Maybe I was naive to think I could discover what was going on at the Tate house in the months before the murders. People had been trying to untangle that rats’ nest of rumors for thirty years, and not with a magazine deadline looming in front of them. Now I’d determined to my satisfaction that Frykowski and Polanski had a lot to hide, and that their connections to the drug trade could’ve put them plausibly in Manson’s orbit.
