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Some friends were visiting, Tim said.
"Are you sure?" his father asked, unable to hide his disappointment and worry.
For a decade his son, once a star athlete, witty and playful, had plummeted into the darkest quarters of a modern hobo culture, where he hopped trains, squatted in abandoned houses, abused drugs, and begged for money.
In recent months, though, Tim had seemed to be reemerging, planning his future.
Even happy.
"I'm all right, Dad. It's cool," the 28-year-old said, and promised to call later. "Tell Mom I love her."
Tim also phoned his best friend, Crystal Bonner, who traveled with him under his maxim, "Live free." Tim begged her to hang out with him and his friends. Feeling ill, she said no.
The next day, as the sun rose over the shuttered Croydon apartments on 49th Street near Locust in West Philadelphia, police found Tim's body on the roof of the rambling eight-story building, which squatters called "Paradise City."
He had been bludgeoned, his face smashed in.
Two other young wanderers - Conor McCarthy, 25, the son of devout Christians who settled in western Pennsylvania, and his girlfriend, Echo Ward, 25, of California - were charged with Tim's death. On Friday, Echo pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit aggravated assault. Conor's first-degree murder trial is slated to begin tomorrow.
With the trial imminent, those closest to Tim remain haunted.
Crystal is disturbed at the possibility that her friend was betrayed by someone within their free-spirited fraternity, which she says hinges so much on trust.
Tom and Peg Bradly long to know what happened on that roof to cost Tim his life.
And in their anxious days and sleepless nights, they replay the last 10 years, trying to understand why Tim chose to wander aimlessly and abandon what Peg calls their "Ozzie and Harriet" family.
"What causes a kid to give this up?" Peg asks, her eyes filling with tears. "That's what I, for the life of me, won't ever understand."
A photo of a wide-eyed, blue-eyed toddler wearing too-big roller skates; a stack of Cub Scout badges; a photo of a teenager grinning with his teammates at an Olympic training center in Canada; a line of gold-plated, first-place roller-hockey trophies, including for the Junior Olympics and the Garden State's Governor's Cup; a photo of Tim, 17, as a punk-band drummer with a green-and-purple Mohawk.
Also on the counter are a photo of a gaunt, dreadlocked man with nose rings, a goat tattoo and a haunting stare; drug-rehab admission forms and get-well cards; and a stack of printouts from the Internet on the traveling culture.
"Tim just gave up on his normal life to hang with these kids," says Peg, her voice quaking. "I don't know the answer. I wish I knew. . . . I wish I knew."
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