Free John Belushi Is Dead by Kathy Charles

brand-new street sign had been erected higher than the others, to discourage theft. Another sign, NOT A THROUGH STREET , was erected next to it. The houses were inconspicuous in their plainness; lawns were trimmed and walls whitewashed. Two neighbors stood on the corner, coffees and papers in hand, oblivious to the scrutiny of the world and the prying eyes of curiosity seekers. One of them tipped his cap to the other and set off at a jog, sneakers hitting the pavement. Above them the sky turned gray and threatened rain.
    â€œHere,” Benji said, pointing to a concealed driveway. “This looks like it.”
    We made a tight turn onto a dirt road with a sharp and steady incline. After a few houses, we came across a wooden sign that read PRIVATE DRIVEWAY and listed five house numbers, each one carved on a quaint piece of oak and hung one above the other. The housenumber we were looking for changed every six months, moving up or down a digit, and Benji had been careful to check the latest incarnation on the Internet before our trip. We came to the end of the road and stopped at a set of gates higher than the others, the walls flanked by security cameras. Benji shut off the engine and picked up his camera. I sat back in my seat, overwhelmed.
    â€œAre you coming?” Benji asked impatiently. I opened my door, hoisted myself out into the gray day, and shivered.
    On a hot August evening in 1969, actress Sharon Tate and four other people were murdered in her home by the Manson Family. Sharon was pregnant, and her baby did not survive. All that remained of the house where she lived and died was the original telephone pole; everything else had been leveled. I touched the stone of the gate with an outstretched hand. It was still warm from the morning’s sunlight, had not yet cooled under the rain clouds that had started to gather. I placed my face against it, felt the thick texture, and ran my hand along its surface. Sharon Tate was only twenty-six when she died. A millionaire had bought the property a few years ago and destroyed the old house, erecting a modern structure in its place. I had seen photographs of Sharon Tate and her friends dead in the front yard and the living room. Now the places where their bodies had lain had been smoothed over, purged of demons.
    I listened. The canyons loomed around us, silent and patient. I was sad that so little remained in the spot where it actually happened. Since my parents died, I had come to believe that life was made up of energy. When someone committed a violent act, that energy would become even stronger, fueled by anger and hatred, fear and desperation. That energy wouldn’t dissipate. It could hangin the air, even years later. The canyons were the perfect place for that kind of energy. The hills trapped the impulses inside, where they fermented, growing stronger every day. I could feel it in the ground. It ran through my hands like bolts of electricity. It reminded me of the day my parents died, the static that hung in the air that night, the darkness that had followed me ever since, and for one brief moment I felt closer to them. I was back there.
    I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I heard the whir of a surveillance camera as it zeroed in on me.
    â€œBetter go,” Benji said, putting the lens cap back on his camera. We got back in the car and drove away. My head didn’t clear until we were back amid the noise and traffic on Sunset Boulevard.

8
    L ATER THAT NIGHT I sat in my bedroom browsing through websites about the Manson Family. Leslie Van Houten was up for parole again. There was no way she would be released, even after thirty-seven years in prison. All the Manson Family murderers who were put on death row had their sentences commuted when California abolished the death penalty, but there was no way any of them would ever get paroled. Murderers like that became part of the public consciousness, part of our collective nightmare. Kill an