It's a chilly night on Chicago's Near North Side, and Bill Tomes is sitting comfortably in the warm interior of his silver Buick Park Avenue. Playing softly on the stereo is his favorite cassette, Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic's Saint-Saens. For a moment, at least, the melody seems to have transported him away from this place he calls the "killing field," an eerily barren patch of inner-city landscape that glows starkly in his headlights.
Tomes--or "Brother Bill," as he has come to be known--has seen some of his best friends murdered on this field. The victims are not pals...
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