Death of a student

On Nov. 19 of my college sophomore year, Vincent Bugliosi came to the Indiana University campus amid widespread rumors that “something was going to happen.”

Bugliosi was well known as the prosecutor in the Charles Manson trials and author of the book Helter Skelter, “the true story of the Manson Family murders.” Barely six years after Manson went to prison for the grisly killing of actress Sharon Tate, there was still high interest in Bugliosi’s free lecture at the I.U. Auditorium.

Adding to the natural interest was a rumor that something dreadful was afoot and that Bugliosi’s lecture might be the target. Of course, no one had any evidence. Some people were saying that Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, one of the Manson disciples, was orchestrating something. But she was in prison for trying to kill Gerald Ford. Equally far-fetched, psychic Jeanne Dixon had predicted that a mass murder would occur on a Big Ten campus in the coming year.

The various rumors, coupled with Dixon’s prediction, were enough to make us nervous — and determined to show up to the lecture, no matter what. A lot of people apparently thought like my friends and I did, because so many people flocked to the Auditorium for the pre-lecture showing of a film about the murders that ushers had to lock the doors to keep enthusiasts from overflowing the building’s legal capacity.

Now, backtrack to Nov. 17 — two days before Bugliosi came to Bloomington — when my buddies and I decided we were going to go to the lecture. But there was a twist: Keith, another sophomore who lived on the other side of McNutt Quad from me, had news. Actually, his girlfriend had news.

I only met her once, and I don’t remember her name. She and Keith were huddled with several of us in the lounge at the end of my floor.  She had had a “vision.”

A monkey-like creature had appeared to her and she was frightened.  You’ll now think I’m making this up, but it’s not a joke.  According to Keith’s girlfriend, she’d seen this thing twice before, and each time someone close to her had died.  The last time, it was her grandmother.

There was more to the story, but I’ve forgotten it.  I do remember that Keith wrote her story down on a piece of paper, dated it and put it in an envelope. His sealed story would be proof of her prediction — death to someone close to her — if something happened.

My friends and I were among the lucky 3,200 who managed to get into the Auditorium to hear Bugliosi’s lecture. We were all a little nervous that a bomb would go off, or some escaped Manson Family member would show up and begin to gun down Indiana students one by one. But it didn’t happen. Bugliosi was great, the event ended peacefully, and we all went home.

Several days later, though, Keith was dead from an aggressive throat infection that swelled his windpipe shut. I was told that Keith had gone to the doctor, but either they prescribed the wrong thing or it was ineffective.

While time has passed, I still find the experience disturbing. But here’s what bothers me the most:  The person who told me Keith had died — one of my best friends from high school and college, who lived just down the hall from the guy – doesn’t remember any of it.