His death, pronounced just after 8 p.m. on April 6, 1968, will dim his wife’s eyes.

It will stonewall the minds of his four children who, for years, will struggle to understand why their father’s hands no longer fuel swing sets in city parks.

It will bring a congregation and the better part of a divided nation to its knees.

own!” Muhamed Zimic screams. “Get down!” But it’s too late. The six or seven of them riddle Adail’s chest with bullets – each one bursting through the flesh of his back, throwing meat and blood and finally Adail on the sun-scorched yellow mountain grass. Enraged, Zimic clears the lip of the bunker wildly shooting his own gun. He kills three of the approaching soldiers.