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With Gacy, it might have just been blind luck. But now that Manson had written back, I was pretty impressed with myself. I developed what would turn out to be a false confidence regarding my ability to “play” these people—fed, no doubt, by the illiterate way in which they expressed themselves.

Manson’s writing, for example, looked like the product of an eight-year-old, and a very demented one at that. Further, he just assumed that others knew what he was talking about when he left stuff out of the middle of his sentences.

In his postcard, he reminded me that he was not into playing games either. I confronted a dilemma: if I refused his request for magazine subscriptions, he might interpret the refusal as a lack of commitment; if, however, I showed immediate subservience, he might write me off as just another fan whom he could dominate. I wanted him to know that I was someone to be reckoned with.

As a compromise, I wrote him back and told him I didn’t have much money so I couldn’t afford to send him anything. I did say, though, that I hoped my financial situation would improve and that I’d send him a subscription in a month or two.

I’d become accustomed to Gacy’s long, rambling, detailed letters, so by contrast, Manson’s replies seemed even more stark and enigmatic. His next communication came almost immediately. It was just one line long but included a reading list of authors and books he wanted me to become familiar with. He was going to be my tutor and I his student. He wanted me to start with Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet and a few others I’d never heard of.

He also included the name and address of another follower of his who could supply me with more material. Now, that got me a little worried. Since I was using my real address (just as I had with Gacy, knowing that a post office box would be immediately suspect), it wouldn’t be that difficult for one of Manson’s family members on the outside to come by and check me out. It occurred to me that Manson must have lots of crazed followers willing to do his bidding. If he’d been able to get someone to attempt an assassination of the president of the United States, he certainly wouldn’t find it much of a challenge to dispatch someone to my house to see if I was all I said I was. My parents were somewhat tolerant, but I figured they’d draw the line if I told them I’d invited a few friends over for dinner—but, not to worry, “we’re all part of Charles Manson’s family.”

In what was in retrospect one of my more ill-considered acts, I actually contacted the individual Manson had referred me to, and the disciple supplied me with an array of reading materials, religious books, Manson videos, and others to contact in my own area who had similar views. The mailings had a comic aspect. I half expected to be recruited for a “get out the vote for Manson” drive come the next election.

The disciple told me he was really busy, so I only received three packages from him. Last Christmas, though, he sent me a letter telling me he’d moved, and he was there if I needed him. I passed along all of this information to the local office of the FBI, although I have no idea what they did with it.

20

Deeply Disturbed

Once Manson started to trust me, he began lecturing and teaching me about dozens of different topics that seemed randomly chosen. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, he’d become enraged; at other times he’d be very gentle and sensitive. I never knew what to expect.

I repeatedly tried to reassure him that I was safe, that I could be trusted with his innermost thoughts and feelings. To him, though, the very fact that I’d brought up trust as an issue meant I planned to be deceitful toward him. I was also giving him the runaround regarding those magazines he wanted.

After corresponding with Manson for only a short time, however, my interest in him diminished. He was not a “real” serial killer to me, but more of a cult leader who got others to do his killing for him. Further, I’d come to realize