of doom.
‘What hope is there for a world in which the young have gone mad?’ asked the journalist. The voice crackled in the depths of Lamar’s old Pontiac.
Three weeks had gone by since the killings in Harlem.
There had been another massacre at a high school in Queens a few days ago. Twenty-two dead and thirty-one wounded. The crazed gunman, a pupil at the school, had fled after his shoot-out. He had been found at home, having killed himself with a shot to the head.
Neither Lamar nor his closest colleagues had attended – it was outside their jurisdiction. Detectives from Queens had speedily concluded their investigation.
Two teenagers in ten days had opened fire on their schoolmates. The media were obsessed with the story. New Yorkers were beginning to agonise. The entire city trembled in incomprehension.
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