disclosure of some aspects of MKULTRA activity could induce
serious adverse reaction in U.S. public opinion...
- CIA Inspector General (Scheflin & Opton, p. 132)
A small box sat on the table. Wires
ran from it to her wrist and to her shoulder. They shocked
her. It hurt terribly. They shocked her, over and over, and
asked question after question about the story of her life
and her CIA link. She did not know about any CIA link. The
torturers would not believe her. They shocked her again. They
asked, “What about Dr. Jensen. Do you know a Dr. Jensen?”
“You’ve asked me enough.
You should know,” she groaned. “Why don’t you
just kill me? Why do you keep me here like this?”
To somebody in Washington, D.C., what
those interrogators were doing to Candy Jones was just an
experiment to see if the programming of a hypnocourier held
up under torture.
Candy was born in 1925 (two years after barbiturates first
came on the drug market). Her birth name was Jessica Wilcox.
Her mother was a homemaker. Her father was a good-looking
Polish Catholic who advanced from being a ticket taker (when
he met her mother) to being a car salesman in Atlantic City
(when he left her mother). Candy was three when Daddy stopped
coming home. The mother and her child then went to live with
Grandmama in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. The year was 1928.
Grandmama was wealthy, well educated, pleasant natured, and
an osteopathic physician.
Mother taught Jessica to sew, draw,
swim, and ride, and use good manners. Dinner was always at
five, an occasion for which to dress. During the meal, the
little girl could speak only if spoken to. She had books,
a cat, a dog, and playmates at their summer home on a lake.
In winter, however, only her pets—and sometimes the cook’s
little girl, Snowflake—played with her. Mother did not
allow her to bring friends home from school. They would “mess
up the house.”
The child loved to play in Grandmama’s
room, dress up in her clothes, sit in front of her big dressing
table. She did that almost every day. The dressing table had
pullout mirrors that could surround her on three sides, displaying
seven images of little Jessica. One day she played tea party
on the dressing table top and invited imaginary friends, the
images in the mirror.
She was innocently performing a kind
of self-hypnosis. Bright, imaginative children often do. Staring
into a mirror invites trance at any age; children and teenagers
are most susceptible to induction. You focus. Your mind becomes
blank, and there’s something about staring closely into
eyes. Especially your own.
Jessica’s tea party mirror playmates
developed into an imaginary “club”—Doty (pronounced
Dot-tee, a child’s pronunciation of Dorothy), Arlene,
Willy, and Pansy. As time went by, she did not need the mirror
any more to play with them. Pansy was a good girl, quiet and
nice. Willy was a boy who stomped his feet if he could not
get his way. Doty tended to fight with Arlene. Arlene was
the fastest runner, the highest climber, the strongest swimmer
in the club. She had a domineering personality and was always
trying to run things.
Grandmama died in 1936. Jessica was
eleven. Mother and daughter then moved back to Atlantic City.
For the next five years, the young girl’s life was uneventful--
sheltered, protected, and closely supervised by her mother.
In the wider world, there was war in
Europe. Then the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and we were
in the war too.
In 1941, Jessica graduated from high
school. She wanted to be a doctor like Grandmama, but mother
would not pay for her to attend college. Mother told her to
go to secretarial school instead. Jessica was not interested.
Candy Jones: Model -
In June of 1941, Jessica Wilcox entered the Miss Atlantic
City contest. She was the Girl Scouts’ candidate. She
won. Atlantic City hosted the Miss America pageant at that
time. Jessica was not a contestant in the big show, but she
marched in the parade and had many hostess duties because
she was Miss Atlantic City.
Her long blonde hair, perfect features,
tall, long-legged frame, bosomy contour, and sweet disposition
attracted attention among the mob of newspaper and media people
there to watch Miss America be chosen. The attention turned
into an astonishing rush of enthusiastic press attention.
By the close of the pageant, Jessica was surrounded by reporters
and radio personalities begging for an interview or a photo.
One of the contest judges was John Powers, founder of the
famous Powers Modeling Agency. He invited her to come to New
York and work for his agency.
To her mother’s distress, Jessica
accepted. She hung around the Powers stable for two weeks,
but received only two photo jobs. (The pay was $5 each.) One
day, on her off time, while waiting for a friend at the other
big modeling agency in town, Harry Conover’s, her big
break came. Conover was a top male model who had founded his
own agency and soared from model to modeling mogul. A photographer
walked in, saw her, and spoke of her to Harry. Harry walked
out, took a look at the blonde sitting in his reception area,
and the magic began.
Conover bought the blonde’s contract
from Powers. He transformed Jessica Wilcox into Candy Jones,
bankrolling a media blitz based on a red-and-white candy-stripe
theme. Candy had red and white striped clothing, accessories,
jewelry, matchbook covers, and bicycle. Conover showered Manhattan
with 10,000 red and white striped business cards which said
“Candy Jones Was Here.”
It worked. Warner Brothers Studio signed
her up. She started getting calls to pose for magazine covers
and to appear in glitzy ads for products with big budgets.
Her mother gave up on secretarial school for her and moved
to New York to live with, and chaperone, Candy.
In 1943, Candy was voted Model of
the Year. Loretta Young was a judge on the panel. She said
Candy looked like “a real girl.” The guys in the
trenches also thought so. Photos of the tall blonde in a polka-dot
bikini were pinned-up wherever there were GIs. A photo of
her in a formal dress stitched from transparent parachute
nylon was equally well received.
Candy took acting and voice lessons
and won a leading role in the smash Broadway play, “Mexican
Hayride,” produced by Mike Todd. It ran for eight months.
She was the model used on recruiting posters for the new branches
of the military in which women could serve--WACS and WAVES.
In one month of that amazing year of 1943, her picture was
on the cover of eleven magazines. (Estabrooks published Hypnotism
in 1943, a book which urged government use of unknowing hypnoprogrammed
Lieutenant Candy Jones -
The USO offered Candy an opportunity to tour through the Southwest
Pacific in a show written around her. She accepted the task
of bringing evenings of happiness to weary and homesick GIs
fighting in Pacific operations. She became Lieutenant Candy
Jones. She began the USO shows in 1944, with a six-month contract,
then signed on for another year--a total of eighteen months.
While on tour, the beautiful model, performer, stage show
manager, and patriot briefly met General Donovan. (He was
head of the OSS, a new agency which President Roosevelt had
authorized at the beginning of the war for the dual tasks
of gathering intelligence and of doing secret scientific research
with military applications.)
In April, 1945, Candy was presented
with a quart of fresh milk brought by airplane from Australia—a
rare luxury in the cowless Southwest Pacific area. She drank
it. But the cow had been sick. The milk had not been pasteurized.
Candy got undulant fever. With her resistance down from the
fever, she also developed active malaria. They put her in
a Philippines military hospital. There, from unclean sheets,
she caught a third disease: the “jungle rot.” The
rot was a fungus that made her beautiful blonde hair fall
out in clumps. The malaria had given her a greenish-yellow
skin tone. She looked terrible, but the New York photographers
were far away. The medics right then were worried about keeping
While sick on Leyte, she encountered
a military psychiatrist, “Gilbert Jensen.” In August,
1945, after four months of treatment and recuperation, she
was well enough to go home. Before she left, Jensen gave her
a photo of himself with his APO address written on the back.
He asked her to write. She did not.
Back in the States, Candy starred in
another Broadway musical, a wig and heavy makeup hiding the
ravages of illness. It took eight months more healing before
she could pose for photographers again. She married her employer,
Harry Conover, on July 4, 1946. Marrying Candy was a good
career move for Harry. He did not reveal to her his homosexuality.
It took five months to consummate their marriage, but Candy—who
was a virgin and not sophisticated—did not understand
the problem until years later.
Induction - Candy’s busy career included
many invitations to guest on the big time talk shows of that
radio-dominated era. Technology could not yet provide phone
interviews with quality sound. Therefore, even for a radio
interview, she would have to fly to the broadcast station.
In 1946, she accepted an invitation to appear on “Don
McNeil’s Breakfast Club” in Chicago. (That year,
the OSS was reorganized as the CIA with the same two missions:
secret intelligence gathering and secret scientific research.)
There, Candy met another person who would be important in
her hypnoprogrammed future.
Candy flew in the night before the
show, registered at the Drake Hotel, and unpacked. Then the
chills hit. The Leyte doctor had assured her there would be
no more malaria attacks, but this felt like the old nightmare
had come back. She went to bed, but the chills got worse.
Under a mound of blankets, she was still shivering.
She called a staff employee at the
Don McNeil Breakfast Club. He visited her, viewed the situation,
and promised a doctor would call. Soon after he left, a doctor,
“Dr. Marshall Burger,” did call her on the telephone.
This doctor, like “Jensen,”
is known only by a pseudonym. Burger was a psychiatrist who
hobnobbed with big names from both the political and entertainment
worlds, especially movie stars. He was “a dynamic, craggy-faced
egotist.” And he was a hypnotist, “a pioneer and
leading authority in the field of medical hypnosis.”
(Bain, p. 137) There were
programs with which he was closely identified. He’d
begun working on such programs during World War II, and
was one of the first doctors to probe the potentials of
hypnosis as a tool of war. His sponsor for that project
was the Central Intelligence Agency. (Bain, p. 137)
As Candy Jones lay alone in her hotel
room, shivering under the covers, desperate for relief, Burger
talked to her on the telephone. He said he was not able to
come see her that night, but that he would drop by the next
morning. He told her to count backwards. He said he was trying
to relax her. He assured her that, if she would just count
backwards, she would stop shaking and fall sleep.
Burger never told Candy that his “relaxation”
was a hypnotic induction. At the beginning of his induction
routine, Burger did not know whether or not Candy was a naturally
good hypnotic subject. A hypnotist never knows for sure until
Now, he tried. He told her to place
the phone on the pillow next to her ear and count down with
him. He combined the counting-down induction routine with
suggestions that her shaking was stopping, her chills going
away, her fever dropping. And sleep, sleep, sleep.
As she counted backwards with Dr. Burger,
Candy’s chills did diminish. She did feel sleepier, and
sleepier, and sleepier. She fell asleep. In the morning, she
felt okay. Whatever had caused the problem was now completely
gone. She appeared on the Breakfast Club, then flew back to
New York. She did not know she had been hypnotized. Burger,
however, now knew that Candy Jones was susceptible to hypnosis.
(Maybe he told Donovan.)
Marriage Breakup, Money Problems
- In 1947, there was trouble inside the Harry Conover
Modeling Agency. Other models were complaining that Conover
showed favoritism to his wife in assigning jobs. Candy solved
that one by opening her own agency right next door to Conover’s
office in the skyscraper called 52 Vanderbilt Avenue. Soon
Candy’s agency landed the lucrative Colgate-Palmolive
account. She let Harry bill for her agency as well as his,
and bank the payments.
Candy was always working. She toured
overseas again, managing a USO show for U.S. soldiers fighting
in Korea. She continued her modeling career until time took
its natural toll, and the photographers did not call for her
any more. She published books about glamour, dress, and fashion—and
one about her experiences while touring for the USO during
World War II. She gave birth to three sons: Harry, Chris,
In 1958, she found out that her husband
was bisexual (or maybe homosexual). That explained why he
almost never reached out to love her. Soon after that, he
disappeared completely. Candy took responsibility for all
debts, including the rent on his office and hers. Then, she
found out that he had withdrawn all the money from their joint
bank accounts. Before he took off, there had been over $100,000
in there. Now there was only $36.
Candy struggled on. She found new sources
of income. She began working on the radio, becoming a regular
on the popular NBC weekend news program, “Monitor.”
Through her Monitor news interviews, she met people in the
entertainment business, politics, and the military. Though
naturally of a quiet nature, Candy maintained a socialite’s
life-style, going to Broadway openings and working for charities.
She traveled a lot in her business, jetting coast to coast
to watch fashion shows and give speeches.
Candy wanted her sons to have the best
possible education and a stable environment. Since she was
working and on the road so much, she enrolled all three of
them in an expensive boarding school. She was also supporting
her elderly mother, and the woman who looked after her. Without
her husband’s income, however, all those expenses were
soon more than she could afford. After a year of desperate
financial struggle, Candy finally took her lawyer’s advice
and sued Harry Conover for repayment of the money he had absconded
with—and for alimony, child support, and divorce.
Her legal case against him made juicy
headlines for the New York daily papers. In the end, she won.
The judge gave Harry a choice of paying or going to jail.
But Harry had been giving lavish parties every night for the
past year, and now he had no money left. He went to jail for
two years. Candy now also owed her lawyer a big bill for the
CIA Recruits a Courier
Dr. Burger had moved from the Chicago suburb to southern California.
The clientele for his private practice was now the Hollywood
crowd, shapely bodies--and opinion shapers to the world. California
and New York were centers for CIA mind-control experiments
in the 1960s, and Burger was part of that program. (Bain called
him the research “project’s messiah.”)
Part of Burger’s job was training
other doctors to be mind-control experts for the Company.
One of his trainees was Gilbert Jensen. The CIA was then researching
a new type of hypnoprogrammed courier, one with a more unbreachable
amnesia than mere hypnotic suggestion could achieve: an artificially
split personality. Gilbert Jensen would be creating and managing
a unit of these unknowing agents.
Candy was a celebrity, a patriot, single,
traveled in her business, and badly needed money. She must
have seemed a good prospect for recruitment.
In 1960, strange things began to happen
at 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, where Candy now ran her modeling
school, agency, and what was left of the Conover agency, from
Room 808. The events seemed unimportant at the time. Maybe
some of them were truly irrelevant. But, looking back, there
was an obvious pattern of deceit and manipulation, a sinister
web of entrapment starting to weave about Candy Jones.
An Odd Burglary - Heavyweight
boxing champ, Gene Tunney, had been Candy’s neighbor
across the hall for years. One day, Candy noticed a “cleaning
lady” standing outside Tunney’s door. She appeared
to be trying to figure out which one, of a set of keys, fit
his door. The next day, Gene told Candy that his office had
been broken into the night before. He said no harm had been
A few days later, Candy ran into General
Donovan, now “retired,” in the building lobby. Although
they were barely acquainted, Donovan acted quite familiar.
He told Candy he was meeting Tunney for lunch. Since he was
quite early, Candy invited the General to tour her school
while he was waiting. Then she took him over to Tunney’s
Several days later, a man visited Candy’s
office, claiming to be an FBI agent who was investigating
the burglary of Tunney’s office. He walked over to a
microphone lying on Candy’s window ledge, picked it up,
and looked it over. “What do you use this for?”
Candy told him that Allan Funt (of
“Candid Camera” fame) had given her that mike, a
very advanced type in its technology. Her models recorded
public speaking assignments using it, so they could learn
how they sounded to other people.
“It’s just what we need for
a stakeout over on fifty-seventh,” the FBI man said.
“Can we borrow it?”
Candy gave her permission.
Mail Service - The
FBI man showed up at her office a month later, along with
an associate. The two men asked Candy if they could use her
office address to receive some of their mail. If any mail
came for them, she was to call a certain phone number and
report that fact. Candy consented. After that, mail did come
once in a while for them. She always called the designated
phone number when it did so.
A Favor for Donovan -
Once in a while, Donovan now invited her to a party. In November,
1960, the General called to ask a favor. In some way (which
he did not divulge to her), he had found out that Candy was
scheduled to soon fly out to Denver and speak, then fly on
to San Francisco to view a big fashion show. The General asked
her to carry an “important” letter on that trip
to an unnamed person who would come to her hotel room in San
Francisco to claim it.
Candy asked Donovan to what governmental
agency this anonymous person belonged. The General would not
answer that question. He said that the visitor himself would
explain. Candy agreed to carry the letter. Her last exit was
about to be sealed off. After she received the mysterious
letter at her office, Candy stuffed it into her handbag and
flew to Denver. She gave her speech there, then proceeded
San Francisco, where she attended the fashion show. Then,
she waited in her hotel room for the promised visitor who
was to come and take it from her. It was November 16, 1960.
The man who knocked at her hotel room
door turned out to be Gil Jensen, the military psychiatrist
she had met on Leyte. She offered him the letter, but he refused
to take it. First, he wanted Candy to dine with him at a nice
restaurant. She graciously accepted his invitation.
That evening, Jensen seemed to her
much less at ease, less happy, than he had been back in the
Philippines. Nevertheless, he was obviously trying hard, and
he managed to make pleasant conversation. (It greatly helps
the first hypnotic induction if the subject likes the hypnotist
and trusts him.) He told Candy about his private practice
over in Oakland. In turn, she told him about her divorce,
her sons, the modeling business, the terrible financial pressures.
Once he got Candy started talking, Jensen listened attentively,
speaking only to encourage her whenever she seemed about to
The Proposition -
It was getting late. Again, Candy tried to give him the letter.
Again, Jensen would not take it. He said that tomorrow at
his office would be a better time to talk about the letter.
Candy objected. She needed to get home to New York. Finally,
when it was clear that she was not going to stay another day
for any reason he had given her so far, Jensen came out with
the big persuader. He said: “There’s some interesting
work you could do for the Central Intelligence Agency, Candy,
without interfering with your business. It could be lucrative.”
(Bain, p. 60)
That was different. Candy was always
looking for a way to earn money. She agreed to come to Jensen’s
office the next day.
The next morning, a car and driver
picked her up at the hotel. It drove her across the Bay Bridge
to Jensen’s “office” in Oakland, the place
where Candy would be hypnotized, drugged, and hypnoprogrammed,
far from friends, family, or employees back in New York. The
chauffeur helped her out of the limousine, then departed.
Candy stood alone on the sidewalk,
looking around her. She was outside a two-story brick building
in a rundown neighborhood. Adjacent was a green three-story
one. Candy was surprised that the psychiatrist’s office
had no sign to inform passers-by that a doctor worked therein.
The house did not even have an identifying street number.
She climbed the three wooden steps
leading to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside.
She was now in a small reception room. The only furniture
was two straight-backed chairs and a table. She sat down in
one chair. Magazines were stacked on the tabletop, some more
than a year old. The light in the room was almost too dim
for reading, but she could see that all the magazine address
labels had been torn off.
Jensen came in. He greeted her cordially,
and led her from the reception room into his office. That
room had only one window, shielded from street observation
by heavy drapes. A gooseneck lamp with an unshaded, brightly-burning
bulb was its only source of light. “Does the light bother
you?” Gilbert asked.
“Yes,” Candy said.
He twisted the gooseneck’s flexible
shaft a bit, which made no real difference. There were shaded
lamps in the room, but none of them were turned on, and he
did not offer to switch to one of them.
“Would you like a tour of the
office? he asked. She politely accepted his offer. He led
her into her a small adjacent room. It had a raised examination
table in the center, a white medical cabinet against the wall,
and one straight-backed chair. Candy did not think much of
it, but she kept those thoughts to herself. He then led her
back to the room where the single bare light bulb burned,
seated himself behind the desk, and began to ask her personal
Candy did not feel comfortable. She
wanted this conversation to stop. She wanted to get out of
there. What she had expected to happen today was a job interview,
not just a conversation between acquaintances. She was not
bold enough, however, to ask him to get to the point. She
kept answering his questions. He asked about her childhood.
Candy said, “It was lonely.”
When she told him about the club and her imaginary playmates,
Dr. Jensen suddenly showed eager interest. He wanted her to
tell him more, and yet more, about each member of the club.
So she told him all about quiet, nice Doty, and Willy who
stomped, and Arlene who was strong and domineered.
Candy desperately wanted to get the
interview over with, head home, and be back in New York by
that night. She had delayed her return only because Jensen
had offered a “lucrative” job, and she needed money.
She asked , “What sort of work am I being hired to do,
and with whom will I be working?”
“The unit?” Jensen asked.
“I don’t know,” Candy
said. “The general told me that you would fill me in.”
(Bain, p. 86)
Jensen ignored her question. He went
back to asking about her imaginary friends in childhood.
Candy Signs Up - Candy
had arrived at Jensen’s office in the mid-morning. Now
it was 1 p.m. She said, “I really must go.”
Jensen ignored her request. He began
a new series of questions, this time about her social life:
“Do you date? Do you go to cocktail parties? Do you travel.”
Candy said that she seldom attended
parties. She did travel a great deal for her business, but
did not socialize much at home or elsewhere.
He finally offered her the job: “We
could work something out with you from time to time, Candy,
if you performed services for us during your travels.”
“What sort of services?”
“Carry a message now and then.
That’s all.” (Bain, p. 87)
Jensen assured Candy that she would
be paid to carry those messages. He said that she could go
back to New York now. He would ask any other questions that
he had the next time she happened to come to San Francisco.
But, first, he wanted her to fill out a form. He pulled a
paper and pen out of his drawer and pushed them toward her.
Candy then signed a
which officially made her an employee of the government,
and as such she forfeited her right to legal compensation
for the harm done her by the ruthless mind-control operation.
(Scheflin & Opton, p. 121)
Use for Imaginary Childhood Playmate
The government was
pursuing exactly that line of research: creating an artificially-split
personality out of an imaginary childhood playmate. Josephine
Hilgard’s 1970 book, Personality and Hypnosis, states
that a person with an imaginary childhood playmate tends
to have significant hypnotic susceptibility (research supported
by grants from NIMH, the Air Force Office of Scientific
Research, etc.). An imaginary childhood playmate is a marker
for hypnotic susceptibility. It can also be a point of fracture
for artificial personality-splitting.
A CIA memo said that
the candidate must be in the top 20% of hypnotic susceptibility,
and must have
dissociative tendency to separate part of his personality
from the main body of his consciousness. The hope was
to take an existing ego state—such as an imaginary
childhood playmate—and build it into a separate personality,
unknown to the first. The hypnotist would communicate
directly with this schizophrenic offshoot and command
it to carry out specific deeds about which the main personality
would know nothing. (quoted
in Marks, The Search for the Manchurian Candidate, p.
concept was that the hypnotist would transform that childhood
nucleus of rejected, blocked traits and impulses into the
core of a subconscious isolate. When there was a choice
of more than one childhood playmate, the split would be
built into the toughest, meanest one. Bowart told Scheflin
and Opton that all the military hypnoprogrammed persons
that he had located and interviewed “have been beaten
or abused by one of their parents when they were young.
To escape, they created imaginary personalities which a
clever hypnotist then used against them.” (Scheflin
and Opton, 1978, p. 445)
a former Ranger and Viet Nam Special Forces retiree told
me, in 1991, “Everyone who is going into any branch
of the military takes the Military Aptitude Test, the MAT.
It asks several questions along those lines: ‘Did you
have imaginary playmates?’ ‘How old were you when
you quit playing with your imaginary friend?’ After
you have decided on your military occupational status, you
take another test. People going into Special Forces are
asked the same questions—‘Did you have imaginary
playmates?’—plus additional ones along the same
line. ‘Was that imaginary friend more or less aggressive
than you?’ And there are questions about discipline:
‘Did your parents spank you?’ ‘Did you feel
resentment when your parents spanked you?’ Almost every
person who goes into a Special Forces unit has had a childhood
imaginary friend. I did. He was a mean guy. He did things
I couldn’t do.”
R.J. was a completely
nice guy in his friendship with me, but he had that mean
guy tucked away in his unconscious memories, which embodied
parental (authoritarian) aggression and violence combined
with repressed childhood rage and resentment. Arlene was
Candy’s equivalent of R.J.’s “mean guy.”
The CIA was not looking for a neurotic. For best programming
results, the imaginary playmate must be part of a strong,
normal personality, not a disordered, weak one. Brainwashing
experts have learned that normal people reprogram easier
and shape into a better product than neurotics. Candy had
a strong, normal personality.
By signing that document, Candy had
joined Jensen’s “unit.” She had become one
of thousands of part-time CIA employees. (Such employees were
not listed in headquarters’ records.) Jensen became her
control agent, her only CIA contact. His unit was the people
he controlled. The CIA would thereafter be referred to only
as the Company.
Then Jensen had a few more things Candy
must do before she could go. He traced her silhouette on a
length of brown paper with a black pen as she stood against
the wall with the paper behind her. He said that it would
sometimes be necessary for her to travel using a passport
with a false name. He asked her to choose the name, to choose
something that felt comfortable, natural. For the first name,
she chose Arlene, which was a variant spelling of her middle
name (Arline), and the name of one of her imaginary playmates.
For the last name, she chose Grant, which was a part of her
grandmother’s name (Rosengrant).
Jensen said that a photographer would
come to her hotel room and take photos for her passport. Then
the doctor asked, “What did Arlene look like?”
Candy said that Arlene had looked just
like her, except darker, brunette rather than blonde, when
she saw her in the mirror as a little girl.
The Hypnosis Begins
Disguised Induction - Jensen next asked about
Candy said, “I’m fine.”
The psychiatrist said, “You look
like you need vitamins.”
Candy said, “My doctor back in
New York gives me B12.”
Gilbert said, “I know better vitamins
than B12.” He urged Candy to get into top condition to
endure her coming rigors of world travel.
Candy agreed to do that. Then she pulled
out a cigarette and lit it.
Jensen said, “That is not a healthy
habit. Why haven’t you quit.”
Candy said, “I’ve tried,
but I can’t.”
(Bain does not mention Candy sipping
a beverage while smoking that cigarette, but it seems likely,
from what follows, that Jensen applied some chemical persuasion--a
narcohypnotic drug dropped into her drink--before his coming
disguised induction. For Candy seems unusually susceptible
to what follows, even for a natural somnambulist. She had
been there all day. It was past lunchtime. She must have been
both hungry and thirsty. If Jensen gave her a beverage about
this time which contained an oral dose of barbiturate, after
about half an hour she would have been thoroughly under its
influence, extra susceptible to hypnotic induction.)
Jensen then discoursed, at length,
on methods to quit smoking, including hypnosis. Candy said
she could not be hypnotized. Jensen asked if she had ever
tried. “No,” Candy said, but she was sure she was
not susceptible. Jensen knew, because of those imaginary friends,
that she was wrong, but he did not tell her so.
in his chair and clasped his hands on his chest. “You’re
probably right about that,” he said. “There are
lots of people who can’t be hypnotized.” He then
launched into a quiet lecture on the evils of hypnosis as
practiced by charlatans and quacks, coming down especially
hard on the stage hypnotists. “I’m really dedicated
to putting a stop to the misuse of hypnosis, Candy.
Dedicated to it. By the way, would you like to see how some
people practice hypnosis?” (Bain,
Candy nodded. Jensen stood up and
led her on another tour of his office.
He was taking a long time, and being
very patient, with this first induction. He could have ordered
three strong men to hold her down, while he shoved a needleful
of barbiturate into her vein which would send her straight
down to a deep trance. Hypnoprogramming resting on a foundation
like that, however, would be on an more unstable base. For
his preferred outcome, Jensen needed to seduce Candy into
the first induction in an atmosphere of friendship. If a
hypnotist can get a few sincere “yeses” from a
prospective mind-control victim before they begin to apply
the harsher aspects of programming, a more effective unconscious
basis for long-term control has been established.
Therefore, Jensen acted very pleasant
as he took her on this second tour, chatting all the while
about his plans to help with a crackdown on “people
who try to hypnotize people, entertainers and all that.”
(Bain, p. 92)
Induction Hardware -
Jensen had now led Candy into a section of the building
which he had not shown her before. As the two walked around,
the psychiatrist demonstrated item after item of a truly
remarkable collection of hypnotic induction gadgets--some
simple, some very sophisticated. He patiently showed her
how a hypnotist would use each one in order to induce a
trance in somebody, if they were hypnotizable, “although
I know you can’t be.” He demonstrated pendulum,
candle, and metronome inductions. He showed a mechanical
sound maker (which he later used to create her telephone
Last of all, Gilbert brought her
to the big mirror. He knew that whatever--or whoever--has
hypnotized a person before tends to keep that ability. He
had learned, that morning, that Candy Jones hypnotized herself,
as a child, by staring into a big mirror. He now suggested
that she sit down on the chair in front of his mirror. She
obediently sat, looking at her reflected image. As she stared
into the mirror, he led the conversation back to Arlene.
They were talking again about Arlene. (At that time, she
was merely talking about Arlene; she was not yet being Arlene.)
As Candy looked in the mirror and talked about Arlene, she
slipped down to a trance level of consciousness.
Drug Inductions - After
the mirror induction, Dr. Jensen told Candy to lie down
on his “examining room” table. There, he gave
the blonde celebrity her first dose of “vitamins.”
Years later, her second husband, John Nebel, found himself
playing Jensen’s role in her spontaneous self-inductions
and regressions to this era of her life. John did not question
the “vitamins” she repeatedly mentioned until
he realized that Jensen had given them to Candy by IV into
the big vein inside the elbow rather than by injection into
the muscle of an arm or buttock. Then, John became suspicious.
One day he discovered what Candy was really given:
JOHN: The bottle is
hanging on the stand?
CANDY: Uh-huh. Like
they used to have.
JOHN: Like intravenous
JOHN: The bottle’s
upside down, isn’t it?...(Candy looks up and squints.)...Isn’t
it upside down?...
JOHN: What’s it
say on the label?
CANDY: (after a long
pause) I’m reading it backwards.
JOHN: Yeah, I know.
What’s it say?
as though trying to make out the word) “Am...i...tol...”
JOHN: What’s the
CANDY: ...Must be sodium.
JOHN: Sodium? Does
it say the name of the pharmaceutical company on the label?
CANDY: I think it says
long to list here.
Please read the rest in Carla Emery's "Secret,
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