For a moment I was a normal kid, a happy kid. I'd shot hoops with Meadowlark Lemon of the Harlem Globetrotters and my father was impressed. Three weeks later, just before my eight birthday, I was on a rooftop watching for a priest at the church across the street. My intention was to say "I'm sorry" before I hit the ground. I waited patiently after school for three days for a priest that never showed. For the next ten years, I would struggle with recurring urges to revisit my rooftop. When I flunked out of school and left home, I was confident that I was old enough to be immune to my father's relentless abuse. However, it wasn't until after his funeral that I felt completely free; there was nothing more he could possibly do. I couldn't have been more mistaken. It was fifteen years after his death that my mother, doped-up on morphine, had inadvertently revealed secrets she'd intended to take to her grave. Secrets of sodomy, mob connections, countless abortions, and my father getting away with one of the most horrific unsolved crimes in Chicago's history. He had murdered fifteen-year old Judith Mae Andersen and disposed of her dismembered body in Chicago's Montrose Harbor in 1957. The realization was devastating and once again I longed for my rooftop. Gradually, I found comfort in the belief, that finally, it had to be over. Besides, I was a successful computer programmer, proud of my accomplishments, and happy with my life. What more could he possibly do? Again, I was wrong...