Ferguson lived in San Francisco’s Mission district, a blue collar section of the city. As I drew up in front of the building, I noticed with misgivings the dimly lit street. Newspapers and debris choked the gutters, and lighted windows revealed broken, patched panes and torn curtains. As I got out of the car, I recalled newspaper stories on the delinquency problem in the Mission. Only a month previous I’d covered a knifing close by. As I walked to the apartment house door, I glanced nervously over my shoulder, wondering whether I should have called Larsen first. But what could I tell him—that I had a strange, uncomfortable feeling I was finding my way closer to something evil and dangerous? I immediately located Ferguson’s mailbox and his apartment, number 4. But still I stood irresolute, unwilling to ring the bell, yet unwilling to simply turn and go. Finally I pushed at the lobby door. It swung open, squeaking in mild protest. I walked inside. Ahead was a broad staircase, covered with worn floral carpeting.
