is around to ask. Mind you, these people are rich for real, not your local busiest orthodontist who married a surgeon or whatever, or a ballplayer or singer. These folks have a few homes on the property but this is the main one we're talking about. The guards see the driver on the camera walking out of the toilet. A little while later, the woman of the house calls my friend on his personal phone and demands he fire the driver or they're done doing business together. 

Because of two minutes in a staff lavatory. Maybe he peed on the floor, who knows. 

I'm pretty sure no one who just read that is sitting there saying, "Wow, that's super mean and odd because none of the rich people I know are like that..." If someone told me that story, for example, I would probably shrug and say what do you expect? He should've known. 

Rich people don't want contact with the hoi polloi. That's not new news. You might even have a story just like it to share with me in the comments. Or maybe not. Donna Jean never gets no love. 

I'm probably just trying to say that Billy was most likely more ingratiated that many people believe. Or maybe employers take nighttime poolside photos of their employees and I've just had shitty jobs. Which is probably true anyway but whatever. 

Even if you stand firm in other beliefs, it's interesting that we might have a block of missing time in Billy's California life as told in the narrative. It's not a stretch to wonder if things he experienced during that period might help us better understand the goings on at Cielo prior to the murders. In a moment, we'll discuss a second and just as interesting block of missing time at the end of Billy's stay in California and its possible effects on his eventual testimony. 

But first, where was Billy before the dog watching gig that came with free rides from Folger family members? 

Did he start out at a primo cruisin' spot after making the decision he could do that type of work and thus accelerated his journey to the Cielo guesthouse? Billy could've been a waiter or a bartender or a whatever if he had a problem with being a male prostitute. Other choices existed. Maybe he tried women's wigs first and failed. 

And didn't he have any fear of the bad things that happen in the skin trade? Getting into cars is totally scary. What if they drive you away to your doom? Who's behind the wheel? Bill Nelson in a Bruce Davis mask?

I would've starved to death. I'm scared of everything. Killers, germs, conversations. The list is endless. Plus, I hate to say it but I think my early Wesleyan training got to me. My internal dialogue is all over-caution and hey don't do that, dude. 

Actually, I'm attempting to appear interesting. I mostly only internally discuss food wants and upcoming meals with myself. Why I shouldn't eat this or that, what about on Saturday though, basic stuff. 

Let's move on to August 9th. If you read through Billy's testimony you will see the police arrested him prior to lunchtime and released him in the afternoon the following Monday (August 11th). When detectives interviewed him Sunday, the 10th, Billy said the dogs were barking two to three hours after Steve Parent left the cottage. 

Maybe it took awhile to receive permission to leave town but Billy remained in California for a full week after the police release him before returning home to Ohio. Billy tells Bugliosi in court that he moved out of Cielo Dr. on August 9th. Where was Billy for those seven days after being released from jail? He had little or no money and was freshly unemployed. 

The following July, when Billy arrives back in LA to testify, he says on the witness stand that the dogs never barked the night of August 8th, 1969. But then also even if they did, the dogs always barked at nothing so lol whatever man dogs are stupid amirite. 

Hearing that, lead defense attorney Paul (PJ) Fitzgerald shoots out of his chair like an ignited NASA rocket, calls time, and screams, "Heyo, most honorable dude, hold up a quick sec. Billy is busted for lying right here and right now. He's impeached. Here's the proof."

The proof is shown but the bench is still all, "Haha no way fuck you, Fitzgerald. We are here for blood." The attempt fails. 

Aaron Stovitz wins the one-liner of the day award. And check out Billy's answer to the last question. 

Brisk and typical, old boy. Cheerio!

With no psychological aftercare or anything else, Billy enjoyed a free redeye back Ohio that evening where the wife he married three weeks earlier waited. They shared an apartment an hour from the airport in Columbus. 

Lovely digs. Just like Cielo. Lots of Beverly Hillbillies actresses and heiresses using the pool with the help. Okay, you got me. There's no pool. Or actresses and heiresses. 

Billy and Wife #1 have a child while living at this address. Their marriage lasts a year and three days. His wife is granted the divorce on the grounds of gross neglect and extreme cruelty. 

I tried to find her but was unsuccessful. There's also a chance she's passed. Please don't stay forever angry, Mrs. Billy #1. He went through some shit he could never tell anyone about out there in sunny California. 

Billy, how'd you meet that mobster? How did you become his rent boy? I bet he loved how young you looked and your wrestler body. 

Billy is dead but also alive on Max Frost's answering machine. Or computer by now. His phone even. Technology is all we have anymore if you think about it. 

I want to pick up the phone while Billy's leaving his message to Max and breathlessly exclaim, "I'm here! What's up, Bill?"

I'd say, "Gimme the straight dope, Billy. How and why were you staying up all night every night? 

And anyway where'd you hide? The turning door handle story is terrifying okay but also reads like literature edited for maximum effect. And did they really come back later that night and loudly argue? Tell me no one, not even that crew, is that stupid, Billy.

And oh btw who told you to sue Los Angeles for $1.25 million? I can't believe you had the nerve!" 

Sadly, there's just not a lot out there to study. None of Billy's few interviews asked the questions I would call the necessary questions. The tv journalism is kinda superficial at times and I know that shocks you. Someone from a Youtube channel called and asked Billy who he thought would win the Super Bowl one year and then uploaded his answer to the channel for some reason. 

Since 2016, Billy is gone and it's possible barely anyone cares. I do but didn't until I looked into his story. I'm thinking about taking a road trip to Billy's grave this week, touching the headstone, and telling him I hope he's found some peace. He's on a little hill with his mom, framed by the forest around them, and watching the sun rise and set every day. 

Just the two of them perfectly together. The little boy his mom called so gentle he wouldn't hunt or fish because he didn't want to hurt animals, and the best advocate that little boy ever had. 

His father's bones or ashes are somewhere else. There's no man hanging around to give Billy his name and then abandon him. Or turn him out. Or spit him back to Ohio after shattering his mind. Just a loving mama safely holding her tiny baby like she did back when their lives had hope. 

Rest in peace, Billy. Like so many of the souls trapped within this dark miasma, you never had a chance. 

Two Convos Close Together

Thank you for reading this addition to a series I secretly call The Eyes Of The Lurker. That's probably not seriously the name but I'm also not sure. Maybe. I definitely sing it to myself sometimes that way. 

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all the leaves are brown...

Among Manson's supporting cast, only Tex (Charles Watson) and Cupid (Bummer Bob) are mentioned more times than Leslie Van Houten on this vaunted blog. A polarizing figure, Van Houten and her fate have been argued to Hades and back by Manson scholars, wanna-be's, boxcars, and poop butts. 

(Like it or not, we are forever bonded by our gruesome pursuits.)

Today, we look at two versions of Leslie Van Houten who were recorded for posterity over the holiday season of 1969. One version conducts herself in the manner she probably believes is that of a clever criminal. The other version is a clear victim of an evil little magical pimp with mind control powers who expertly pressed secret MK buttons on her chakras beep boop beep boop, pointed a tiny finger toward the LaBiancas' open door, and growled, "KILL KILL KILL" on that hot summer night of August 9th, 1969. 

Just like he did that one time in Gary's backyard. A handwritten binder told me. 

The difference between the two versions of LVH is drastic. I'll never know what the experts know but I'd like to rule some things out in my own brain whenever possible. I read Helter Skelter when I was twelve, which is way too young. (Remind me sometime to tell you how discovering Sexton and Plath in a spare bedroom bookcase at age ten went. Bookworm families amirite?)  For a couple of weeks after reading Helter Skelter, I showered with the curtain drawn back so I could quickly check for LaBianca killers every five seconds. Water soaked the bathroom floor. My mother asked why every time but what could I say? 

"Umm, because of those satanic hippie girls."

I learned to lock the bathroom door and wipe the floor. 

Before we dive in, I gathered some background info in case anyone is new here or forgets who Leslie Van Houten is or anything along those lines. 

Van Houten remains incarcerated but also dune buggies untethered across the sands of late twentieth (and early twenty-first) century pop culture. She is simultaneously a fleshy collection of defiant young photographs true crime fans want to have sex with, or possibly rescue, Idk, doubtful, and an anxious senior citizen pleading with her eyes at a parole board that keeps trying to send her home. 

Somewhere, a rustic drawing of Abraxas is laughing from its thumbtacked spot on a wood-panel wall. The sound is rumbly, two-dimensional, and unexpectedly scary. 

Leslie avatars have appeared in motion pictures several times. Most recently, when Quentin added his two cents to the corpus. 

Victoria Pedretti plays Leslie, aka Lulu, in Tarantino's film. 

photos via Google

Same sad look. Maybe a bit more Dutch in the face would've worked but whatever. There's little chance the historical person will resemble the real Leslie when it's all said and done anyway. Give a pretty girl a little pizzazz if that's your thing. Have George and Ruby dance a hillbilly jig out front of the Outlaw Shacks while Why Don't We Do It In The Road plays for all I care. 

Seriously. Take license. Give the dust and flies some sparkle. I'm strapped in for the ride. Hyperbole feeds our collective dopamine addiction and we consume with unbridled glee. 

Don't get me wrong. Mutilating corpses (if that's all Leslie did) is super way high up on the list of ways to convince me you're all kinds of seriously fucked up and need someone to keep a close eye on you. But at the same time is over half a century long enough to spend locked inside a progression of tiny rooms? Should we argue case law and/or governators again for the zillionth time? 

Leslie said she could barely stab her knife into Rosemary when Leslie was young and fit. She's certainly not as strong now at 72 years old. Why keep her when so many worse went free eventually? Exactly what kind of a threat is she? 

How long of an extension does singing in a hallway create? 

Regardless, a victim of herself, others, and the difference between the way things should be and the way things are, Leslie sits in Corona waiting to die. 

Do you think she already completed her karma or is her karmic completion forthcoming? I'm a bit unsure of myself on the doctrine. I'm all baby colt unsteady above wobbly legs. Don't even get me started on the dogma. 

And I know there are people reading this who want more justice than a mere lifetime. Perhaps Rosemary and Leno concur and wait patiently at the point of Leslie's crossing with retribution in their hollow eyes. Maybe they're practicing their screams. Whenever Leslie finally succumbs to death, all three will have given their lives for something we do not understand. 

While I was writing my review of her recent interview on Ear Hustle, I also listened to Leslie's interviews with Detective Sgt. Mike McGann (not from the banks of the Bann), and the lawyer she stupidly fired, Marvin L. Part. Both interviews are available at cielodrive.com and include transcripts. 

People argue in the comments sections under the interviews. You'll love it. Maybe it's some of you under different names. We live in a mysterious world and no one really knows who's who anyway. 

I mean. I believe I'm me. And I'm positive I'm here to talk about the things I heard and read when studying Leslie's interviews with McGann and Part. 

THE COPPER:

Sgt. Michael J. McGann 

26 Nov 1969

28 Nov 1969 

McGann took the 27th off so he could spend Thanksgiving Day at home. Leslie insisted. 

Just ninety-five days after her twentieth birthday, Leslie finds herself on the hot seat opposite McGann. She is using the alias Leslie Marie Sankston and claims a California arrival from Waterloo, Iowa, just two short years before. Genealogists and hobbyists will have no problem identifying her people online. Lying about Iowa was, as we find repeatedly in our studies of this group, not a good idea. If Leslie was ever able to become free and slip away in those early days, they'd know right where to start looking.  

Schrodinger's criminals for real. 

Anyway. McGann and Leslie face off. Danger drips from every question. Leslie feigns cavalier and attempts cagey. Her youth makes my heart ache. I feel like a snuff voyeur.  

Leslie made me laugh there. Brave girl cracking jokes in the shark tank. She plays cute with McGann for awhile. He tells her he's given her immunity. She doesn't appear to believe him. 

She is also trying to employ the stupid routine that Charlie thought was aces. It's not as effective when you're a homecoming princess from the same world as the detective. 

McGann isn't fooled. He's been around the block. College. Military officer. A decade on the job. 

You can tell he's tired of working the case and wants it to end. McGann tells her there's nothing okay about random killings as far as he's concerned and appeals to Leslie's heart. She is unmoved. 

Most of Leslie's three plus hours on tape are spent saying she doesn't know anything, and then even if she did know something, she's not ready to talk just yet. And plus she really wasn't even hanging around them all that much anyway because she liked the bikers a lot more. 

Not the best thing to tell the police probably. Leslie is obviously trying to figure out what they know while stalling for time. Their conversations drag at times. She immaturely refers to Terry Melcher as Terry Marshmallow. 

McGann the cat arrogantly yawns into his mouse's face several times while flexing and extending his claws. Not really. Or maybe. I was only listening and reading along. 

For someone not saying anything, and with the benefit of hindsight, Leslie says a lot. 

First, she throws shade at the young loves in the first of her pointless attempts to keep McGann's mighty spotlight away from her homies. 

Next, Leslie winks at Schreck before pulling Bill Vance into the mix. But before we get there, did you ever by any chance notice that both Charlie and Bill spend time being professional crooks in Cleveland, Ohio? Charlie talks about his Cleveland days in Reflexion if you're unaware and interested. What a coincidence! Anyway, let's get back to it. Leslie wants to drop the M word.

Wait...what? Bill Vance reminded Leslie of a mafioso? How weird because if you remember, Vance is the Clyde component of a Bonnie and Clyde couple in Fromme's Reflexion. I wrote about it recently here.

Oh, the pain! They hurt me every time they lie. 

To gunman or not to gunman....that is the question...

Just kidding, but also like what if one of them isn't exactly a liar on this point? Someone simply might not be talking about something. Like some big gigantic something. But who can really say? Secret codes and outlaw ethics and whatnot always foul up access to the already withering streams of information, don't you think?  

Let's just leave all that for later and see who else Leslie wants to sacrifice alongside the 1969 Thanksgiving turkeys. I'm blanking on where we were in my presentation for some reason. I also suddenly want candied yams and a nice mushroom dressing with lots of extra celery. Mashed potatoes. Gravy.

He brought her a slice of leftover cake from Thanksgiving. Lord have mercy. 

Do you think McGann's wife made pie with Cool Whip topping as well as a cake? At the time non-dairy, Cool Whip hit the ground running in 1966 as a tasty dessert alternative to whipped cream. 

Apologies, food drives me. Btw, just in case you maybe somehow have the idea that Mike McGann skated through this darkness unaffected, I hate to report that the overtime and things he saw on the job eventually cost Detective McGann his marriage of fourteen years. The cake and Cool Whip train stopped rolling in early 1971. Sanders already told you that 1971 was the year of the pig but I thought I might refresh anyway. 

You might know already or have guessed that Linda Kasabian goes under the green bus next when stage two of Leslie's not-well-thought-out plan of finding a way to continue the fun and games with her soulmates lurches forward. 

McGann and Leslie hit the ball back and forth for a long time. They drink coffee. Leslie orders hers with sugar and lots of cream. She takes bathroom breaks. McGann doles out candy bars from a machine by the elevators like he's the grand marshal of the Halloween parade.  

At one point, Leslie is either scared or exploring every angle and mentions Christopher Jesus. 

McGann does not initially act like he's after Leslie personally. He wants Charlie's head on a pike and the head of the third girl whose identity he's not sure of yet on a pike next to Charlie's. The detective is eager to work with Leslie but she's evasive. She sidesteps him so many times that he eventually asks if she was involved in the killings. 

Like hey what are you waiting for the water is perfect hop in. But Leslie knows something he doesn't. A total game changer you could say. As her window of daylight closes, Leslie decides to double down on having her friends' backs. 

Oh, Leslie. 

(A sad trombone closes us out. McGann sighs evenly and stops his tape recorder. He looks at the crumb remnants of the slice of cake his increasingly distant wife baked for Thanksgiving. He regrets bringing it to Leslie but says nothing. Women confuse him.)

THE LITIGATOR:

Marvin J. Part 

29 Dec 1969

Just a month and a day later, after spending Christmas caged, a brand new Leslie sits down for a recorded interview with her attorney, Marvin L. Part. Gentry writing as Vincent Bugliosi in Helter Skelter famously quotes Part telling the judge that Leslie is "insane in a way that is almost science fiction."

Absolute classic. 

You know the rest. Someone here probably wrote it first anyway but I shall summarize for the uninitiated. Part gets shitcanned but tries to keep Leslie from firing him. He implores the judge to listen to his interview with Leslie because he thinks she's lost her mind. Nevertheless, his efforts are for naught. Part possibly never realizes his role in Leslie's updated survival plan until it's too late. 

"And so I was in Hollywood one time and I had an acid trip, and I, and I was up on the cross. It sounds far out but I was for real. I was feeling them do it. And I could feel the knife or the sword when it went in, too. I know that he is - you know - I believe that he's Christ. I would never deny it."

Leslie's statement completely reminds me of the part in the Gospel of Thomas where Jesus says, "Lift up the LSD and you will find me there."

The Beatles: 

Gimme some of that old time religion: 

Revelations, indeed. 

Naturally, this is only after they find the giant hole "in the Death Valley area" that will provide access to the center of the Earth. 

Entiendo. I get it. The rats are jumping off the ship. She done? 

Not. Even. Close. 

Leslie begins by sending a message to Starviego across time.

She is checking boxes faster than any boxes have ever been checked. Race war that isn't a race war? Check. Important mysterious black man from the government? Check. Mini-Leslie who does not age? Check! The Beatles were talking to me? CHECK!!! 

Helter Skelter!!!!  Why did I ever doubt you? 

Leslie's words flow like snatches of remembered conversations in fever dreams but no one cares. Her interview is used against Manson in the strongest ways possible by the prosecution. 

Another coincidence. 

But it's tooooo late, baby. 

Leslie establishes her unhinged persona again and again until it resembles roadkill flattened against a busy highway for sixteen hours. She drives back and forth across the thin oval several more times just to make sure. Raising a glass of tepid water to his dry lips, Part swallows an extra dose of blood pressure medication, rubs his temples, and takes a caffeine-laced pain reliever named Excedrin that has been on the market for nine years. 

Back in reality, the cat's out of the bag. Leslie isn't leaving custody anytime soon. Since there's no charge for unabashed ghoulism, she is up against the death penalty. Is Leslie going down alone and perhaps actually really truly insane in the ways Part thinks? 

C'mon. 

Not unless suddenly becoming delusional is accompanied by immediate, improved memory functions in the not-delusional world. And she's certainly snitching. 

In case you don't remember, the gang eventually (supposedly randomly) arrives on Waverly. Seems laughable but what do I know? I just type. 

According to Leslie, she wakes up when Charlie exits the LaBiancas' home, returns to the car, and tells Tex everyone is tied up and chilled out because they believe they're victims of only a robbery. The clowns are then sent inside to imitate monsters, misspell easy words, and steal milk and cheese. The thought of dairy products after all that makes me feel nauseous.  

And seriously who other than a baby sleeps through a car stopping and parking after arriving at the destination? "Hold up a sec, lemme wipe this slobber from the side of my face before I head in there for some grizzly healtering oh dark lord and master..." 

Rosemary immediately creates questions in the minds of researchers for eternity by asking Leslie...

"What are you guys doing here?"

Was Rosemary anxious and scared and blurted something out that meant nothing, or did she know them and typically meet them somewhere else? "You guys" sounds kinda like you're familiar with your new arrivals to my ears. 

I might be reading too much into it but Rosemary's question surely haunts the part of me that wants answers to this gory puzzle. 

"You know like it comes in pictures and the picture I see is Katie trying to get the knife in her throat and it wouldn't go." 

"And then I remember seeing her (Rosemary) laying flat in front of her closet all bloody on her stomach." 

"And then I remember seeing the man (Leno) on the sofa gurgling that deep bloody gurgle." 

"And so then we were going to make the house look freaky..." 

Would Leslie be free right now if she hadn't said all that crazy shit and other crazy shit just like it? I vote yes. 

Out living a real life. Possibly grabbing a fresh pair of Chucks or Nike Cortez at the Foot Locker this evening. Maybe hitting up Subway (in a mask since she doesn't want covid twice) for a veggie on whole wheat combo with Sun Chips and an unsweet tea for lunch tomorrow. 

Or Jersey Mike's if she's dedicated to a fast sandwich. They're better than Subway imo but still nothing special. Now, certain people in my family are complete Jersey Mike's addicts when time is short. And Cane's even though drive thru lines always wrap around the building twice during this time of death and politics. I dig the crinkle fries and Cane's sauce for sure, and I suppose their Texas toast too, but I'm more of a dark meat guy. The breasts are just so dry. 

Okay. Where were we? I know I was typing about unhappy things...

Right! Sooner or later, the real Leslie Van Houten will leave prison. 

Rounding out this dark trinity, the Leslie Van Houten of myth, like some nasty Sisyphus, will spend eternity sitting across from an attorney with a 1969 tape recorder between them as she endlessly repeats her bizarre story. Except for the recording device, everything in the room will be old, heavy, and dusty. Remnants all from the big war where we were the good guys and won. Nothing and no one is plastic. 

Every night, the LaBiancas' little dog will chew through Leslie's flesh with tiny needle teeth and never stop yipping while consuming her slimy liver. Transubstantiation is a twenty point word in Scrabble, btw. Words with Friends tacks on another five. 

 

There's no possible escape. Leslie will be the photographs and pleading looks until she is not. The gods will allow her to eat only unflavored, unsweetened gelatin she cannot swallow on account of the knife in her throat. Eventually, no one will remember she ever lived, and her punishments will continue unwitnessed. 

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Leslie Van Houten was convicted of murder March 21, 1971, and sentenced to death. She remains in prison at the time of this writing. She is no longer freaky. 

I suppose I could've just said hey I had the idea that maybe Leslie wasn't mind-controlled and was down for some dirt when she arrived at the Ranch, and not spent two weeks obsessively typing this out, but whatever. I shall play my small part in the GIGO process. 

total aside: 

(have you ever noticed how often peeps in the fam said, "in other words.." every time they talked in interviews? i wonder if it was one of charlie's phrases. -ggw)

I don't remember where these photos are from anymore. I've had them a long time. Most likely the almighty cielodrive.com 

 

Ear Hustle Podcast - Episode 60 - Leslie Van Houten - Home For Me Is Really A Memory

LVH's interview is hosted on the Ear Hustle website and probably wherever you get your pods. The creators also kindly provide listeners with a transcript of the conversations between Leslie and their hosts. The drawing below accompanies the piece and was made by one of the podcast founders, Antwan Williams. Williams also contributes to the musical score. 

 The bars on the window of the cell and van tell the story in their own way.  

photo via cielodrive.com

Personally, I don't think we need to keep people in their 70's locked away in prisons to ensure public safety. Nothing is up to me of course but I thought I'd share. 

I'm a sharer.

But if we must incarcerate our elderly criminals so there are never any doubts over who's running the show and et cetera couldn't we build a couple of facilities here and there to warehouse the old until they expire of natural causes? And if we already have that, why can't we put every elderly prisoner in them? 

I was actually working on an article about LVH this week when we discovered her interview. There's nothing that the readers of this blog are going to hear and exclaim "EUREKA!" over, but Ear Hustle isn't really about all that anyway. I didn't think I'd like the podcast, mostly because I'm a know-it-all and henceforth know everything, but they did a nice job and it won't kill you to throw them a listen and a like on their Facebook page.

A couple of things Leslie said caught my attention. First,  

Leslie uses "sobered" and "sober" once each. Was she dipping into the Gerber jar with the others? I always wonder who else was sampling the local products. 

And then this: 

You "believe" you gave it to the prison's investigators? Good grief. 

Copy the stupid letter. Send it around. 

I spent today with the LVH interviews and transcripts conducted by McGann and Part. All I can say is that a lot can happen in a month, I suppose. I'd like to talk about it with you next Sunday evening if you're online. -ggw