A GRAND JURY was convened to investigate the shootings at the BNA hideout. Nasty charges were hurled left and right. The case was given to a rising prosecutor in the D.A.'s office. Robert Meyer. Jill's father.

The jury at the trial found no evidence of any police mis-conduct. Those who were killed, the police argued, were among the FBI's most wanted, though the description seemed a stretch for Billy Danko. Federal agents paraded a cache of guns confiscated in the raid: Uzis, grenade launchers, piles of ammo. A gun was found in Fred Whitehouse's hand - though sympathizers claimed it had been planted.

"Okay," Cindy said wearily, and pushed back from the screen, "where do we go from here?"

The database referred to an article from 1971, a year later, in the Chronicle's Sunday news magazine.

"You got a morgue downstairs, don't you?"

"Yes, we do. Downstairs. A morgue."

It was now close to four A.M. We flicked on a light in the morgue, and there was nothing but row after row of metal shelves filled with mesh and wire bins.

I frowned, deflated. "You know the system, Cindy?"

"Of course I know the system," she replied. "You come in here during normal working hours and you ask the guy sitting at the desk."

We split up and roamed the dark, crammed corridors. Cindy wasn't exactly sure if the files went back that far; what we were searching for might only be on film.

Finally I heard her shout, "I found something!"

I wound my way through the dark rows, following the s............