◆ SpookStack

~ «Che amost persistent theory describes the crime as an act of revenge for a sex- ual humiliation. a homosexual misun- derstanding driven to the extreme erot- ie conclusion. Since all rumors have the same validity as projections of one’s own fears or hates, there is no good rea- son to believe this account over any other. Yet something about it appeals to the popular imagination, and it still holds sway, even now that the coroner has revealed that the bodies showed no signs of torture or sexual mutilation, as was widely reported at first. The rumors read like a graph of com- munity paranoia. Every story promotes the murders into assassinations, crimes of logical consequence in which some vi- sion of the victims’ way of living makes them accomplices in their own deaths. It is as if no one is satisfied with the crime until it can be perceived as a po- litical act—the murder of a life style. One soon learns to recognize an en- tire social attitude from speculations on the murders. Those with positive knowledge that the blacks did it are those who feel most threatened by the blacks. Those who identify most close- SHARON TATE SS ce, wes Jy wit! «tt? way of life tend ‘an the vietims way 0 to see the hand of fascist America, snuff- ing out its young. Each new rumor works within its own vortex of fear. swirling around in uncollected frag- ments until it finally winds up prov- tre jig ing. one way or another. tha g is up for us all. The sense of the apocaly pse has al- ways flourished in Hollywood. but these killings and their reverberations have made it more palpable than ever. So many anxieties have emerged from so many different directions that one feels the chill of alien cliques shutting in upon themselves. Nightfall on that random, smoking landscape can bring on a vivid impression of guarded bon- fires burning against the hostile dark. The price of an attack dog has reached $1.500: in the chit-chat columns. ce- lebrities brag about their body guards. Absorbing all this talk stills the Visitor's emotions, creating an all-hor- rors composure that leaves him stand- ing there politely with a drink in his hand, talking to bodies blessed with the gift of speech, while death rattles and agonies float through the ears unwinged. The police are still on the case, of course. Their task force of 19 detee- tives is the biggest one assembled since Bobby Kennedy was shot. Occasion- ally, there will be some new word from headquarters, such as the recent an- nouncement that a careful analysis of a pair of eyeglasses found at the scene suggests that one of the killers had a vol- ley-ball-shaped head. But the folklore has so outstripped the few little items the police have been able to add that one is left only to hope that the story will somehow find a merciful conclusion AS re on its own. _-. [has frail hope perhaps explains why I couldn’t help but detect monstrous notes of reassurance here and there—as one night at the Factory, last year’s dis- cothéque, when I saw that the face hanging in the smoke across the table was moving its lips my way. I cupped my hand against the musie and leaned close to hear. “Let’s hope Roman has enough sense to sell the rights to some- body good,” the face was shouting. | searched the face for some sign that it was joking. But no. The face was se- rious. sincere. ee ae