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March 12, 2004
These are their stories. Their stories always begin in a back ally or quiet stretch of Central Park, in a darkened corner of a parking garage or hall of an SRO. Their stories begin with a startled maid or caustic security guard: there is a casual conversation over coffee, a joking banter to fill the dead hours of the night shift – then they find the body. The jogger or delivery man puts a hand to his or her mouth, steps back, lets out a short, startled utterance. Then the fuzzy base kicks in, and their story begins . . .