I yearned for a public hue and cry, a real reaction. Something dreadful had happened, and only the air currents—both atmospheric and electronic—seemed agitated. I turned on the TV for a quick look. “Murder at the Mummers’ Parade,” a voice said on the hour. “Details on tonight’s Headline News.” And on another channel, “The Mummers’ Curse? That’s what some wags are calling today’s tragedy, the second in two weeks involving a Philadelphia Mummer.” The second tragedy. But Ted Serfi had disappeared, and he hadn’t been mumming at the time. Besides, there were those rumors, suspicions that he was “connected.” That was nothing like being shot dead in full view of watching crowds. I turned off the TV. I didn’t think Karen needed her day’s horrible images reinforced. We could talk or play games, while I waited to find out if my co-worker was still alive. I was sure they knew by now—his fellow Mummers would have ID’d him in an instant. But there was the notification of next of kin.
