ONE SPECIFIC, and particularly fascinating, detail about the murder was the weighing heavily on Andy's mind, troubling the hell out of him.he thought about it as he turned onto the crowded Pennsylvania Avenue and double-parked in front of the Willard Hotel- th latest helter-skelter murder scene.
he thought about the troubling detail as he marched inside and headed up to Michele Robinson's suite. He thought about it as the smooth-riding elevator whooshed open of the seventh floor, where half a dosen uniforms were standing around, and rolls of crime-scene tape ribboned the hallway like a tangle of distasteful Christmas wapping.
There wasnt much evidence of passion in the first killing, he was thinking. Especially the second murder. The murders were so cold-blooded and efficient. The arrangement of the bodies of the victims seemed to have been art-directed. The kinkiness of the scenes seemed to directed and orderly. This is the exact opposite of the other murders in the area, which were violent explosions of pent-up anger and pure rage.
He didnt get the full significance yet, and neither did anyone else. I spoke to people about th murder case. Not inside th D.C police, and not at the Federal Bureau in Quantico. If , as a detective, he had one basic rule about premeditated murders, it was this: they were almost always based on passion. Thre usually had to be this extreme love. Or hate. Or greed...but these killings seemed to have none of that. It just kept bugging him.
why michele robertson? he wondered as he walked towards the hotel room where she had been murdered. What is this bizarre sycopath doing in Washington? What sick and and cruel game are they playing . . . and why do they crave millions of spectators for their sensational blood sport?
