Taming the Beast: Charles Manson's Life Behind Bars (21 page)

Prison administrators had their own method of getting their way. Stuck with a disruptive inmate they wanted to dump, they invariably pressured the house shrink to “psych” the guy to CMF. Because of this widespread practice, CMF often received “patients” who were nothing more than mean and savage pricks. Some, like Manson, had acted up specifically to get transferred. Others were just no-good bastards. Whichever, they would now be coming to me.

Manson’s updated file contained additional interesting tidbits. After his arrival, he was interviewed by the aforementioned Dr. Hyberg, a psychiatrist who often worked with acute psychotic inmates. Dr. Gordon Hyberg was one strange bird. He looked like the typical “mad genius” villain in a James Bond movie, complete with a shiny shaved head, a thin mustache, and a sharply pointed goatee, all accented by a navy blue sport coat draped over a white turtleneck sweater. A peace symbol medallion, supported by a long silver chain, bounced hypnotically around his midsection. To accessorize the overall look, Dr. Hyberg wore black leather S and M wristbands with silver spurs. If that wasn’t enough, the guy frequented nude beaches! He sometimes came to work so sunburned that he’d have trouble sitting.

Charlie must have thought he’d hit the jackpot when he got a look at this dude, especially that big hippie-era peace symbol. I immediately began to worry about Manson’s influence on the guy. I didn’t want to see Dr. H riding nude on a Harley one day, surrounded by a flock of Manson’s bare-assed chicks.

Although he carried himself in a distinguished, arrogant manner, Dr. Hyberg was actually a personable, sensitive man. He was single, middle-aged, and genuinely dedicated to helping inmates. The problem was, some of his techniques were as odd as his duds. His favorite therapy circle was the “tissue group,” composed of cons who had cut or torn flesh in their murders. Ironically, for all his dancing on the edge (and this guy did the Watusi!), I noticed that he feared many of the felons, acted uncomfortable around them, and had difficulty adapting to their brashness.

One time, in a classification hearing, Dr. Hyberg was interviewing an inmate in front of the committee. Trying his best to be “with it,” he asked the young man, “When’s the last time you did grass?” The con appeared puzzled, obviously unfamiliar with the common slang for marijuana. “Do you mean when was the last time I cut the lawn?” Everyone cracked up, embarrassing the doctor. The incident dramatized Dr. Hyberg’s labored attempt to reach that cherished nirvana known as “coolness,” a state of “Fonzarelli” being, that for all his hip posturing, Dr. H hadn’t quite nailed down.

Not surprisingly, Dr. Hyberg’s sessions with Manson were classics. I rolled one of the tapes. It sounded more like a Mel Brooks comedy album than a psychiatric evaluation:

“If you had only one wish, what would you wish for?” Dr. H opened.

“More wishes,” Charlie immediately shot back.

“How are your spirits?”

“Right here.”

“How do you see your future?”

“I don’t see any.”

“When was the last time you wished you were dead?”

“I haven’t found out what life is yet.”

“When did you last think of suicide?”

“When you mentioned it.”

It went on like that for hours. Dr. Hyberg played the straight man as Charlie dicked him around, revealing nothing about his psyche. That was all too familiar. Charlie believed all prison doctors, except maybe Dr. Sutton, were weird and unworthy of his true insights. I could learn more in one relatively honest man-to-guru conversation with Charlie than in all the tapes and medical evaluations combined.

Still, some of the efforts were worth noting. Dr. Rotella’s initial conclusion after Manson’s May 1976 evaluation was helpful:

“Manson is the product of a chaotic, disruptive childhood, compounded by a history of psychosis, and being brought up in Federal and State corrective institutional settings since early childhood. These ingredients were reflected, and manifested in his life style, namely by: his inability to function in a competitive society; form close, meaningful adult relationships with people; and his general resentment towards society and authority. At this time, Charlie realistically surmised that he presently will not be able to walk a CDC mainline and most likely will have to live in a security housing unit setting. States that he would like to have his own cell, play his guitar a few times a week, and be able to avail himself of yard activities if ‘I don’t get bad vibes.’ Basically would like to be placed in a nonpredatory sheltered environment where other inmates will not drive on, or strike out at him, as occurred in Folsom adjustment center yard a while back.”

Three months later, Dr. Edwin Lehman offered similar insights:

“Charles Manson is an individual who (as he often points out) literally grew up in institutions, and in some measure is a product of his environment. He is endowed with above average intellectual capability, which, in most cases, has only been tested on the criterion of survival for his is a usually hostile and predatory environment. In our relationship, he was an intellectual and talkative individual, who has a good sense of humor and who was friendly and likable. After spending some time with him on several different occasions, his philosophizing conversations begin to repeat themselves. When heard in that way, his ideas resemble the grandiosity of adolescent revolutionaries who ache to fight for the rights of oppressed peoples on the other side of the world while they use people close to them and never think about it. He is a persuasive talker and in almost all ways has been a ‘good’ prisoner while he has been with us. I feel that we should listen to and try to honor his sensible requests while not forgetting that basically Charlie is a psychotic person with a very tenuously balanced emotional state. The goal of a mainline placement may still be distant but I feel we should continue to try him in slightly less protective environments in order to upgrade his movement and placement.”

I was encouraged by Dr. Lehman’s suggestion that Charlie might one day be ready for another stab at the mainline. I’d been toying with that idea for years. Although my first attempt at San Quentin nearly destroyed my career, it wasn’t Charlie’s fault. Trying him on the CMF mainline was an intriguing concept, one that I had mixed feeling about, but planned to consider. That was mostly because when I cut through the games and bullshit, Manson himself could be counted on to offer the best insight into his mental state. His self-analysis, in its own primitive way, said more than all the shrink reports combined.

“Hell, I know the difference between right and wrong. Always did. I know how to get along in the real world. I know what to do to keep the kids fed, the fat wife happy, and the cops off my ass. I tried it a few times. But where I came from, how I grew up, what happened to me, I didn’t have a chance. Everybody kept telling me what was bad, what I shouldn’t do, how to act, but they all forgot to give me a chance to be that way. You take the nicest ten-year-old from the best home in the land and put him on the streets, and he’s going to learn to steal to survive. You take the best little girl in Sunday school, tell her her parents left and don’t care, and dump her on a corner, and she’ll be turning tricks by the end of the week just to eat. Well, I was that boy! I was that girl! I didn’t want to be that way. No kid does. I wasn’t some demon that sprang from my mother’s womb. Everybody talks about role models. What role models did I have? Perverted reform school guards?… Great parents? Jesus and the Bible? Hell, it was the Bible that drove my mother out of her home and put her on the streets. [Charlie’s mom had rebelled against a strict religious upbringing.] Once in the system, the ‘fathers’ and ‘mothers’ society provided to raise me beat me bloody with whips and straps, fucked me in the ass until I shit blood and couldn’t walk, and taught me to hate. And now, everybody’s shocked how I turned out. Wake up! You did this to me. And you’re doing it to thousands like me every day. Every kid who wandered into the ranch back then came from a bad family. Every kid who writes me today complains about their rotten parents. And none of them had it as bad as me.”

That didn’t excuse what he’d done, but he did have a point. Charlie always had a point. And it made me cringe at the thought of how many little Charlies and Squeakys are out there right now taking life on the chin, bouncing from one adult to another, all the while suppressing a rage that’s destined to explode. It also explained why the mail kept coming in, bagful after bagful, month after month. These were the kids Charlie spoke to—and for.

After a few weeks, I settled in and felt comfortable at CMF. Once again, Manson was a major reason. To kill time and break up the day, I began letting him out of his cage for casual chats in my office. Charlie enjoyed the freedom, but didn’t want to be called out too much or the other inmates might think he’d turned snitch. Heaven forbid. Occasionally, he became demanding and destructive just to assure the cons he was still one of them.

Dr. Rotella noticed all the time I was spending with Charlie and took me aside one afternoon for a fatherly chat. “You like the guy, don’t you?” he opened.

“I find him interesting, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I asked you if you liked him.”

“I guess so,” I admitted.

“You’re aware that he’s a psychopath among other things,” the doctor warned, strengthening his earlier diagnosis. “He can screw you over and never think about it.”

“He’s been trying to do that since the moment I met him,” I said, laughing.

“Don’t take him too lightly,” Dr. Rotella admonished. “He’s had some nasty psychotic episodes.”

“Yeah, and I think he faked them all,” I countered. “I’ve seen him go for weeks acting as calm and rational as you and me. Then something sets him off and wham, he flips out. Rants and raves and threatens the world with annihilation. There’s a pattern to it, and I think it’s pure bullshit.”

“Perhaps,” the doc said, playing along. “You think he’s crazy like a fox?

“Exactly. He’s clever, quick, and intelligent.”

“But foxes can go crazy, too,” the doctor astutely pointed out.

“Psychopaths aren’t considered crazy, are they?” I dodged.

“Not in themselves, but they can be. They can become psychotic.”

The psychological double-talk numbed my mind. I shifted to a comparison that was easier to grasp. “Did you see
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?
The movie where Jack Nicholson played a con man named McMurphy?”

“Sure. That’s a classic.”

“If you remember, McMurphy and the big Indian both played crazy, but they weren’t. They conned everybody, made fun of the system, and had a ball doing it. When Charlie’s in a good mood, he reminds me of McMurphy. Believe it or not, he can be a real funny guy.”

The doctor looked at me as if I’d gone completely mad. “Hitler was a real funny guy, too,” he cracked.

“I hear what you’re saying. I’m not blind to that. Most of the time, Charlie is likable. Behind it, there’s this deceptive little weasel who hides an incredibly evil side. Don’t think I’m not keenly aware of it.”

“He’s schizophrenic, two personalities, but in remission. Of course, if the guy’s psychotic, then he can’t be evil because he doesn’t know right from wrong.”

“But he does!” I jousted. “He’s as sane as we are, so that makes him evil.

“I agree.”

“He knows exactly what he’s done, what he’s doing, and what he’s going to do,” I continued, my voice rising. “I’ve sensed that talking to him. I’ve felt the chill when his evil side emerges. And he knows it. It’s fascinating.”

The doctor paused, then stared at me with deep concern. “You’re really into this guy.”

“More than I want to admit, I guess. But I can’t help it.”

“Can I give you some advice?”

“Only if you don’t charge me,” I said, trying to lighten the dour mood.

“Don’t let any inmate consume your life. You can only go so far, do so much. You can only understand just a part of what makes them tick. You can’t change the world, Ed. When you go home, after work, forget it. It’s all bullshit. And this creep Manson is not the kind of person you should be getting entangled with. You can’t lose sight of what happened with him. He took a bunch of stupid, rebellious kids, brainwashed them, and made them kill. They butchered people for that little shit. And because of that, we get to see him every day, smirking like he’s really got some special powers of control.”

“He does. And he’s still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“He’s still using his women to recruit followers. The women who are locked up, and those on the outside. And people keep flocking to him. I know. I read his mail. He’s never even met these people and they still want to kill for him. It’s crazy what’s going on.”

“The little shit does have a strange attraction. I can’t really put my finger on it,” Dr. Rotella confessed.

“It’s an evil genius. Something he developed from his years in prison.”

“It’s certainly something that’s difficult to comprehend. The common belief is that evil people are stupid, but that can be dead wrong. Some evil people possess a considerable intelligence which they use to plan truly monstrous deeds.”

“So why are all these people drawn to him?” I wondered. “Why all this sick mail, year after year?”

“Curiosity, probably. People looking for excitement.”

It was my turn to look at the doctor with skepticism. These lost souls who worshiped Manson were not your average thrill seekers. “It’s got to be more,” I argued. “Maybe their lives are boring and they feel inadequate. Therefore, they gravitate to the lowest common denominator. Maybe some kids feel so evil and guilty inside that they believe only a guy like Manson can understand them.”

“That’s a horrible thought,” Dr. Rotella responded, wincing.

“Hey, what’s even more horrible is the possibility that maybe it’s our fault, just like Charlie’s always said. Maybe we’re raising our children wrong. Maybe our traditional Christian beliefs emphasize guilt and punishment over compassion, and it’s taking a toll. We judge quickly and harshly without understanding. Maybe that’s why so many kids run away, kill themselves, drop out of school, take drugs, have loveless sex—”