From Choice is Murder...
Tim Murphy, Peter Krump, Edmund and I would rendezvous at nine or ten o'clock on a Saturday night at Blackie's, a bar on the south end of the Loop--a bar popular with young singles. Sometimes earlier in the week Tim would have gone by himself to the Michigan Avenue Medical Center trash dumpster and retrieved a box of babies. One night Edmund, Peter and I sat at a table at Blackies waiting for Tim to arrive. When he did, he walked into the bar carrying a large paper bag concealing the smallish, duct-taped cardboard box that contained the bodies of aborted babies. He had found the box in the dumpster on Wednesday and brought it to the bar to give it to Edmund and me to photograph the remains.
At first we were humored by Tim's brazenness. But then, to say the least, we all felt ill at ease with the box sitting on the table in the hip singles bar. I was also struck by something else. Young, attractive men and women professionals drank beer and Screwdrivers, played pin ball, watched sports programs, talked and laughed while in their very midst lay the hidden remains of aborted children. The tragedy of what the box contained clashed so completely with the noisy, rock music-filled, worldly gaiety of this place. The box of aborted babies thrust into the swanky bar was a kind of silent indictment of the sort of world the bar represented--the world so completely oblivious to the rejection of the aborted child.
