D.C. Kent survived his self-inflicted wounds. The bullet wound in his head was superficial and the gash in his throat healed. With no chance of succumbing to his injuries, D.C. decided to lay the groundwork for his defense.

Too bad D.C. wasn’t an actor or he would have known better than to break character in the middle of a performance. He pretended not to hear when someone spoke to him. He rolled his eyes and did everything but drool. Whenever someone took him by surprise, he dropped the pretense. The deputies in the jail ward at the receiving hospital saw through his act, and so did the trusties.

A clue to D.C.’s state of mind was obvious in his choice of a lawyer. An insane man would not care if he had a lawyer or not. D.C. cared enough to engage the services of one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the country, Earl Rogers.

Earl Rogers, admitted to the California bar in 1897, was an attorney of uncommon skill. He appeared for the defense in seventy-seven murder trials and lost only three.  During one of his most famous cases, “The Case of the Grinning Skull,”  Rogers introduced the victim’s skull into evidence to prove that what looked like a fracture caused by a violent blow from a blunt instrument, delivered by his client, was, in reality, the result of the autopsy surgeon’s carelessness with a scalpel. The jury acquitted Rogers’ client.  

If you think that “The Case of the Grinning Skull” sounds like the title of a Perry Mason novel, you’re not far off.  A decade after Rogers’ death in 1922, author Erle Stanley Gardner resurrected Rogers in the character of Perry Mason.  

Rogers visited D.C. in jail. D.C. was despondent, whiny, and in a state bordering on nervous collapse. He dropped his insanity act and asked Rogers to tell him if he had any chance of an acquittal.  Rogers pulled no punches.  He told D.C. he would have to get a grip on himself or the chances of him walking out of the courtroom a free man were zero to nil.

D.C. then asked Rogers about the worst-case scenario.  What would happen if a jury convicted him?  Again, Rogers leveled with his client.  He told D.C. he might get from one to ten years in the penitentiary.  D.C. collapsed. D.C.’s next question was about Rogers’ fee. Rogers had had enough of D.C.’s hand wringing and complaining. He said,

“Even if it costs you everything you have; it would be cheaper than going to the penitentiary.”

Rogers urged D.C. to be a man, not a coward. His plea fell on deaf ears.

While D.C. and Rogers talked, a patient was admitted to the hospital.  To treat the patient, someone opened the large medicine cabinet near D.C.’s bed.

D.C. made a move to get up from his cot, but Special Officer Quinn entered the room and D.C. sat back down. As Quinn turned to leave, D.C. got up to follow him. He said he had to use the restroom.

Before anyone could stop him, D.C. sprang to the open medicine case, threw back the doors and grabbed a bottle of carbolic acid. He poured most of the bottle’s contents down his throat. Some of the caustic liquid spilled down his shirt and burned him.

Deputies grabbed D.C. and carried him to the operating room. He frothed at the mouth and writhed in agony, but said nothing.   

A doctor was at D.C.’s side within 5 minutes.  The doctor administered the antidote, but it was too late. Ten minutes later, D.C. died.

Deputies searched the dead man’s cell and found a letter to Hattie.

The letter read:

“Dear, Dear Hattie:  I suppose that sounds queer to you.  This is the longest time in seven years that I have not heard from you.  Now I ask you if possible, to forgive me.  Next, if possible, to assist me in my greatest hour of trouble.”

Unbelievable. D.C. had the unmitigated gall to beg Hattie, the woman he attempted to murder, to assist in his defense.

True to his character, D.C. continued:

“I am suffering the tortures of hell.  I wish you could know one-half of my life in the last thirty days. Now, Hattie, I shall be plain with you and am going to ask you to return kindness for unkindness.”

The letter rambled along in a self-serving fashion to its conclusion, which was a pathetic plea:

“Oh, I beg you, save me, for it is all with you. Think of me in jail, all covered with filth and lice; only beans and bread and treated like a dog.  Save filthy me, I beg of you.  Please tell Mr. Rogers your feelings in the matter.”

D.C. lied about  the conditions in his cell and his treatment.  Everyone who came in contact with him recalled him as, “troublesome, peevish, and fretting constantly because he could not do as he pleased.”

On the date scheduled for D.C.’s arraignment, Justice Morgan dismissed the case because of the “death of the defendant by suicide.”

A former associate of D.C.’s paid to ship the body to Burlingame, Kansas.

In his will, D.C. deeded Hattie his interest in the furniture of the Columbia lodging house.  Small recompense for the agony she endured.

EPILOGUE

Hattie survived her wounds and married. George thrived. He served in World War I. Following the war, he became one of the first motion picture art directors.  In 1924, he married Thelma Schmidt, and Hattie was there.

Late in the afternoon on June 29, 1935, George and veteran cameraman Charles Stumar left the Union Air Terminal in Burbank. They headed to a location near Triunfo where they planned to scout locations for an upcoming Universal Pictures film. 

Stumar brought the plane in for a landing on an improvised field owned by the studio. It was twilight; the field was rough and uneven. Martin Murphy, a production manager for Universal, witnessed the crash. He telephoned the studio to report the accident and to let them know that he believed both occupants of the aircraft to be dead.

Upon hearing the news, Captain Morgan of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s aero detail hopped into his plane to survey the scene. When he arrived he confirmed everyone’s worst fears.

George’s death devastated Hattie.

The 1940 census shows Hattie living in the Manor Hall Rest Home on 1245 South Manhattan Place in Los Angeles. She passed away on October 22, 1951.

Hattie and George are buried in adjoining plots at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale.

February 15, 1901/ Columbia Boarding House/South Broadway, Los Angeles

Hattie Wiley and her three-year-old son, George, stood in the kitchen and they talked as she fixed his lunch.   

George heard someone and turned to see D.C. Kent, Hattie’s former fiancé and co-owner of the boarding house, enter the room. Hattie turned from the stove to face D.C. and they argued about her recent decision to end their relationship, both personal and professional. D.C. brought up a revolver he had concealed in his pocket, leveled it at Hattie. and fired three rounds. George, who stood between the two, escaped injury as the bullets whizzed over his head.

Stunned and bleeding, Hattie screamed and lurched into the hallway dripping blood.  She collapsed on the floor and whispered, “My mother, my mother.”

George followed behind her. He cried, “Mommy, mommy, what is the matter?” She couldn’t respond.

Residents heard the commotion and crowded into the corridor. One chambermaid gathered her wits about her and phoned the police. Then everyone heard a sharp crack. Seconds later, D.C. reeled out of the kitchen, bleeding from his head. The blood ran down his face and soaked his shirt. He started toward his room at the top of the stairs.

Police arrived. The residents weren’t much help; they didn’t know what had happened.

An officer found D.C. in his room, He clutched a straight razor and stood over a washbasin filled with blood. Before the officer could intervene, D.C. brought the blade to his own throat and slashed. He stumbled against a trunk. The room was an abattoir.

Before D.C. could slice his throat a second time, the officer punched him. Dazed, D.C. dropped the razor. The cop grabbed D.C.’s arm and tugged him into the hallway. D.C. glanced over his shoulder at Hattie, who was still on the floor bleeding. George stood near her and wept, he begged his mother not to leave him.

An ambulance transported D.C. to a nearby receiving hospital where a doctor stitched him up. D.C., who had been mute during the ride from the boarding house, suddenly blurted out, “I’m sorry I didn’t succeed.” Then retreated into a silent sulk.

A reporter came to interview D.C, but he would not, or could not, speak.

Hattie went to the California Hospital where a friend of hers, Dr. C.G. Stivers, examined her. The prognosis was grim. She suffered three serious gunshot wounds. Two of them entered her chest, and a third went through the fleshy part of her arm. The bullets that entered her chest deflected into her liver.

While they waited to see if Hattie would live or die, detectives began their investigation.

When he was younger, D.C. was a well-to-do businessman in Burlingame, Kansas. For whatever reason, he turned to alcohol. Once he started drinking he couldn’t stop. At some point, D.C. summoned the strength to vanquish his demons. He pulled himself together and made a fortune in the dry goods business.

Material success didn’t satisfy him. D.C. was restless and told his wife that he was miserable in Kansas. He wanted to move away and start fresh–without her.  He told her to consider herself a widow, and he walked out.

He moved to Oklahoma, and later to Los Angeles where he got into the real estate business and bought the Columbia boarding house with Hattie.

Local newspapers speculated about the couple’s relationship. That they were engaged, or had been, and were living under the same were roof suggested an intimacy that could ruin Hattie’s reputation.

Mr. Harrison, Hattie’s father, took offense at the rumors and tried to set the newshounds straight.  He said,

“My daughter’s character is above reproach as anyone who knows her will agree, and although she and Kent lived in the same house for several months, there was never a whisper of anything improper between them.  They were engaged to be married, but Hattie broke it off. She told me she learned that D.C. was immoral.  She said he had grown repulsive to her, and that she did not love him.  Knowledge of this, coupled with an insane jealousy, undoubtedly prompted him to attempt her murder.”

Mr. Harrison then explained how his daughter knew D.C.

“D.C. was a friend of Wiley, my daughter’s divorced husband, and at various times lived with her and her family, both in Oklahoma and at Tropico, in this State.  About two years ago Hattie rented a ranch from D.C. in Tropico. He boarded with she and her husband, and the latter’s mother.  After Hattie’s divorce she lived for a time in East Los Angeles.  Last April she came to our home at Tonawanda, New York, returning in September to Los Angeles, where she immediately joined D.C. in the purchase of the lease and fittings of the Columbia lodging house.  My wife and I lived at the place with them, and there was never anything improper between them.  D.C. agreed that Hattie should conduct business at the lodging house while he would devote his attention to his real estate business.  He failed to carry out this agreement and spent most of his time at the house. He was insanely jealous of Hattie and would become angry when any other man talked with her.”

As D.C.’s jealousy increased and became more out of control, the Harrison’s sent Hattie to Long Beach for a week. She returned home determined to sever her ties to D.C.

Hattie was unaware that while she was in Long Beach. D.C. hired a private investigator to shadow her. The P.I. observed Hattie with a man and they seemed enamored of each other. D.C. was enraged by the news — he decided to seek revenge.

Dr. C.G. Stivers performed a laparotomy on Hattie. A laparotomy is a surgical procedure in which the doctor makes an incision in the abdominal cavity. The doctors opened Hattie up and traced the two bullets lodged in her chest to assess the damage. A lengthy operation to remove the bullets would kill her, so they left well enough alone.

Despite the earlier dire prognosis, Hattie rallied. She regained her strength and doctors felt confident that, barring anything unforeseen, she would live.

While Hattie recovered, D.C. paced the floor of his room in the jail ward of the receiving hospital. His biggest fear now was that he would go to prison for the attempt on Hattie’s life.

He mulled over his options. There wasn’t much he could do – other than feign insanity.  

NEXT TIME: D.C. Kent lawyers up.

On October 13, a paragraph in the Los Angeles Times’ Southland section covered a raid on a “Hippie Commune” in Death Valley National Park twenty-one miles west of Badwater, CA. The raid, conducted by sheriff’s deputies, national park service rangers and the CHP, turned up several sawed-off shotguns, handguns, rifles, and ammunition.  The raid went off without a hitch which, given the number of weapons found, is a small miracle. 

Fifteen people were arrested. A scruffy little man named Charles Manson was among those taken into custody. A Sheriff’s deputy dragged him out of the 12×16-inch cupboard in which he was hiding.

The raid had nothing to do with the August murder spree which took the lives of seven adults and Sharon Tate’s unborn son. Manson wasn’t yet a suspect. The raid was all about the auto theft ring operated by the family.

While Manson sat in jail on the auto theft charges, did some free members commit murder on his behalf?  Manson’s paranoia about squealers had already resulted in Donald “Shorty” Shea’s murder on August 26.  

The following five cases have connections to the Manson Family.  Some of the connections are compelling, others are peripheral.

On November 5, John “Zero” Haught was found in his Venice Beach home with a single gunshot wound to his head after losing a game of Russian Roulette. At least that is the story told by witnesses Catherine Gillies, Bruce Davis, Sue Bartell, and Madaline Joan Cottage “Little Patty” – all of them Manson family members.

Each witness was interviewed separately and recounted Zero’s death. Investigators thought the accounts sounded rehearsed. They were suspicious, but couldn’t prove a thing.

When Leslie Van Houten learned of Zero’s death, she made it clear she didn’t buy the Russian Roulette story.  She was incredulous that he was playing the deadly game by himself as the witnesses stated. An anonymous man told a newspaper reporter he was there when the shooting occurred, and that one girl had pulled the trigger.  The man was never identified and the death is officially a suicide.

On November 7, an early morning walker discovered the mutilated bodies of teenagers Doreen Gaul and James Sharp. The victims were stabbed so many times that police thought they were shot gunned to death. The overkill was like the Tate/La Bianca murders and there is a Manson/Scientology/The Process (a cult) connection. But without proof the murders remain unsolved.

Reet Jurvetson, known for over 40 years as Jane Doe 59, was another victim of random violence in 1969. Years after her death Manson was asked about Reet.  He said he didn’t know her and knew nothing about her murder. Was he telling the truth?

December 1, 1969, Joel Pugh, estranged husband of Sandra Good, was found dead in a London hotel room.  His wrists and throat were cut. No suicide note was found. Was it a coincidence that Bruce Davis was in the UK at the time of Pugh’s death?

In recent years, the LAPD has said that as many as a dozen murders may be linked to Manson and the family. While decades of dust gather on the open case files, at least the Tate/La Bianca murders are solved.

We can thank now-deceased Susan Atkins for busting the case wide open. The hippie girl who looked like a babysitter to her Sybil Brand Institute cellmates told them some horrific stories that they, at first, figured were bullshit. But after Susan described in gruesome detail Sharon Tate’s last moments, without showing remorse, the inmates went to the jail authorities to turn her in.

If not for Susan, the perpetrators of the August murders may not have been identified for many more months.

On December 1, 1969, LAPD’s Chief Edward Davis held a press conference.

Standing behind 15 microphones, Chief Davis announced the official end of the case.

“I am Edward Davis, chief of police of the City of Los Angeles. Today warrants have been issued for the arrest of three individuals in connection with the murders of Sharon Tate Polanski, Abigail Anne Folger, Voytek Frykowski, Steven Earl Parent and Thomas John Sebring.”

He explained that the same people were also involved in the murders of Leno and Rosemary La Bianca. 

“The development of information from the two separate investigations, the Tate and La Bianca cases, led detectives to the conclusion that the crimes in both cases were committed by the same group of people.  At one time two lieutenants and 17 men were working on only the Tate case.  The Tate investigators interviewed 625 people, some four and five times each.”

Chief Davis referred to a break in the case that occurred two weeks prior to the warrants. He didn’t mention her by name, but he meant Susan Atkins.

Also not mentioned by name was the first victim of the summer murder spree, Gary Hinman. Chief Davis referred only to the “Topanga Canyon murder case.”

Chief Davis wrapped up the press conference as a late arrival, Mayor Sam Yorty, took the stage.

“Sorry, I got here so late,” said the mayor. “The city government and the Police Department are very grateful to the news media for the cooperation we have had . . . many people could have damaged our case if they hadn’t been so cooperative . . .”

The round-up of the Family members implicated in the murders was underway. The case against them was solid enough to bring to the grand jury.

December 5, 1969, Susan Atkins testified before the Los Angeles grand jury. Prosecutors got first degree murder indictments against Manson, Watson, Krenwinkel, Van Houten and Kasabian.

December 21, 1969, Leslie Van Houten talked to cops about her possible cooperation. One week later she recorded a confession with attorneys, but decided against cooperating with prosecutors.

By Christmas 1969, Manson and his co-defendants, Tex Watson, Susan Atkins, Patricia Krenwinkel and Leslie Van Houten were in jail facing capital murder charges.

With Manson and his band of murderous nomads behind bars, Angelenos breathed a sigh of relief. The ‘60s ended on a miserable note. They thought the ‘70s would be better. They were wrong.

During the 1970s the risk of homicide increased six-fold from the 1950s, and by the early 1980s the term serial killer began to turn up in mainstream media reports.

New monsters stalked the streets of Los Angeles.

The real carnage was just beginning.

There’s a great double feature on Movies! tonight, THE STREET WITH NO NAME and WHITE HEAT. Two of my favorite films noir. If you don’t have the channel (it is 13.3 in my L.A. neck of the woods) here, for your viewing pleasure, is The Street With No Name starring Richard Widmark, Mark Stevens, Lloyd Nolan and Barbara Lawrence.

Ignore or read the subtitles — in any case, enjoy the movie!