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September 14th, 1928 was a Friday.

Friday nights were Bohannon's club nights.

His club, his wife understood, was political in nature and was secret unto holiness.

Only those within its inner circle were permitted to attend. He could not even breathe the names of

its members to his wife. At nine o'clock that night, Mrs. Bohannon was seated in the living room of her comfortable

home at 1201 Blackford Avenue, enjoying a quiet chat with a friend, little knowing that tragedy

at that moment was stalking at her doorstep.

Suddenly she thought she heard her name called. The voice, it seemed, came from afar.

Surely she was mistaken. Names come that way, hauntingly, in calm, peaceful hours. But again,

Lillian! There was no mistake in this time.

She opened the door and peered out.

At the curb stood her husband's automobile, lights burning and motor idling.

She thought she saw him slumped in the seat behind the wheel.

Then she heard her name called again, not more than a hoarse whisper this time.

There was calmness in the tone. The gallant William Bohannon would not alarm his wife.

With a shriek, she ran to the automobile. He whispered, Honey, I've been shot.

Two hold-up men.

And his voice trailed away into incoherent mumbling.

There was only to be the words,

Honey, forgive me, you've been so kind,

uttered in a lucid moment in the hospital,

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