Some crimes are so heartbreaking or shocking, they change laws, change society, or even

earn the label, Crime of the Century. But the stories that made headlines and decades past

aren't necessarily remembered today. I'm Amber Hunt, a journalist

and author, and in each episode of this show, I'll examine a case that's maybe lesser known today,

but was huge when it happened. This is Crimes of the Centuries.

Thank you. This is Crimes of the Centuries. Before we begin, a heads up that this episode documents some disturbingly hateful thoughts and speech.

Please take care.

It's just afternoon on August 25, 1967. George Lincoln, Rockwell, pulls into the parking lot

of the speedy laundromat in Arlington, Virginia. He's got a basket of dirty

clothes. It's an ordinary Friday. Rockwell walks inside, greets the attendant, then stops. Oh, I forgot

something, he says. Maybe it's bleach. Something mundane. Whatever the case, that throwaway sentence,

oh, I forgot something? Are his last words.

He walks back to his car, a Chevrolet, starts it up, and backs out of the space. Two shots

crack through the driver's side windshield. The first tears through Rockwell's shirt, but

misses his body, embedding in the seat.

The second doesn't miss.

It hits him square in the chest, rupturing his aorta.

The car, now driverless, rolls backward and bumps another vehicle.

Rockwell somehow manages to crawl across to the passenger seat.

He opens the door from inside and staggers out into the parking lot.

He rises to his feet, barely, and points up toward the flat roof of the laundromat where the shooter had been positioned.

Then he turns, looking back across Wilson Boulevard toward the headquarters of the

...