It was early November 1992. I had just moved into my new apartment in San Diego. As I sorted through boxes, the television was playing the national evening news. There are moments in your life that you never forget. I had no idea a moment that would shape my life forever was about to occur. As the evening anchor said these words, my blood ran cold: "The U.S. Navy is investigating the murder of Petty Officer Allen R. Schindler in Sasebo, Japan." I immediately ran from the other room to catch the rest of the news report. As I caught a quick glimpse of his photo, my mind no longer registered the rest of the words spoken.
I dove into a box to locate a small piece of laminated paper. I had to confirm the spelling of the name of my friend who was now dead. Allen, who had been stationed in San Diego, had become my friend. Before he shipped out, he had given his eclectic group of compadres his military address. He begged his friends to write him. Between college and work, I had never gotten around to sending him even a postcard.
