Fiction | June 01, 1985
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It occurred to Lazaro Reyes, M.D., that if he could kill one child, just one child, everything would be all right again. The problem was to find the child. Having found him, Lazaro would know what to do:a quick glide of the scalpel across the throat, the body hung by its feet over the garden faucet drain. He was sure his hands wouldn’t tremble; he would not hesitate. Such was his rage against that face of innocence: black mop of hair, brown-gold eyes, snub nose and full lips, atop a lanky body within filthy, loose clothes.
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