When I lived in Hillsborough, North Carolina, it was a cute, quiet town with a seething cauldron of violence and malevolence beneath the surface. They were Klu Klux Klan rallies and marches down Main Street. My friends the Comans once inadvertently made a turn onto Main Street in Hillsborough, and found themselves in the midst of one of these KKK parades. For years afterward Mr. Coman was highly respected by the people in town, as they thought he must have been a high level Klansman.

      

 

Not far from town on Orange Grove Rd, a gravel road like the one I lived on nearby, there were two college-aged girls living in a log cabin. They were acquaintences of mine and friends of my friend Michael. As fate would have it, their next-door neighbor (who lived a ways down the gravel road and out of sight) was a mass murderer. He had killed his wife and kids and served 20 years or so in prison . . . 

 

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