Bobby stood behind a bouquet of microphones. He had not asked for a written speech, just some notes. His performance was lackluster, but no one cared. “We are a great country, an unselfish country, and a compassionate country,” he said. “I intend to make that my basis for running.” These were not inspiring words, but the crowd adored him too much to care.

George decided he would not go with Bobby to the Factory discotheque afterward. Seeing couples dance would only remind him that he was alone. He would get a good night’s sleep before flying to New York in the morning to launch the campaign there. Work was the cure for his heartache.

“I thank all of you who made this possible this evening,” Bobby said. He flashed the Churchillian V-for-victory sign, and around the room hundreds of young people repeated the gesture. He reached down from the platform to shake some of the outstretched hands.

Then there was a glitch. His next appointment was with the press in a nearby room. The plan was for him to pass through the crowd as he left, but George could see that Bill Barry was unable to clear a path between the hysterical teenage girls shouting: “We want Bobby! We want Bobby!”

A hotel employee in the uniform of a maître d’hôtel solved the problem, pointing Bobby to a pair of swinging doors that evidently led through staff quarters to the press room. Bobby and Ethel followed the man into a dim corridor, and George and Bill Barry and the rest of the entourage hurried after them.

George was wondering how soon he could again raise with Bobby the need to make a deal with Gene McCarthy. It was the strategic priority, in George’s opinion. But personal relationships were so important to the Kennedys. If Bobby could have made a friend of Lyndon Johnson everything would have been different.

The corridor led to a brightly lit pantry zone with gleaming stainless-steel steam tables and a huge ice maker. A radio reporter was interviewing Bobby as they walked, saying: “Senator, how are you going to counter Mr. Humphrey?” Bobby shook hands with smiling staff on his way through. A young kitchen worker turned from a tray stacker as if to greet Bobby.

Then, in a lightning flash of terror, George saw a gun in the young man’s hand.

It was a small black revolver with a short barrel.

The man pointed the gun at Bobby’s head.

George opened his mouth to yell but the shot came first.

The little weapon made a noise that was more of a pop than a bang.

Bobby threw his hands up to his face, staggered back, then fell to the concrete floor.

George roared: “No! No!” It could not be happening—it could not be happening again!

A moment later came a volley of shots like a Chinese firecracker. Something stung George’s arm, but he ignored it.

Bobby lay on his back beside the ice machine, hands above his head, feet apart. His eyes were open.