There's an old folk tale called The Singing Bone.

In the story, a man is murdered by his own brother and buried beneath a bridge.

Years past, the world moves on, but one day a shepherd finds a bleach-white bone in the dust,

and he carves it into a mouthpiece for his flute. And when he blows into it, the bone begins to sing.

It doesn't play a melody. It speaks a name. It tells the story of the murder.

We call these fairy tales, because we want to believe that death is a door that locks from the outside.

We want to believe that once a voice is extinguished, it stays silent.

But sometimes the truth is too heavy for the grave to hold.

Sometimes the victim refuses to stay a victim,

and sometimes the only person who can solve the murder is the person who was murdered.

I'm Harvey Guillen, and this is Killer Story. It's February 1977, 8 p.m. on a Monday night.

Der Isita Baza is home in her Chicago apartment, talking to a friend on the phone, Ruth. They work together.

The conversation is casual, just two middle-aged women shooting the breeze, but at some point Ruth hears a man's voice in the background.

It sounds like Derizitaita has a gentleman caller over,

which is exciting.

But Ruth never gets the full scoop on who he is,

not even a name.

They make plans to get lunch the next day,

and the call ends around 8.15,

as late as 8.20.

At 8.40 p.m., a couple who lives down the hall from

Thericita smells smoke. At first, they think they left their stove on after dinner, but they

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