"Your son is dead," announces the beefy police chief at my door that Sunday, May 18, 2003. No preamble. To the point. And with those words, the Chief and I freeze in memory's tableau. I can feel my life shatter like glass, cracks moving outward until in slow motion they agonizingly separate and fall one by one hitting the floor with sounds that tell you that the deed is done and cannot be reversed.