IT was midday deep in the Mojave Desert. Perry, sitting on a straw suitcase, was playing a harmonica. Dick was standing at the side of a black-surfaced highway, Route 66, his eyes fixed upon the immaculate emptiness as though the fervour of his gaze could force motorists to materialize. Few did, and none of those stopped for the hitchhikers. One truck driver, bound for Needles, California, had offered a lift, but Dick had declined. That was not the sort of ‘setup’ he and Perry wanted. They were waiting for some solitary traveller in a decent car and with money in his billfold - a stranger to rob, strangle, discard on the desert.
- In Cold Blood, Truman Capote -