The Charles Ralston Murder Case

The most violent, the lonesome-less mile in the world, with very poor as detective Danny Clover. Breeze the Christmas Carol through sequined wild speakers on Broadway to get all the happy of.

And the crowd walks in holiday cadence, conditioned by age, measurements on the size of the pocket book. And it's all there in the shop windows, mechanical clowns, thin man dancing a jig on the tin box, and boy army, precisely to scale, mechanized, some with pockets of skis for the difficult the rain over the raw cotton battlefront, and eyes are bright with hope and desire, and

the wish made on a neon star. But in the place where I was, holiday's coming and marked only by the rise of empty liquor bottles in trash stands, alley off of Third Avenue, and this winter's late night marked by horn of moon stuck through crumple of cloud, and wish the boy lying unconscious and detective

Muckerman. James Barton, Danny. Here is a lot of, lots of identification. Address lives on East 58th, 12th, 12th, Flash over here, my friend. I've seen years old. Whoever did it to him was pretty systematic, Danny.

Worked him over real good. He was part of it. Officer Prom called it and walking his feet. Danny, you know, Christmas season, kid 19, Beaten and Natalie. Pull your mind, my friend. Well, whoever did it wasn't a mugger.

The kid's got maybe 60 bucks in it. Well, he wasn't beating for money. What happens if a kid this age gets dragged into a sewer like this and worked over? Nice looking boy, why the hell?

Sure. Amherst ought to be in a second now. Think the kiddell is? The one just spilled city and chill display of wavering reflected nightlights. And the boy is part of it, beaten, flung against alley litter.