One Saturday morning, a couple of weeks after school had begun, I walked alone down to the city library. Using the microfilm reader, I read though the...old newspaper accounts of the Westervelt family. It was like a wonderful walk down memory lane as I read about my former life. I wept uncontrollably when I read the accounts of my son Peter's death in the skies over France, and I again relived the agony of that day when I had received the telegram informing me. Peter had been my youngest, my. Twice. Then she was gone. Quietly and on the ground, she left and was in the back yard. Several seconds passed. Two shots. Then nothing. I cried. My tears actually dropped on my legs. I could feel them. I hadn’t been that pissed, mad, or out of control in 6 years, but it happened again. I stood and walked to the front door. I had a Beretta pistol in each hand and I was not happy. I threw open the door and there he was. Fred Baxter.He was holding a sawed-off shotgun in his left hand. It all came. More

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