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Three blocks from Eleanor Coney’s apartment was a basement store filled from floor to ceiling with used books. Stacked on wooden crates serving as shelves, piled in the narrow aisles, wedged into cardboard cartons and dumped into disorderly mounds, were mildewed National Geographics, incomplete sets of encyclopedias, frayed Victorian classics….

His dog had bitten a child. It was very late in the afternoon when Ted Landy stepped into the kitchen, closed the back door, and took off his gloves. “I’ve seen the boy,” he said. “It doesn’t look good.”