Twenty minutes before he died, Donald Babinger was feeding bits of his cheese sandwich to a pigeon. It was a cold, grey day, and the pigeon seemed grateful for the attention as well as the" crumbs. It pecked eagerly at the bread, ignoring the cheese and the pickle. Babinger was sitting on the steps up to the bandstand, huddled in his coat. The bandstand was where the teenagers hung out in the evening, in the park near the library.