ABSTRACT
I had forgotten Eddie Finney. He belonged to a few grim and exhausting weeks from long ago. There he had stayed and I had not missed him. Until, almost 20 years later, I began working on a series on the biology of behavior. Then, right in the midst of interviewing scientists about violence, he came back, from some dark corner of my mind. I could see him again with that half-smile on his face, sitting in the courtroom, his feet up casually on the wooden defense table. He would wink at me every morning, clearly amused by little Miss Prim and Proper, the brand-new reporter cautiously inspecting the murderer.
