Mullin didn’t fit the killer mold. This clean-cut ex-flower-child looked more like he’d stumble over a peace rally than a murder scene. Cops might’ve sneered at hippies, but they didn’t peg them—or guys like Mullin—for bloody rampages. At first, his calm vibe seemed like he’d play ball. They figured prying answers out of him about that day’s madness would be a breeze. That illusion shattered fast. Mullin bolted up from his chair, barking “Silence!” like some deranged king. It actually worked—the detective froze long enough for Mullin to tilt his head and listen to whatever ghost was whispering in his ear. Inside, Mullin was a mess, a tangle of broken wires and crossed signals. He’d shown a itch to spill his guts before, like when he’d bent Father Henri Tomei’s ear, but it was a messy urge, full of knots. On some faint, flickering level of sense—if you could call it that—he knew he’d been caught with blood on his hands. Jail loomed, and he got that much.

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The blade sliced her open, her flesh separating with a cold precision, skin and fat sliding apart as if they’d been primed to rupture all along. Blood saturated everything—her dress, the grass, his hands, the knife—a predictable mess, though far worse was still to come. He set the knife aside and forced his fingers into the incision, pushing past the spasming muscle that gripped his wrist with the tautness of a worn elastic sheet. Inside, he grasped something solid yet rubbery, with a slight yield to it. He tugged hard, extracting the organ from the abdominal breach he’d carved, its odd, irregular shape further distorted by his clamping hold. It remained connected at both ends to the obscured tangle of organs still housed within her, serving as an initial point for further exploration. Two crude cuts with the knife detached it completely, and it began leaking at once—not blood, but a bitter, foul-smelling substance

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The police approached the Mullin family home, their knocks echoing like the tolling of a death knell through the silent house, surrounded by uncollected mail, a silent testament to absence. Imagining the worst, they prepared to breach this fortress of solitude, fearing Herb had taken his own life in some final, desperate act. As they made arrangements for a warrant, a neighbor emerged, a ghoul from normalcy, to explain that no amount of knocking would summon the Mullins, for they had escaped to the tropical paradise of Hawaii, oblivious to the storm brewing back home.

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Herb began experimenting with drugs, initially using marijuana to soothe his anxiety. However, he soon recognized its impact on his intellectual sharpness, which was crucial for his self-image as the "most likely to succeed." He switched to hallucinogens, particularly LSD, becoming so enamored with it that he inked a tattoo across his stomach advocating for its legalization.

While these drugs offered him new perspectives on reality, they also intensified his underlying mental health issues. Marijuana had already influenced his mood and stability, but LSD pushed him into deeper paranoia and persistent hallucinations. During this period, Herb's worldview began to crystallize, shaped by voices in his head that commanded him to act, often against his will, giving him a twisted sense of purpose.

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He had to offer Her blood, much like the ancient cultures did, recognizing Her under various guises of gods and goddesses but understanding that sacrifice was necessary to stave off Her wrath. Her anger, palpable even now, was seething beneath the earth's crust, knocking at the edges of his psyche. She was incensed at humanity's degeneration, furious at their shortcomings.

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When we dive into the dark saga of the Manson Family, the names Sharon Tate, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca often dominate the narrative. Yet, the shadow cast by Charles Manson and his followers extends into numerous other grim chapters, each involving real people with lives, dreams, and stories that were cut short. Let's take a closer look at these lesser-known victims, their lives, and the circumstances surrounding their tragic ends.

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Deciphering Charles Manson's words is always challenging, but this particular note is less obscure than his usual communications. "Gold" was his nickname for Nancy Pitman, one of his favored Family members, whom he had earlier called "Nancy" in the same message. In early 1970, Pitman was a regular visitor to the jailed defendants, acting on Manson's instructions.

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Through a combination of deception and coercion, they elicited a confession from Atkins, who admitted to holding Hinman while Beausoleil inflicted the fatal wounds. This confession proved to be a pivotal moment in the investigation, solidifying the link between the Manson Family and the gruesome murders.

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The streets of Oakland became their battlefield. In 1967, Huey Newton, the party's charismatic leader, spilled blood in a fatal confrontation with a police officer during a routine traffic stop. The following year, Eldridge Cleaver, the fiery Minister of Information, was embroiled in a shootout that left both himself and two cops wounded, and a young Panther dead. The violence spread to the sun-kissed streets of Los Angeles, where gun battles claimed the lives of four Panthers. By 1969, the Panthers had been involved in over a dozen shootouts with the police, some of which were brazen ambushes.

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Hinman was tortured over three days before he was killed. Beausoleil admitted to stabbing Hinman twice in the chest. The Manson family reportedly used Hinman’s blood to scribble the words “Political Piggy” on the wall after the murder, and also included a panther paw to try and pin the slaying on the Black Panthers. Beausoleil was sentenced to death for his role in Hinman’s murder, but the sentence was later commuted to life in prison.

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