“This is Edward Sawyers, it’s June 27th, 1969, and I’m at the Crawhole waterfront tonight, walking through a crowd of people who have gathered behind a loose police line to watch the investigation of this nightmare day’s latest—and we all pray the last—act of mindless slaughter. There are searchlights set up on the barges around the docks. There’s an ambulance here—it arrived only seconds before me. But, from what police have already told me, there isn’t much need for one—except to take the bodies to the morgue. Thankfully, there are only two known victims this time—Harry Bunim, twenty-nine, and his common-law wife, Mona Casey, thirty-four. Right now the police are searching for a missing year-old child, the Bunims’ little son, Chuck. And we are all hoping here, as I know you are all hoping out there, that he has not been …”

Through the police car window, “American Pie” finished, and over the sound of Mr. Sawyers in front of me, I heard from the police car’s radio speaker: “This is Edward Sawyers, it’s June 27th, 1969, and I’m at the Crawhole waterfront tonight, walking through a crowd of …”

I listened about half a minute, then looked back. Sawyers was beckoning to one of the shirt-sleeved men. The assistant led over a fisherman from the ring of spectator—a barefooted, bullet-headed nigger. Up in front of his plaid shirt, he clutched a harmonica.

Sawyers was gesturing with one outstretched hand and saying: “… that’s right, over here: You want to tell us what it’s been like down here today?” He held out the mike to the fisherman.

Beside me, the radio was saying: “Thankfully, there are only two known victims this time—Harry Bunim …”

Still clutching his harmonica, the fisherman leaned over Sawyers’ microphone: “This is a pretty peaceful place, like, mostly. After a little fightin’ and a little fuckin’, there ain’t really—”

“Come on, now.” Sawyers pulled the microphone back sharply. “Let’s watch the language. We’re on the air. Teddy, cut! Okay, pick it up … from: Why don’t you tell us something about what it’s like down here?”

“Eh … well,” the fisherman said, much more slowly. He’d lowered his harmonica about to his belt. “People fight some. Sometimes they … you know, mess around. But usually it’s pretty peaceful.”

“Until tonight?”

“Well, this here tonight is just terrible.”

“And can you tell us where you were when the screaming started?”

“Down on my boat, playin’ on my mouth harp.” He gestured with the instrument, caged in ten dark fingers. “And I heard Miss Mona scream. And then the shootin’.”

“What did you do?”

“I was scared as a—” He looked at the microphone. “Well, I was real scared. You know, you don’t hear nothin’ like that around here much.”