APRIL 6, 2001 -a Friday. Edward Teasdale had just tilted back in his Barcalounger to watch the Orioles and Red Sox on CSN, when he heard the shots.

Bam… Bam… Bam… Bam…

Steady shooting.

Bam… Bam… Bam…

Silence.

Teasdale waited. No more shots.

Bayless Place in southeast Washington, D.C., used to be a quiet neighborhood. But in the last several years, Teasdale and his neighbors had gotten practice at what he sourly called “acoustical gunfire analysis.”

This evening’s shots had been evenly spaced.

One shooter. Somebody out there on the street wasn’t in a hurry.

Seven shots, maybe eight.

Not a revolver. An automatic-probably a nine.

Teasdale glanced at the digital clock on the TV-seven thirty-two. He went to the window and pulled the curtain open just enough to get a glimpse of the street, then settled back into the Barcalounger.

Jason Johnson took the mound against Boston.

The day before, Hideo Nomo had thrown a no-hitter for the Sox against Teasdale’s beloved Birds. Tonight, Teasdale wanted revenge.

The clock showed seven thirty-eight. Johnson had struck out the inning’s second batter… no further gunfire outside. Teasdale grudgingly lifted himself out of the Barcalounger.

Might ’s well take a look.

Standing off to the side, he unbolted and opened his front door. It was sunset. The sidewalks were deserted. Anyone who’d been outside had long before taken cover. The dark Ford Taurus was parked about halfway down the block in its usual place. Rhythmic bass thumps of a stereo driving at top volume rocked the air.