Mr. and Mrs. lived in upscale suburban home nestled against American River levee east of Sacramento. They usually stayed behind curtains until late afternoons when emerged to cruise quiet streets in car with wire cage separating front and back seat, like in police car. Mr. always drove, both hands on wheel, and cast dark glances as suspicious wife rode shotgun. Some neighbors claimed they were armed and occasionally stopped people, especially kids, grilled about activities, and sometimes threw into back-seat prison for downtown trip to jail.
On sunny spring morning, when John F. Kennedy was president and neighborhood kids were in school, Mr. staggered out of house, bleeding and shouting, “No, no,” and tried to escape Mrs. who closed in firing pistol. Mr. survived long enough to collapse far end of yard next door. Mrs. then walked to opposite side of house, to vacant lot, pushed pistol into temple and fired. That afternoon just before sunset some kids walked to field beside home and saw dark liquid drying in dirt.