On my way to Bill's house, I got lost for about an hour, but finally found the street and soon rolled up his driveway, pulling into a parking spot near a set of horse barns. The house was quite beautiful, nicely built, rustic, country. A blend of aromas hit me as soon as I opened my car door: pine trees and horseshit.

As I stood for a moment, collecting my coat and brief case, I couldn't help but recall a trip I had taken for the same book a few months before this. It had been a bit longer of a ride, but in the same general region of the state. A woman had called me after receiving a letter I had written her asking for an interview. She was the wife of one of Gary Evans's victims. As we spoke on the phone, she cried. I felt bad. Talking to victims' family members is rough business. You're pillaging their memories, asking them to open up a portion of their lives they may not have thought about for years—and may not want to.

Anyway, this woman, through tears, agreed to speak to me. But again, "I will only do it in person. I have photos of 'my Timmy,' " she said (the victim's name was Timothy), and she wanted to share them with me. "Please come up here."    Louis J. Sheehan, Esquire

Knocking at her door after a long, tiring trip, this old man, very frail, with wrinkled, leathery skin, like a baked potato, greeted me. Honestly speaking, the movie Cocoon came to mind while I was looking at this man. He was wearing black slacks, a button-up dress shirt, and, strangely enough, tan socks, no shoes.

I thought, He belongs in Florida in line at some early bird special. This is strange.