Fatal Vision
"AN ABSORBING, TOTALLY DAMNING INDICTMENT,"
—Washington Post Book World
"A HAUNTING, ENGROSSING BOOK. . . . The terrifying resonance when the most chilling facts curl out of those things we think we know and trust the most. MacDonald was one of those things."
—Chicago Sun-Times
"TOTALLY ABSORBING.
...
It reads like a fantastic mystery, but the horror is that it is non-fiction. "
—Chatanooga News Free Press
"Need not be compared to
In Cold Blood
and
Executioner's Song . . . Fatal Vision
stands successfully on its own
...
a book of sweep and power."
—Miami Herald
"POWERFUL, RIVETING, COMPULSIVELY READABLE!'
—Publishers Weekly
"DEEPLY MOVING, THOROUGHLY GRIPPING, METICULOUS REPORTING."
—Cosmopolitan
"A POWERFUL JOB OF REVEALING AN ABERRANT MIND IN ALL ITS INTRICACY."
—People
"A PROVOCATIVE, DRAMATIC INVESTIGAT
ORY SAG
. FILLED WITH INSIGHT AND AMAZEMENT,"
—Los Angeles Times
"STUNNING, HAUNTING, POWERFULLY COMPELLING
..
. HARD TO PUT DOWN. . . . An intricate and revelatory chronicle of one of the most baffling murder cases of our age."
—Detroit News
"AN ENTHRALLING, MOVING
ACCOUNT OF AN UNSPEAKABLE CRIME
"
—Chicago Tribune Bookworld
"Knowing the outcome does not detract from the fascination of reading these pages."
—Boston Globe
"CHILLING .
o
. A BOOK OF SWEEP AND POWER."
—Denver Post
"THOROUGHLY ENGROSSING A mar
velous piece of investigative reporting."
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
"HARD TO PUT DOWN . . . THIS IS A SUPERIOR TRUE CRIME STORY . . . HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!"
—Library Journal
"EXTRAORDINARY, COMPELLING . .
. A BOOK OF DEPTH AND MATURITY
"
—Philadelphia Inquirer
"FASCINATING, FIRST RATE . . . COMPULSIVELY READABLE?
—Newsday
"The definitive story of one of the most bizarre and horrifying crimes that has caught the attention of the American public . . . beautifully written, carefully documented. . . . Unforgettable!"
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
"REMARKABLY THOROUGH
. . . brings the story vividly to life."
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
"AN
INCREDIBLE STORY!"
—Memphis Commercial Appeal
"REMARKABLY, IMPORTANT, GRIPPING!"
—The Peninsula Herald
"SPELLBINDING REPORTING , . . A TERRIFIC BOOK!"
—New York Daily News
"A STUNNINGLY SUSPENSEFUL BOOK!"
—Durham Morning Herald
"FASCINATING, HIGHLY READABLE, SPELLBINDING!"
—Chattanooga Times
A SIGNET BOOK
Joe
McGinniss
NAL BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION. NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY.
1633
BROADWAY. NEW YORK. NEW YORK
10019.
Author
's Note
In the interest of protecting the privacy of individuals whose real identities are not central to the true story told here, certain names and other descriptive details have been altered in several instances.
Copyright © 1983 by Joe McGinniss
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information address G. P. Putnam's Sons, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
The author gratefully acknowledges permission from Front Line Management Company, Inc., to reprint lyrics from
‘
'Heartache Tonight," by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, Bob Seger, and J. D. Souther, © 1979 Cass County Music & Red Cloud Music & Gear Publishing & Ice Age Music ASCAP; permission from Music Music Music Inc. to reprint lyrics from "The Ballad of the Green Berets," words and music by Barry Sadler and Robin Moore, copyright © 1963, 1964 & 1966 by Music Music Music Inc.; and permission from Dwarf Music, Inc., to reprint lyrics from
t
’
I Shall Be Released," words and music by Bob Dylan, copyright © 1967, 1970 Dwarf Music.
This is an authorized reprint of a hardcover edition published by G. P. Putnam's Sons, Inc. The hardcover edition was published simultaneously in Canada by General Publishing Co. Limited, Toronto.
SIGNET TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN CHICAGO. U.S.A.
Signet, Signet Classic, Mentor, Plume, Meridian and
NAL
Books
are published by New American Library, ^ 1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019
First Signet Printing, August, 1984
printed in the united states of america
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Through fifteen years and five books the one constant in my professional life has been my agent, Sterling Lord. For his grace, strength, ingenuity, and generosity during the particularly trying period which encompassed the composition of this work I would like to thank him.
For her immense confidence, her extraordinary and infectious enthusiasm, and her considerable editorial skills, I would like to thank Phyllis Grann of G. P. Putnam's Sons, without whom—it is entirely possible—this book would never have come to fruition.
In addition, for the most capable and conscientious job of copyediting ever done on a manuscript of mine—as well as for patience and forbearance far beyond the call of duty—I would like to express gratitude to David Frost.
The author would also like to express thanks to the Edward J. Doherty Foundation for its generous financial assistance, and to those officials of the U.S. government who, in compliance with the Freedom of Information Act, made available various materials which proved to be of considerable use.
FOR
NANCY
THE BALLAD OF THE GREEN BERETS
Fighting soldiers from the sky,
Fearless men who jump and die.
Men who mean just what they say,
The brave men of The Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.
Trained to live off nature's land,
Trained to combat, hand to hand.
Men who fight by night and day,
Courage take from The Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.
Back at home a young wife waits,
Her Green Beret has met his fate.
He has died for those oppressed,
Leaving her this last request.
Put silver wings on my son's chest,
Make him one of America's best,
He'll be a man they'll test one day,
Have him win The Green Beret.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?
Come,
let me clutch thee: I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight?
or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Pro
ceeding from the heat-oppressed
brain?
MACBETH, H, 1, 33
INTRODUCTION
He's full of
fun, plus noise and vim. There's really no one quite like him.
—inscription beneath Jeffrey Robert MacDonald's high school yearbook photograph
I first met Dr. Jeffrey MacDonald in Huntington Beach, California, on a hot and cloudless Saturday morning in June of 1979.
He was living in a $350,000 condominium just off the Pacific Coast Highway, fifty miles south of Los Angeles, and ten miles from St. Mary's Hospital in Long Beach, where he served as director of emergency medicine. There were parking spaces for cars in front and boats in back and Dr. MacDonald had one of each: in his driveway a rare Citroen-Maserati with JRM-MD license plates, and, docked just behind the sliding glass doors of his living room, a thirty-four-foot yacht, the
Recovery Room.
He was thirty-five years old, five feet, eleven inches tall, well muscled and deeply tanned. He wore a tight-fitting short-sleeved shirt. He had a strong handshake and a quick smile. There were gold rings on his fingers, a gold watch on his wrist, and a gold chain around his neck. His blond hair was just beginning to turn gray.
At Patchogue High School on Long Island he had been president of the student council, quarterback of the football team, and king of the senior prom. His graduating class had voted him not only Most Popular but also Most Likely to Succeed. He had attended Princeton University and the Northwestern University Medical School. His internship year had been spent at the Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center in New York City. Upon its completion he had enlisted in the Army and had volunteered to serve as a Green Beret.
It had been almost ten years since his-wife and two daughters had been murdered in the family apartment at Fort Bragg, North
Carolina, and he had first been accused of killing them. In less than a month he would be returning to North Carolina to stand trial.
He took me to eat at a little restaurant just down the highway from where he lived. The Citroen-Maserati handled the trip comfortably without being extended much past second gear.
We sat at a large table outside, surrounded by fresh flowers and hanging plants. The waitresses made a fuss over Dr. MacDonald—he was, apparently, a regular—and he, in turn, administered hugs and dispensed free medical advice.
He ordered for both of us: a lavish, Los Angeles-style brunch. Fresh juice, fresh melon,
huevos rancheros,
fried potatoes, coffee, white wine. He said the trial would be held in federal court in Raleigh, North Carolina.
