The imam drove back into the city and parked across the street from the dilapidated brick building where his parole officer worked. He walked up the rickety stairs and stepped into the man’s office. He turned the key in the back of the front door and locked it. Then Jamal walked to the PO’s door and pushed it open. Lester Bodkin had his feet up on the radiator. He was looking out the window, cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick, listening to news on WINS radio. His back was to the imam.

When Bodkin heard footsteps on his squeaking office floor, he whirled around and faced Rasheed Jamal. The sight of the big ex-con made Bodkin sit bolt upright, a terrified expression on his face.

“You ever hear of knockin’?” he asked in a high, squeaky voice filled with fear. “Whattaya want?”

Rasheed Jamal said nothing. He just walked toward the probation officer.

“Forget to tell me somethin’?” asked Lester Bodkin, his voice breaking. “Is that it?”

As Bodkin spoke to Jamal, he tried to slowly slide open his desk drawer and find his revolver. Jamal, without saying a word, walked up to the desk and slammed the drawer shut on Bodkin’s hand, making the PO scream. Jamal took the gun out of the drawer and jammed it in the small of his back under his windbreaker. Then he walked around Bodkin’s old wooden desk chair and grabbed his probation officer’s neck with his big gloved hands from behind and began choking the life out of him. Bodkin, still seated, his back to Jamal, took hold of the imam’s wrists with both hands but couldn’t budge them. Bodkin kicked his feet furiously, smacking the toes of his dirty brown leather shoes against the underside of the desk. He kicked so hard he smashed the wooden drawer to pieces. One of his shoes came off in the melee and lay on its side under the desk. The imam continued to squeeze Bodkin’s neck. Bodkin made rasping, gurgling sounds. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. Drool dribbled out of his mouth. Then Bodkin’s fingers loosened on the imam’s hands, his arms fell to his sides, and he stopped making gurgling sounds. The imam kept tightening his fingers around the victim’s neck until he was absolutely certain Bodkin the Turd was dead.

When Rasheed Jamal finished killing Lester Bodkin, he looked through Bodkin’s desk until he found the file folder with his name on it. Jamal stuffed the folder into his carry-all.

The imam Rasheed Jamal left the dead parole officer’s office, locked his front door with the door key, walked down the stairs, and crossed the street to his parked car. There was a traffic ticket under his windshield wiper. The imam removed the ticket, opened the door of his car, threw the ticket onto the passenger seat, and drove to Tulsa, Oklahoma, robbing banks as he went. On the way to Tulsa, Jamal tossed Bodkin’s office key out his car window. In a motel room near Vinita, Oklahoma, he burned the traffic ticket.