Washington Post | October 9, 1991; Page C1

He's standing there right beside it, bold as brass. The photographer is down nearly on all fours, trying to get the perfect angle. Here come two flatfoots.

Cool Disco Dan, with a bandanna over his nose. Cool Disco Dan, the phantom urban name scrawler, posing next to one of his "tags." In broad daylight, rush hour.

"I always wanted to get this wall," he says. "Did it the first time a year ago. About 10 o'clock at night. Then came back a few months later and traced over it. See, I like the way the buses stop right over there. All kinds of people can look out and see it."

Officer H.B. Burton (or that's what's on the nameplate above his badge) is three feet away now. He and his partner study this little tableau. Their visages are knotting.

Washington Post Magazine | November 18, 1990

He was the essential Washington activist, organizing everything from welfare rights protests to the Barry Commoner campaign. Then, still trying to change the world, he headed back to the land - and toward a fate no idealism could prepare him for.

Bert DeLeeuwThe pathologist testified that the blast entered at the victim's right posterior flank, not dead center in his back, as was commonly thought by the people of Walker Township. The weapon was an "over-and-under." Over-and-under is gun lingo for a rifle-shotgun combination, which is to say a .222 rifle mounted atop a 20-gauge. Hunters often use this model when going for turkey, although some like it for deer. The target-like wound, measuring roughly 14 centimeters in diameter, formed a very distinctive pattern of concentric circles -- a kind of smooth, horrid pebbling. Although there was probably never any real chance of survival, surgeons at J.C. Blair Memorial Hospital labored furiously to remove the pellets for close to two hours.

Washington Post Magazine | May 13, 1990

What I know about trout fishing is that it's done in green places, on quick-moving water, with unlikely equipment - and I'm mad for it.

That Idaho night, the trouting took place in a moonrise, on the Henrys Fork of the Snake, with the Centennial Mountains rising on one side and the Tetons on the far other and with lodgepole pines standing up on the near bank like spooky 60-foot stalks of corn. I was with Ernest Hemingway's middle son, Patrick. I had been interviewing him and his wife for a story all afternoon, and suddenly, after a 9 p.m. dinner, he said, "So why don't we go out?" You see, I just happened to have brought along my gear.