The Sheila Variations

True Crime

One of my favorite genres is True Crime, and I loved to read this compilation on Daily Beast of the Best True Crime books.

I have read all of those, and in the case of In Cold Blood and HELTER SKELTER, I have read them multiple times. Ann Rule's book about Ted Bundy (whom she knew briefly), The Stranger Beside Me, is fantastic. I was not as admiring of The Executioner's Song as many others are - I think maybe I should give it another go. I loved the movie. But I wanted to cut about 150 pages out of that book. I couldn't wait for Gilmore to die so I could stop having to be in his presence. While certainly you don't need to "relate" to the people doing the crimes in these books, I have to say that I found Dick Hickock and Perry Miller more interesting than Gary Gilmore, although that may just be a tribute to Capote's writing (which I like better than Mailer's, although Mailer is awesome as well).

An interesting case is the case of Fatal Vision (excerpt here), by Joe McGuinness about Jeffrey MacDonald, the Green Beret surgeon accused of murdering his wife and children. He is in jail to this day. He maintains his innocence. He insists that a group of hippies broke into his house and slaughtered his family - while he, a massively strong Green Beret remained unharmed. Joe McGuinness actually befriended MacDonald when he was out on appeal, gained his trust, and got unbelievable access to the man, in the form of long nostalgic interviews, first-person, that are strategically placed throughout the book, which is, in actuality, a damning account of MacDonald's crime, and pretty much buries him. It was an act that some found distasteful, even in light of MacDonald's crimes - that McGuinness would deceive his subject to such a degree, that MacDonald would think he was talking to a friend, when actually he was talking to someone who was building a case against him. Janet Malcolm, of the New York Times, was incensed by McGuinness's behavior, and wrote a book about it: The Journalist and the Murderer, an awesome read in and of itself. Whatever side you fall on (McGuinness was just doing what journalists do and of course he saw value in making MacDonald trust him and open up to him - because it would make a better book, or McGuinness behaved dishonorably in leading MacDonald to believe that the book would exonerate him or at least tell "his side"), it is a fascinating conversation, and I highly recommend both books. I know I came away from Fatal Vision thinking, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this man DID IT. Malcolm doesn't dispute the facts of the case. She is not trying to prove MacDonald's innocence. She is interested in journalistic integrity. Many feathers got ruffled over the publication of Fatal Vision, and the war of words about it continues.

Here are some of my reviews of true crime books. I love compilations like the ones at The Daily Beast, because they spark discussion and memories.

The Books: "My Dark Places: An LA Crime Memoir" (James Ellroy)

Next book in my Daily Book Excerpt:

The following book in my true crime section is My Dark Places, by James Ellroy.

Now I am a MASSIVE fan of Ellroy's fiction, but this book is not fiction, and I have to say: it's one of my favorites. James Ellroy's mother was murdered when he was 10 years old. The crime has, to this date, never been solved. James Ellroy was a troubled youth, angry, perpetually horny, in a rage, obsessed with unsolved crimes (for obvious reasons) like the Black Dahlia. His first sexual fantasies were about the murdered girl known as the "Black Dahlia". And, of course, Ellroy fans will be familiar with the fact that his first hit book (many years later) was called The Black Dahlia. All of that unexpressed torment and guilt and sex were poured into novel after novel after novel. I've gotta say it: I just LOVE this guy's work. I'm passionate about it. He is a perfect example of what my great acting teacher Doug Moston used to say: "I am a big fan of sublimation. You take your pain and you make it sublime." Ellroy, the straight-talker, would probably pooh-pooh such grandiose words, but I don't care. I think his prose is SUBLIME. My Dark Places, in a weird way, explains how Ellroy became Ellroy. It makes you appreciate the real genius of his work, the real persistence it took, the real Jacob-wrestling-with-angel dynamic going on there. Ellroy is not a happy man. He is a haunted and tormented man. But instead of becoming a sex offender or a drunk or a dead-inside automaton (all highly plausible end-results for such a person) ... he became a writer. He took that stuff and he made it INTO something.

My Dark Places, though, is not a novel. After becoming a huge success (writing novels which were all about the underbelly of Los Angeles, the crime world, gorgeous dames, tough-talkin' assholes) he finally decided to turn his focus towards his murdered red-headed gorgeous mother. He decided to investigate her death. (If you haven't read this book, I honestly can't recommend it highly enough. It's so SO good. Ellroy teaches other writers how to be brutally honest. If you can't be brutally honest about yourself, then how can you be brutally honest about any character you create? You almost cringe at times, reading the book ... like: woah. Did he just reveal that?? His sexual feelings towards his mother, his rage at the fact that she was obviously sexually active after the divorce ... and how he sublimated all of that into a veritable OBSESSION with the Black Dahlia girl. It's astonishingly honest. James Ellroy is FEARLESS.)

Anyway, he contacts a soon-to-be-retired homicide detective named Bill Stoner, and asks if he would team up with him to re-open the case, and try to piece it all together.

This book is the story not only of James Ellroy's bleak very difficult childhood - but also of Ellroy and Stoner's tracks through the past, trying to figure out what might have happened to James Ellroy's mother. It's written in that classic James Ellroy style - unmistakable - but now, instead of turning that scalpel-eye on his own fictional creations - he turns it on himself and his family. And it's also a classic true-crime book. Piecing together random fragments, new discoveries, revelations ... a picture becoming clear, slowly ... imperfectly.

It's a stupendous book, and ... I am going to post a couple of GINORMOUS excerpts because I just can't help myself.

Bill Stoner, the detective Ellroy teams up with to try to solve this murder from 1958, is almost like a character out of an Ellroy book. That's why Ellroy is so good. He KNOWS that world. If you have ever known a homicide detective ... you'll know that they are a certain breed of people. They just ARE. Maybe from experience, sure ... but I think there might be something else there. Some sixth sense. They understand people. They can SMELL a lie. They also - even though they're usually big tough guys - they're usually HUGE empaths. Bill Stoner, a man who dedicated his life to chasing down men who had killed women (he is a real life Bud White), is the epitome of that stereotype.

I know I'm biased, but I just think his prose is so GOOD. The following couple of excerpts are how Ellroy introduces his partner, Bill Stoner. I won't explain why I think it's good - I'm not that good at expressing it. Let's just say that I find him unbelievably readable - but not facile or shallow. He's deep, man, but he just says it like it is.

And so it goes ... and goes ... It's a grim and ugly book, filled with horrible crime scene details. But it's Ellroy's most personal work.

Read. The. Book. if you haven't.

EXCERPT FROM My Dark Places, by James Ellroy.

His name was Bill Stoner. He was 53 years old and a homicide detective with the Los Angeles County Sherriff's Department. He was married and had twenty-eight-year-old twin sons.

It was late March '94. He was leaving the job in mid-April. He'd served 32 years and worked Homicide for the past 14. He was retiring as a sergeant with 25 years in grade. His pension would sustain him nicely.

He was leaving the job intact. He wasn't a drunk and he wasn't obese from liquor and junk food. He stayed with the same woman for 30-plus years and rode out the rough times with her. He didn't go the bifurcated route so many cops did. He wasn't juggling a family and a series of girlfriends in the new gender-integrated law-enforcement community.

He didn't hide behind the job or revel in a dark world-view. He knew that isolation spawned resentment and self-pity. Police work was inherently ambiguous. Cops developed simple codes to insure their moral grounding. The codes reduced complex issues to kick-ass epigrams. Every epigram boiled to this: Cops know things that other people don't. Every epigram obfuscated as much as it enlightened.

Homicide taught him that. He learned it gradually. He saw slam-dunk cases through to successful adjudication and did not understand why the murders occurred. He came to distrust simple answers and solutions and exulted in the few viable ones that he found. He learned to reserve judgment, shut his ego down and make people come to him. It was an inquisitor's stance. It gave him some distance on himself. It helped him tone down his general temperament and rein in some shitty off-the-job behavior.

The first 17 years of his marriage were a brush war. He fought Ann. She fought him. It stayed verbal out of luck and a collective sense of boundary. They were equally voluble and profane and thus evenly matched. Their demands were equally selfish. They brought equal reserves of love to the war.

He grew up as a homicide detective. Ann grew up as a registered nurse. She entered her career late. Their marriage survived because they both grew up in the death business.

Ann retired early. She had high blood pressure and bad allergies. Their bad years put some bad mileage on her.

And him.

He was exhausted. Hundreds of murders and the rough stretch with Ann made for one big load. He wanted to drop the whole thing.

He knew how to let things go. The death business taught him that. He wanted to be a full-time husband and father. He wanted to see Ann and the boys up-close and permanent.

Bob was running an Ikea store. He was married to a solid woman and had a baby daughter. Bob toed the line. Bill Junior was more problematic. He was lifting weights, going to college and working as a bouncer. He had a son with his Japanese ex-girlfriend. Bill Junior was a brilliant kid and an inveterate fuckhead.

He loved his grandchildren to death. Life was a kick in the head.

He had a nice house in Orange County. He had his health and money socked away. He had a good marriage and a separate dialogue with dead women. It was his own take on the Laura syndrome.

Homicide detectives loved the movie Laura. A cop gets obsessed with a murder victim and finds out she's still alive. She's beautiful and mysterious. She falls in love with the cop.

Most homicide cops were romantics. They blasted through lives devastated by murder and dispensed comfort and counsel. They nursed entire families. They met the sisters and female friends of their victims and succumbed to sexual tension hotwired to bereavement. They blew their marriages off behind situational drama.

He wasn't that crazy or hooked on theatrics. The flip side of Laura was Double Indemnity: A man meets a woman and flushes his life down the toilet. Both scenarios were equally fatuous.

Dead women fired up his imagination. He honored them with tender thoughts. He didn't let them run his life.

He was set to retire soon. Things were running through his head fast and bright.

He had to drive out to the Bureau. A man was meeting him at 9:00. His mother was murdered 30-some years back. The man wanted to see her file.

The Books: "Fatal Vision" (Joe McGuinness)

Next book in my Daily Book excerpt:

The following book in my true crime section is:

Fatal Vision, by Joe McGuinness. It's just one of those books I never get tired of: the story of Jeffrey Macdonald, the Green Beret doctor convicted of murdering his pregnant wife and two small daughters, in 1970. He proclaims his innocence to this day, and he was just up for parole - RTG has a great summary of the case. He was convicted by the circumstantial physical evidence, which was overwhelmingly stacked against him. It remains a controversial case, and Joe McGuinness' book is a gripping (and terrible) read.

Here is an excerpt from the book, where MacDonald is first interviewed (interrogated) by the CID investigators. MacDonald had not been named as a suspect yet, and so he came into the room - did not ask for a lawyer to be present - and told his whole story of what happened that night. The details he revealed that day stuck to him for YEARS, and tangled him up in the circumstantial evidence that he could not explain away. MacDonald claimed that "hippies" broke into his house, high on acid, and went on a killing frenzy. Now remember this: MacDonald is a Green Beret. That means a couple things to me, but one of the most important things is that the dude is tough and BIG, physically. I don't know. I am convinced of his guilt. The Green Beret's pregnant wife and two tiny daughters are literally slaughtered - these were not clean bullets to the head deaths - and the GREEN BERET - who is the husband and the father - is unscathed? How is that possible? MacDonald could not explain it away.

Anyway. Franz Grebner, provost marshall, who had spent 19 years with CID, had walked into the crime scene, the night that it happened, and immediately knew that something wasn't right. Having known a couple of homicide detectives myself, I know that this is true about the really good ones: they just KNOW when someone is lying, when something is staged, when something isn't adding up. It's a gut instinct, and usually ends up turning out to be correct. It's like they have another layer of seeing, an X-ray layer.

Grebner had that. He walked into the MacDonald house, took one look around the living room, and thought, "This isn't right ... I think MacDonald is lying ..."

The excerpt is the part of the CID interrogation when Grebner takes the gloves off.

EXCERPT FROM Fatal Vision , by Joe McGuinness.

"I have been sitting here most of the morning," Grebner said, "not saying very much, just listening to your story, and I have been an investigator for a long time, and if you were a Pfc -- a young, uneducated person -- I might try to bring you in here and bluff you. But you are a very well-educated man -- doctor, captain -- and I'm going to be fair with you.

"Your story doesn't ring true. There's too many discrepancies. For instance, take a look at that picture over there." Grebner gestured toward a photograph of the living room of 544 Castle Drive.

"Do you see anything odd about that scene?"

"No."

"It is the first thing I saw when I came into the house that morning. Notice the flowerpot?"

"It's standing up."

"Yes. Notice the magazines?"

"Yeah."

"Notice the edge of the table right there?"

"I don't understand the significance of it."

"Okay. The lab technician, myself, Mr. Ivory, and Mr. Shaw, and any number of other people have tipped that table over. It never lands like that. It is top-heavy and it goes over all the way, even pushes the chair next to it out of the way. The magazines don't land under the leading edge of that table, either. They land out on the floor."

"Couldn't this table have been pushed around during the struggle?"

"It could have been, but it would have been upside down when it stopped. And the plant and the pot always go straight out and they stay together in all instances."

"Well, what -- what are you trying to say?"

"That this is a staged scene."

"You mean that I staged the scene?"

"That's what I think."

"Do you think that I would stand the pot up if I staged the scene?"

"Somebody stood it up like that."

"Well, I don't see the reasoning behind that. You just told me I was college-educated and very intelligent."

"I believe you are."

"Well, why do you think I would -- I don't understand why you think I would stage it that way if I was going to stage it."

"And your glasses, which are over there underneath the drapery. They could have gotten there, but you weren't wearing your glasses when you went into the bedrooms. And they are lying with the outer edge of the lens down on the floor, yet on the face of that lens there's blood."

"Maybe someone knocked them over."

"But how did they get the blood on them?"

"I assume from the person who knocked them over."

"Another feature here. There's an Esquire magazine laying there. There's a box laying on top of it. And on this edge, right underneath the box, there's blood on the edges of the pages. This whole thing here was staged."

"That's a pretty powerful statement. Changes thing around, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does."

"Well, I can't help you," MacDonald said. "What do you want me to say? You are telling me that -- that I staged the scene and that's it. It is a little ludicrous."

"You must understand," Grebner said, "that I am looking at this from the point of an investigator, past experience."

"I understand that."

Grebner gestured toward another photograph. "Notice the rug right there?"

"Right."

"It slips and slides and rolls up very easily. In the position it is in, that's where you would have been having this struggle, pushing against three men."

"Well, at the edge of the bed [sic] and on the end of the hallway." (This was the third time MacDonald had said "bed" when he had apparently intended to say "couch".)

"This rug was undisturbed," Grebner said.

"Well, what do you want me to say? I don't -- I'm not an investigator. You are telling me that -- that I staged and scene and I -- I'm telling you that things happened the way I told you."

"You know," Grebner continued, "you as a doctor and I as an investigator have seen many people come into emergency rooms and they are pretty badly hurt."

"Right."

"I've seen people who were shot directly in the heart with a .38 run over a hundred yards. You had one icepick wound -- apparently from an ice pice -- punctured your lung to the point that it collapsed 20 percent. You had one small bump on your head."

"No, correction, I had two."

"Two? Okay, two. Not apparently wounds or bumps that would have been caused by this type of club that we have in this instance if anyone was swinging with any force."

"Well, I can't agree with you there, medically. I have treated patients who have died and there's nothing but a little abrasion on their forehead."

"That's probably true, but here you are. You've been hit twice by now. This didn't knock you out. This is according to your story. You're at a point here where the old adrenaline is pumping into your system -- you are fighting for yourself and your children -- and yet you pass out here, according to your story, at the end of the hallway."

"It wasn't exactly passing out, Mr. Grebner. I was hit on the head a couple of times."

"But that didn't knock you out. You were still pushing and fighting against these people and --"

"Well, apparently, it did knock me out, though."

" -- for an unexplained reason you passed out."

"No, no, I didn't pass out. Apparently I was knocked unconscious."

"By a third blow?"

"I don't -- I don't know how many blows."

"But this weapon was used on Colette and Kim. It is a brutal weapon. We have three people here that are overkilled, almost. And yet they leave you alive. While you were laying there in the hallway, why not give you a good lick or two from behind the head with that club and finish you off?"

"Well, maybe I was --"

"You saw them eye to eye. They don't know that you wouldn't be able to identify them at a later date. Why leave you there alive?"

"I don't know. Maybe they assumed that -- that I was dead, and the frenzy got worse and worse. I -- I don't know. I've thought about this. I've spent many sleepless nights in the last six weeks, you know."

"Then we have the fibers from your pajama top directly under your wife's body."

"Sir, I told you I can't -- I can't explain some of those fibers. That's -- that's beyond my capabilities. I just told you the only thing I know and obviously the implication is real bad for me, but I can't -- how can I explain that? I don't know."

"And as we enter the bedroom we have Kimberly's blood on that rug. To the right of the door we have the top sheet and the spread from your bed, and on the sheet are both Colette's blood and Kimberly's. And on the bedspread it's Colette's blood -- large quantities. Now, hippies don't -- they let bodies fall where they may."

"Right, I agree with you."

"So it is another staged scene, probably. Kimberly was returned to her bed -- it's a possibility -- carried in that sheet. And there was absolutely no evidence that could be found -- even though we had technicians in there for five days -- of an alien being in that house. You get that many people in a house that small, you're going to have evidence of it."

"I don't know what you expect me to say here."

"That club," Grebner continued. "You said you had never seen that before? Do you know there is paint on it that is the same as paint on the sidewalk in back of the house?"

"Look, ah --"

"It is the same as the paint on scraps of wood which you have in your locked storage room. It is the same as the paint on a pair of surgical gloves that were in the locked storage room. That piece of wood came from the house."

"It might have," MacDonald said. "I haven't seent he piece of wood. I didn't recognize it from the picture. Jesus Christ, this is getting -- what's this called? Circumstantial evidence? Yeah, well, go ahead," MacDonald said sarcastically, "what else do you have?"

"I was just throwing out things for you to consider."

"What you are doing is you are sitting here telling me that I killed my wife and kids! That's un -- that's unbelievable. Christ's sakes, what's my motive? What'd I do that for?"

"We can conjecture a lot of reasons perhaps."

"You think I wasn't happily married?"

"I'm happily married, too. Sometimes I get pretty mad at my wife. Particularly when I was younger and more easily angered."

"You think I could get mad enough at someone to do that?"

"I have known it to happen before."

"Holy Christ! I'll tell you what it looks like to me. It looks like you've run out of ideas, and -- and you are picking out someone -- the easiest one. You've got to solve it by the end of the fiscal year so when the report goes in there's a one hundred percent solved rate."

"No," Grebner said. "I've been at this for twenty years and I'm going to stick one more. So I'm not in any hurry. It is just that we have all this business here that would tend to indicate that you were involved in this rather than people who came in from the outside and picked 544 Castle Drive and went up there and were lucky enough to find your door open. I've spent many a night out on this post and I know one thing: with the number of dogs we have around, you don't go rattling doors here to find one that's open so you can come in and for no apparent reason knock off three people. At that hour of the morning, the patrols we have around, there wouldn't have been four or five people -- a group like that -- wandering through the housing area --"

"Oh, that's a lot of baloney," MacDonald interrupted.

"-- or driving through."

"I've never seen a patrol here at night and I've been here since August."

"Well, I can assure you, they are there. You probably weren't looking for them."

There was a pause.

"Well, where do we go from here?"

"It's up to you."

The Books: "In Cold Blood" (Truman Capote)

More from my Daily Book Excerpt:

The next book in my true crime section is:

In Cold Blood , by Truman Capote. One of my favorite books. I babbled about it extensively here. It's one of those books I always go back to. I'm not even sure when I first read it; it feels like I have always had this book in my memory. Certain parts of it I will never forget - they were burned into my brain at the first reading. The image of Perry in Nancy Clutter's bedroom, with the girl tied up on the bed, as he struggled to retrieve a lost silver dollar under the bed. Since there was no safe in the Clutter house like the two thugs believed ... they were reduced to stealing a young girl's silver dollar. Perry - a psychopath with a heart - is that possible? Or would we call him a sociopath?? - describes his sudden feeling of deep deep shame, like: what the HELL AM I DOING, tying this girl up for ONE SILVER DOLLAR? But still. The pricks of his conscience did not stop him from murderering everyone in that house in cold blood. There's so much more about this book. Truman Capote himself said that not one word of the book could be removed without the whole thing unraveling. I completely agree. The book is taut, spare, and yet poetic and deeply sad. Not one needless word.

The following excerpt is from the unbelievable section where Perry finally confesses to Alvin Dewey (the cop who had been working the case) and another detective - as they drive the prisoner back to Kansas from Las Vegas:

EXCERPT FROM In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote.

Duntz says, "Perry, I've been keeping track of the lights. The way I calculate it, when you turned off the upstairs light, that left the house completely dark."

"Did. And we never used the lights again. Except the flashlight. Dick carried the flashlight when we went to tape Mr. Clutter and the boy. Just before I taped him, Mr. Clutter asked me -- and these were his last words -- wanted to know how his wife was, if she was all right, and I said she was fine, she was ready to go to sleep, and I told him it wasn't long till morning, and how in the morning somebody would find them, and then all of it, me and Dick and all, would seem like something they dreamed. I wasn't kidding him. I didn't want to harm the man. I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken. I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat.

Wait. I'm not telling it the way it was." Perry scowls. He rubs his legs; the handcuffs rattle. "After, see, after we'd taped them, Dick and I went off in a corner. To talk it over. Remember, now, there were hard feelings between us. Just then it made my stomach turn to think I'd ever admired him, lapped up all that brag. I said, 'Well, Dick. Any qualms?' He didn't answer me. I said, 'Leave them alive, and this won't be any small rap. Ten years the very least.' He still didn't say anything. He was holding the knife. I asked him for it, and he gave it to me, and I said, 'All right, Dick. Here goes.' But I didn't mean it. I meant to call his bluff, make him argue me out of it, make him admit he was a phony and a coward. See, it was something between me and Dick. I knelt down beside Mr. Clutter, and the pain of kneeling -- I thought of that goddam dollar. Silver dollar. The shame. Disgust. And they'd told me never to come back to Kansas. But I didn't realize what I'd done till I heard the sound. Like somebody drowning. Screaming under water. I handed th eknife to Dick. I said, 'Finish him. You'll feel better.' Dick tried -- or pretended to. But the man had the strength of ten men -- he was half out of his ropes, his hands were free. Dick panicked. Dick wanted to get the hell out of there. But I wouldn't let him go. The man would have died anyway, I know that, but I couldn't leave him like he was. I told Dick to hold the flashlight, focus it. Then I aimed the gun. The room just exploded. Went blue. Just blazed up. Jesus, I'll never understand why they didn't hear the noise twenty miles around."

Dewey's ears ring with it -- a ringing that almost deafens him to the whispery rush of Smith's soft voice. But the voice plunges on, ejecting a fusillade of sounds and images: Hickock hunting th edischarged shell; hurrying, hurrying, and Kenyon's head in a circle of light, the murmur of muffled pleadings, then Hickock again scrambling after a used cartridge; Nancy's room, Nancy listening to boots on hardwood stairs, the creak of the steps as they climb toward her, Nancy's eyes, Nancy watching the flashlight's shine seek the target ("She said, 'Oh, no! Oh, please. No! No! No! No! Don't! Oh, please don't! Please!' I gave the gun to Dick. I told him I'd done all I could do. He took aim, and she turned her face to the wall"); the dark hall, the assassins hastening toward the final door. Perhaps, having heard all she had, Bonnie welcomed their swift approach.

"That last shell was a bitch to locate. Dick wiggled under the bed to get it. Then we closed Mrs. Clutter's door and went downstairs to the office. We waited there, like we had when we first came. Looked through the blinds to see if the hired man was poking around, or anybody else who might have heard the gunfire. But it was just the same -- not a sound. Just the wind -- and Dick panting like wolves were after him. Right there, in those few seconds before we ran out to the car and drove away, that's when I decided I'd better shoot Dick. He'd said over and over, he'd drummed into me: No witnesses. And I thought, He's a witness. I don't know what stopped me. God knows I should've done it. Shot him dead. Got in the car and kept on going till I lost myself in Mexico."

A hush. For ten miles more, the three men ride without speaking.

Sorrow and profound fatigue are at the heart of Dewey's silence. It had been his ambition to learn "exactly what happened in that house that night." Twice now he'd been told, and the two versions were very much alike, the only serious discrepancy being that Hickock attributed all four deaths to Smith, while Smith contended that Hickock had killed the two women. But the confessions, though they answered questions of how and why, failed to satisfy his sense of meaningful design. The crime was a psychological accident, virtually an impersonal act; the victims might as well have been killed by lightning. Except for one thing: they had experienced prolonged terror, they had suffered. And Dewey could not forget their sufferings. Nonetheless, he found it possible to look at the man beside him without anger -- with, rather, a measure of sympathy -- for Perry Smith's life had been no bed of roses but pitiful, an ugly and lonely progress toward one mirage and then another. Dewey's sympathy, however, was not deep enough to accommodate either forgiveness or mercy. He hoped to see Perry and his partner hanged -- hanged back to back.

Duntz asks Smith, "Added up, how much money did you get from the Clutters?"

"Between forty and fifty dollars."

The Books: "Outrage : The Five Reasons Why O.J. Simpson Got Away With Murder" (Vincent Bugliosi)

Next in my Daily Book Excerpt:

The following book in my true crime section is:

Outrage: The Five Reasons Why O. J. Simpson Got Away with Murder, again by Vincent Bugliosi. The title of this book "Outrage" pretty much says it all. Bugliosi, famous prosecutor (mainly of the Manson murderers) weighs in on the OJ case. NOBODY comes out of this one unscathed. Bugliosi is PISSED. He did not wait for his temper to cool before writing this book. He wrote it in the midst of his fury.

EXCERPT FROM Outrage: The Five Reasons Why O. J. Simpson Got Away with Murder, by Vincent Bugliosi.

From the moment O.J. Simpson became a suspect in this double murder case, it was "in the air", perhaps as in no other case within memory, that he might get off despite the conclusive evidence of his guilt. In fact, even before the murders, it was in the air, Nicole presciently telling her close female friends that "O.J. is going to kill me someday and he's going to get by with it."

It was in the air from the day (June 17, 1994) when mental midgets stood atop the freeway overpasses holding "Go O.J., Go" signs during the slow-speed chase prior to his arrest. Everywhere one looked, it was in the air. People saying confidently, "This jury will never convict Simpson -- they wouldn't convict him even if they were shown a film of him committing the murders." People carrying signs outside the courtroom during the trail declaring "Free O.J.", "Save the Juice", and even "Whether you did it or not, we still love you, O.J." The incessant jokes and tasteless comedy routines on TV and radio about the case, which could only serve to subliminally trivialize the murders of the victimes. U.S. Senate Chaplin Richard Halverson beginning the Senate's day on June 23, 1994 with a "prayer for O.J. Simpson". The first juror called for questioning in the case happening to be juror number 32, the number Simpson wore throughout most of his football career, prompting Judge Ito to say, "I don't know if this is an omen," and Simpson to smile and nod his head in agreement. Marcia Clark, during jury selection, making one of the most ill-advised statements ever made to a jury by a prosecutor: "You may not like me for bringing this case. I'm not winning any popularity contests for doing so." Chris Darden's almost equally incredible and ill-advised statement to the jury in his summation at the end of the case: "Nobody wants to do anything to this man. We don't. There is nothing personal about this, but the law is the law." (Can you imagine being almost apologetic to a jury when you believe the person you're prosecuting committed a brutal double murder?)

To this day, virtually everyone refers to Simpson only as "O.J.", a friendly nickname that implies the speaker still likes Simpson or at most views him as one would an errant friend or relative, certailyl not a brutal murderer. "How's O.J. doing?" Larry King would solicitously ask any guest of his who was a Simpson intimate and who had visited Simpson recently in jail. These and many other small signs of respect, or awe, or affection, indicated that Simpson, even if guilty, might be given some break tantamount to a papal dispensation. In the absence of a powerful prosecution, it became almost a self-fulfilling prophecy that he would be found not guilty.

This feeling, this sense, which permeated every segment of our society, was obviously known to the jurors before they were selected, even manifesting itself during the trail. Because when something is in the air, it reaches everyone, by osmosis, by accident, or, if by no other means, by the weekly conjugal visits to the sequestered rooms. Surely, no one can doubt that the jurors were speaking to those loved ones who visited them in the privacy of their quarters. Everyone knew this. You don't have to take my word for it. What conceivable reason would Marcia Clark have had to beg Judge Ito not to let Simpson make a statement near the end of the case, when Simpson wanted to do so outside the presence of the jury, if she didn't virtually know that what Simpson said would get back to the jury?

This "in the air" phenomenon couldn't help but contribute, in some way, to the eventual not-guilty verdict. It made it so much easier, either consciously or subconsciously, for the jury to give Simpson every benefit he was legally entitled to, and then some. In such an atmosphere a not-guilty verdict would no longer seem to the jury like the very worst thing that any jury could do -- let a brutal murderer walk out the door a free man. They were just doing what everyone had already predicted they were going to do, and apparently what most people wanted them to do. Wasn't that really what prosecutor Darden himself was suggesting when he said, "Nobody wants to do anything to this man"?

I've been asked to explain more than once why, right from the beginning, I was saying publicly that there was no question Simpson was guilty. I take no proide in having been the first public personality to come out publiclyl against Simpson. It just happened that way. I was asked by the media how I felt about the case way back in the early summer of 1994, and I decided to be candid. Before I tell you why I did, I should point out that some people objected to my having done so. One reason was the presumptiopn of innocence in our society. Also, they felt as a member of the bar, I should, therefore, not have spoken of Simpson's guilt before the verdict.

Contrary to common belief, the presumption of innocence applies only inside a courtroom. It has no applicability elsewhere, although the media do not seem to be aware of this. Even the editorial sections of major American newspapers frequently express the view, in references to a pending case, that "we" -- meaning the editors and their readers -- have to presume that so-and-so is innocent. To illustrate that the presumption does not apply outside the courtroom, let's say an employer has evidence that an employee has committed theft. If the employer had to presume the person were innocent, he obviously couldn't fire the employee or do anything at all. But of course he not only can fire or demote the employee, he can report him to the authorities...

I spoke out in the Simpson case for two reasons. The main reason should be self-evident to the reader by now. The "in the air" phenomenon attending the Simpson case was, at least to my recollection, unprecedented for any criminal case. Because this was a highly unusual situation, I departed from my customary policy. There was no doubt in my mind that the "in the air" phenomenon had the potential of having a prejudicial impact on the prosecution's case, since the jury couldn't help but be aware of it and probably be adversely influenced in the process, and I was trying to counter what was happening. I obviously was unsuccessful.

There was another related reason I spoke out early on, months before the trial. I was disgusted by the tremendous groundswell of support for Simpson, even though two human beings had been brutally murdered, and all the evidence pointed to Simpson as the perpetrator. He had received 350,000 letters of support at the time, and although each revelation of his guilt the media learned of was clinically and dispassionately reported in the news, nearly all of the commentators on television nonetheless treated Simpson as if he were a very special human being, and not one of them dared to say one negative word about him. He was being given special treatment at the Los Angeles County Jail; thousands of people were calling in on radio talk shows asserting his innocence; some, unbelievably, stating or strongly implying that even if he was guilty, he's O.J., let him go, he has suffered enough. As I've indicated, even today, everyone still calls him O.J. You know, O.J. this and O.J. that. Well, he's no longer O.J. to me. He's Simpson. Someone who carves up two human beings like sides of beef forfeits his right to any endearing nicknames, at least in my view. Again, why there was this enormous support for someone who had obviously committed two of the worst murders imaginable, I don't know, but I personally found it repulsive and repugnant.

The Books: "Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders" (Vincent Bugliosi)

Next book in my Daily Book Excerpt:

The following book is in my true crime section :

Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders, by Vincent Bugliosi.

Here's the opening of this classic true-crime book - one I've read, uhm, 4 times now?

EXCERPT FROM Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders, by Vincent Bugliosi.

Saturday, August 9, 1969

It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.

The canyons above Hollywood and Beverly Hills play tricks with sounds. A noise clearly audible a mile away may be indistinguishable at a few hundred feet.

It was hot that night, but not as hot as the night before, when the temperature hadn't dropped below 92 degrees. The three-day heat wave had begun to break a couple of hours before, about 10 p.m. on Friday -- to the psychological as well as the physical relief of those Angelenos who recalled that on such a night, just four years ago, Watts had exploded in violence. Though the coastal fog was now rolling in from the Pacific Ocean, Los Angeles itself remained hot and muggy, sweltering in its own emissions, but here, high above most of the city, and unusually even above the smog, it was at least 10 degrees cooler. Still, it remained warm enough so that many residents of the area slept with their windows open, in hopes of catching a vagrant breeze.

All things considered, it's surprising that more people didn't hear something.

But then it was late, just after midnight, and 10050 Cielo Drive was secluded.

Being secluded, it was also vulnerable.

The Books: "Marilyn: The Last Take" (Peter Harry Brown and Patte B. Barham)

Next book in my Daily Book Excerpt:

The following book in my true crime section is Marilyn: The Last Take, by Peter Harry Brown and Patte B. Barham. It's a breathlessly written conspiracy-theory of a book, about the death of Marilyn Monroe. I don't know what's true or not - but some of the points made in the book are well worth considering (if you're into this stuff). The book details the collapse of the studio system, finally brought about by the runaway train that was Cleopatra, and how Marilyn Monroe, filming her last movie Something's Got to Give, was punished for the behavior of Elizabeth Taylor. While Taylor was given huge leeway, where Taylor was indulged ... Monroe was put on an ever-shorter lease. The studio wanted to prove that, Taylor notwithstanding, they could still control their stars.

The following excerpt describes the disaster that was Cleopatra (I love the story about Marlon Brando below ... true story.). I also love how this excerpt shows off how canny and smart Monroe obviously was.

EXCERPT FROM Marilyn: The Last Take, Peter Harry Brown and Patte B. Barham.

The inefficiency, waste and eventual scandal that swirled around the Cleopatra set in Rome would soon result in parsimonious controls on the set of Something's Got to Give. For instance, an enchanting desert island scene between Monroe and Tom Tryon was canceled, and a fanciful dream sequence that was to have involved fog and considerable pyrotechnics was nixed at the last minute. "They sliced away at the Something's Got to Give budget bit by bit," recalled William Travilla. "The cash for Marilyn's seaside idyll went to pay for more elephants or something."

But it wasn't only the money itself that angered Monroe. She was furious and deeply resentful that Fox had ignored her own passionate desire to play Cleopatra, a desire which stretched back to the origins of the project. It was early 1959 when Monroe first learned, via the gossip mill, that Spyros Skouras was planning to remake Cleopatra, which Fox's parent company, William Fox Films, had made with screen vamp Theda Bara in 1917. Monroe launched a vigorous campaign to obtain the part, which included a telephone plea to Skouras in New York.

"Darling," he said. "This will be a very low-budget affair -- using old costumes and even older sets. We're even castin g a starlet -- Joan Collins. Believe me, you don't want this one."

When informed that the budget was to be $210,000, even less than the budget of the Theda Bara version, Monroe lost interest. But always wary of executive promises, she told her agent, George Chasin of the powerful MCA Agency, then the largest talent pool in the world, to keep an eye on the project "just in case". Chasin recalled that Marilyn had fought for, and lost, the leading female role in The Egyptian, the 1954 film that would have placed her opposite Marlon Brando. She had even offered to test in a black wig and period dress. But Gene Tierney got the part. Ultimately, Fox was the loser. When Zanuck refused to cast Monroe, Brando walked off the project, leaving the part to Edmund Purdom. The Egyptian bombed at the box office.

Filming of Cleopatra began in late 1958 on a plaster and papier-mache set with a cast that included Collins, Peter Finch as Julius Caesar and Stephen Boyd as Mark Antony.

Then MGM's Ben-Hur went into production in Hollywood and abroad. When Skouras was allowed to preview the chariot race with its ten thousand extras, its monumental religious overtones, and its obvious star power, he instantly canceled his makeshift epic, but politely told Collins she would be "strongly considered" for the lead in the new, big-budget version.

Skouras secretly hired producer Walter Wanger, a man whose credits stretched back to the silents, and charged him with fashioning a glitzy, monumental Cleopatra.

True to his word, Monroe's agent, George Chasin, intercepted a Fox interoffice memo that indicated that the studio was actively courting "major stars" to play the Queen of Egypt.

In May 1959, when Fox forced her to sign for Let's Make Love, Monroe appealed to Buddy Adler, who had succeeded Zanuck as production chief. She flew into town from the Connecticut farm she shared with husband Arthur Miller and wooed Adler in person. She had chosen a form-fitting black dress, added five strands of faux pearls, and pleaded her case for half an hour. "You've got my vote," said Adler. "But this is a Skouras deal from start to finish; he doesn't even consult me about it."

Monroe turned her attentions to Skouras, her former lover. She sent him a color portrait of herself costumed as Theda Bara, whose version the mogul had recently shown to the Fox board of directors. The photograph captured Monroe decked out in a black wig, ropes and ropes of pearls, kohl-ringed eyes, and filmy harem clothes. [Ed: Wanna see the photo? Here it is! Scroll down ...] Taken by celebrity photographer Richard Avedon, it was one of a series of photographs that appeared in the December 22, 1958 issue of Life magazine. ..

"She desperately wanted to play that role," said Monroe's stand-in, Evelyn Moriarty. "And she could use the portrayal to successfully escape from the typecasting prison Hollywood had built around her."

Documents in the Skouras collection show that the Fox president held a series of "casting dinners" with Susan Hayward (a last-minute suggestion), Taylor, and Lollobrigida. "Marilyn was never considered for that role," said William Travilla. "Everyone involved was afraid that she would be laughed off the screen. But, truthfully, she was the only star on Fox's contract list who could do it." ...

The resounding choice was Taylor. Skouras dispatched Wanger to sign Taylor -- no matter the cost.

Super-agent Kurt Frings drafted a history-making contract for Taylor: she was to get $125,000 for the first sixteen weeks, $50,000 a week after that and 10 percent of the gross (meaning she would get her money off the top -- whether or not the film ever turned a profit). She was also to receive $3,000 per week living expenses, and would have a secretary, a hairdresser and a physician. (Thanks to the number of weeks it took to shoot Cleopatra, Taylor's weekly payroll added up to the famous "two-million dollar salary".)

When the Taylor contract was signed, Monroe was toiling in the broiling Nevada desert shooting The Misfits. She was angry and bitter. "They put me in a disaster, Let's Make Love, but turn to Elizabeth for the biggest film they have ever made," she lamented to Rupert Allan.

To Slatzer she said, "I'm the one who's under contract, and they treat me like hell. Liz isn't the only star who can act."

Taylor's victory -- the talk of show-business circles -- reawakened the antagonism Monroe had felt for her since the mid-fifties, when Taylor walked off with a series of roles that Monroe had coveted. Most notably, she regretted losing the leads in two Tennessee Williams films, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Suddenly Last Summer, both adapted from Broadway plays. After Monroe met Williams at Rupert Allan's Bel Air home, he agreed that she would be the perfect Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Both projects, however, were purchased for Taylor.

"There was definitely a feud between the two most famous actresses in the world," said Randall Riese, author of The Unabridged Marilyn.

Taylor had equally strong feelings. When author Max Lerner wrote in The New Yorker that "Elizabeth Taylor is a legend, but Marilyn Monroe is a myth," Taylor raged at Lerner: "You have a nerve saying Marilyn is 'a myth' and I'm just a lousy 'legend'. I'm much more beautiful than Marilyn Monroe ever was, and I'm certainly a much better actress."

Looking back on Taylor's career and scandalous private life, one can hardly imagine that they ever considered anyone else for Cleopatra. By 1959, she was the world's most notorious femme fatale. She had already married and divorced hotel scion Nicky Hilton, had married and divorced British actor Michael Wilding, and had then been tragically widowed by the death of the flamboyant producer Michael Todd. Just the year before, she had snatched away the husband of her best and dearest friend, America's sweetheart, Debbie Reynolds.

Reynolds had dispatched husband Eddie Fisher on a mission of mercy to console "poor Elizabeth" on the death of her husband. A week later, Fisher was in Taylor's bed. Reynolds appealed to the world press. She even held a front-yard conference, a baby over one shoulder and a diaper over the other. Newspapers and tabloids branded Taylor "an international homewrecker". The same press that had deemed her a madonna on the death of Michael Todd now conferred upon her the scarlet "A".

Hedda Hopper predicted ruination. MGM checked its morals clauses. But quickly and quietly, Taylor's millions of fans tropped back. When she played vixens, as in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Butterfield 8, she sold even more tickets. She was the Queen of Hollywood when Walter Wanger offered her Cleopatra. In a bubble bath, a pink telephone cuddled in one hand, she cooed, "Well, Walter, I'd love to do it -- for one million dollars."

The leadership of Fox gulped. Skouras took another poll, asking, "Is she worth it?" The distributors replied, "Affirmative." The Fox president soon grew expansive. "This is going to be the biggest hit ever," he told journalists.

Buddy Adler, production chief at the time, didn't necessarily agree. The cool, battle-weary producer of From Here to Eternity and other major hits had a luncheon meeting with Taylor and was alarmed by her grandiose ideas for the film. "Watch out," he warned Skouras. "Elizabeth's demands may soon become unrealistic. If the studio cannot produce this film without Taylor's interference, there is absolutely no guarantee that it can be made at a profit."

It was an ominous warning. But no one listened.

The Books: "Are You There Alone? The Unspeakable Crime of Andrea Yates" (Suzanne O'Malley)

Next book in my Daily Book Excerpt:

I've been in the Madeleine L'Engle non-fiction section of my bookshelf ... and now ... jarringly - that's over, and we move into my "true crime" area.

First book is Are You There Alone?: The Unspeakable Crime of Andrea Yates, by Suzanne O'Malley. This book made me so angry. At Andrea Yates, first and foremost, but also at everyone AROUND her, the ignoramus she was married to, her ignorant friends, the ones who ignored the signs - and there were MANY MANY SIGNS. Idiots, all of them. Sorry. It's like everyone who knew her was living in some dream-world, saying to themselves and to one another: "Andrea seems like she's doing well, doesn't she? She got over that little depression episode just fine ... pass the lemonade"- while Andrea sat unresponsive in the corner, rocking back and forth. IDIOTS. They believed she was nice and normal and happy because that's what they wanted to see. Maybe they were all just ignorant about psychosis and clinical depression ... I think that was part of it ... but whatever. She killed her five kids. The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach.

EXCERPT FROM Are You There Alone?: The Unspeakable Crime of Andrea Yates , by Suzanne O'Malley.

At 9:48 am on Wednesday, June 20, 2001, eight minutes before she called her husband, Andrea Yates had dialed 911. "I need a police officer," she said, her breath heaving unsteadily into the phone.

"What's the problem?" police telecommunicator Dorene Stubblefield asked with a whiff of attitude.

"I just need him to come," Yates said.

"I need to know why they are coming," Stubblefield persisted. "Is your husband there?"

"No."

"What's the problem?"

"I need him to come."

"I need to know why they are coming," Stubblefield repeated.

No answer. Nothing but Andrea Yates breathing irregularly, as if an intruder might be holding a gun to her head.

"Is he standing next to you?"

Yates fumbled the phone.

"Are you have a disturbance?" Stubblefield asked, thinking this might be a domestic problem. No answer. She had to determine whether she was sending officers into a dangerous situation. "Are you ill, or what?"

"Yes, I'm ill."

"What kind of medical problems?"

Valuable seconds ticked by. Who could explain this to a stranger on the phone?

"You need an ambulance?" Stubblefield suggested.

"No, I need a police officer," Yates said.

"Do you need an ambulance?" Stubblefield repeated.

"No ... Yes, send an ambulance ..." Yates's breath became even more labored. Then nothing but static.

"Hello?" Stubblefield asked, urgency finally mounting in her voice.

Still no answer. "Is someone burglarizing your house?" she asked.

"No."

"What is it?" asked Stubblefield, frustrated.

Silence.

"What kind of medical problems are you having?"

More time slipped away. At length, Yates once more asked Stubblefield for a police officer.

"Are you at 942 Beachcomber?"

"Yes."

"Are you there alone?"

"Yes," Yates said. Suddenly there was more static, then another long silence. Stubblefield wondered if she'd lost her. The sound of panicked breathing returned.

"Andrea Yates?"

"Yes."

"Is your husband there?"

"No. I'm sick."

"How are you sick?" Stubblefield asked. Yates's answer was unintelligible.

"Andrea Yates, is your husband there?"

"No."

"Why do you need a policeman, ma'am?"

"I just need him to be here."

"For what?"

"I just need him to come."

A long silence ensued, followed by static.

"You're sure you're alone?" By now Stubblefield knew something was wrong, but was Yates refusing to answer her questions or was someone stopping her from answering? After eight years on the job, Stubblefield thought she knew how to recognize a battered wife when she heard one.

"No," Yates said finally, she was not alone. "My kids are here." But here rasping breaths continued.

"How old are the children?"

"Seven, 5, 3, 2, and 6 months."

"You have five children?"

"Yes."

She might not know exactly what was wrong, but five children were enough to satisfy Stubblefield. "Okay. We'll send an officer."

"Thank you," Yates said politely and hung up.