The phone rang shortly after midnight on October 24, 1998. My husband answered, waking me after hanging up. “Channel 4 just called,” he said. The usual evenness of his voice was broken by a whisper of urgency. “Barnett Slepian was shot. He just died at the hospital.” I couldn’t comprehend if I was awake or asleep. “They want you to come into the news station first thing in the morning.” The fog slipped away. This wasn’t a bad dream. It was a nightmare.