Thirty-seven years have passed since murder was a part of my daily life, and since Carol Spencer, a grieving mother with muscular dystrophy, taught me a lesson about it.
Back then, I was a cub reporter at the Review-Journal in Las Vegas. New guys were given the police beat, but not during the cushy daytime hours when police chiefs and spokespeople waxed philosophical about crimes. I worked the night shift, when all the action took place and the only people available to talk were grieving or in shock.
I didn’t worry much about mass shootings in 1984 because they rarely happened. I didn’t worry about a pandemic because the world hadn’t seen one of those since the end of World War I.
Back then, I was a cub reporter at the Review-Journal in Las Vegas. New guys were given the police beat, but not during the cushy daytime hours when police chiefs and spokespeople waxed philosophical about crimes. I worked the night shift, when all the action took place and the only people available to talk were grieving or in shock.
I didn’t worry much about mass shootings in 1984 because they rarely happened. I didn’t worry about a pandemic because the world hadn’t seen one of those since the end of World War I.
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