I am the son of a murder victim. On a chilly Sunday morning in March in 2004, I received a long-distance phone call from my older brother Mark. In a voice trembling with emotion, he informed me that our father was murdered the night before in a bar that my father had recently opened up. Our dad -- our father -- was dead. But the sad truth is that as tragic as my personal story may be, I can draw literally hundreds of similar tales from the lived experiences of the denizens of this fine city here in the pale bosom of a so-called First World nation that casts itself as the envy of the world.