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Local police knew them by name and routinely chased the boys into cornfields and creek beds.

One night, an officer knocked on the door of their house and said, “Mrs.

After one such bout, Mike told his mother: “I was just standing there thinking, ‘Chris, don’t do it, don’t say it.’” Chris also liked to steal.

Once he came out of Best Buy with a car-alarm system under his jacket.

Their mother, Kathy, was a nurse who spoke with the gravelly voice of a smoker.

They seemed destined for each other: Kathy’s father was captured by the Germans after the D-Day invasion; Tim’s father was in a raiding party that tried to liberate his prisoner-of-war camp.

She worried her husband’s ire pushed the twins to sins Tim hoped they would resist.

When the boys were 16, Tim and Kathy moved the family, which included a younger son J.

In fights, he would mouth off and throw the first punch, and Mike would step in to back up his brother.

The family lived on a street of single-story brick houses.

The boys were fraternal twins with good looks so similar it was hard to distinguish one from the other. Their father, Tim Goski, worked in trucking after falling short of a career as a basketball player, keeping the ropy, muscled arms of an athlete.

Goski, do you know your son is out front smoking marijuana?

” A judge later hearing the matter ordered Chris to clean police cruisers as punishment.

The boys sometimes drove from Red Oak, a dry town, into the city where they would slip a homeless man a few dollars to buy them Schlitz Malt Liquor.

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