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      Stromsoe was in high school when he met the boy who would someday murder his wife and son. The boy’s name was Mike Tavarez. Tavarez was shy and curly-haired and he stared as Stromsoe lay the mace on the cafeteria table. A mace is a stylized baton brandished by a drum major, which is what Matt Stromsoe had decided to become. Tavarez held his rented clarinet, which he hoped to play in the same marching band that Stromsoe hoped to lead, and which had prompted this conversation.

      ‘Sweet,’ said Tavarez. He had a dimple and fawn eyes. He could play all of the woodwinds, cornet and sax, and pretty much any percussion instrument. He had joined the marching band to meet girls. He was impressed by Stromsoe’s bold decision to try out for drum major now, in only his freshman year. But this was 1980 in Southern California, where drum majoring had long ago slipped down the list of high school cool.

      A little crowd of students had stopped to look at the mace. It was not quite five feet long, blackhandled, with a chrome chain winding down its length. At one end was an eagle ornament and at the other a black rubber tip.

      ‘How much did it cost?’ asked Tavarez.

      ‘Ninety-nine dollars,’ said Stromsoe. ‘It’s the All American model, the best one they had.’

      ‘Waste of money,’ said a football player.

      ‘May