While walking her dogs with her daughter, writer Lindsay Fleming feels compelled to reveal the scary recent murder in Roland Park. We left the house to walk the dog at about nine. The shadows were long, the trees and shrubbery heavy with summer growth, the waxing moon not yet high in the sky. Many of the houses were dark, with neighbors away enjoying the last few days of summer vacation. As we walked along the park, past the house that will always be “the murder house” to me, where the grandparents had been bludgeoned to death by their grandson, I told her. “A woman was murdered not far from here while you were gone. ” It had happened while she was away at camp, and it was pretty much the only extraordinary thing that had happened while she was away. I’d had a hard time finding anything to write in my letters to… Read More
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