Randy Mazursky could have been posing. He sat in the Berwyn police station, and even the most casual observer would have known at a glance that he was in agony, that he was the victim of a tragedy. In a gray room Randy sat on a worn oak chair, his head in his hands. His ash-blond hair looked dirty and tumbled over his forehead. The khaki slacks he wore looked almost as rumpled as his oversize tweed sport coat.
Randy’s sobbing was soft, but had continuity.
Near Randy sat his parents. His father, a thin man dressed in denim coveralls and a blue shirt, studied his son with a dull expression, betraying no emotion. His hands were long, the fingers bone-thin, the palms flat. His hands trembled.
Randy’s mother sat on the other side of her son. She had tied a purple nylon scarf over her gray
