When All the Laughter Died in Sorrow [antikvár]

I Monday, November 23, 1970, ten o'clock in the morning. Officer Williams, a member of the Dallas Police Force, arrived at the front door of my parents' house. He rang the bell and Bernice, the lady who worked for Mom, answered. The policeman was polite, a friendly guy. He'd been around a few times to talk football; a Cowboy fan. He explained that he had gone over to my apartment and hadn't found me and asked if I was there. Bernice said that I had stayed over for the night and was upstairs sleeping, but was it anything special? "Well," he said, "not really, but when he wakes up, would you ask him to drop over to the station?" My mother heard. She was in the bathroom, just finishing washing her hair, a towel turbaned over her head, 3