The real Chippendale’s Murder Mystery: P.S. Anybody know what the hell happened to Will Mott?
Nick DeNoia, co-creator and choreographer for the New York nightclub ‘Chippendale’s’, was brutally murdered in his office across the street from Port Authority in April of 1987. At the time, nobody really cared. People reacted, but there was not exactly an outpouring of emotion. It was not ‘The Chippendale’s Murder’ that day, or for the days and months that followed. The investigation, such as it was, first lurched and then lagged because the crime was categorized as the nasty ending of a gay love triangle. It was seen as seedy and repulsive. To the detective in charge of the case, it was going to be solved simply. Someone shot Nick DeNoia. Loudmouth, obnoxious, abusive, entitled, Machiavellian Nick DeNoia.
To me, he was not a cartoon villain who ‘gets his’ at the end of a thriller. I want to tell people that Nick was a human being, and that the death penalty is not justice. Shooting Nick in the head was a crime. They are now making a movie about the case called “The Chippendale’s Murder” (it was planned years ago, went away, and is now back). That’s what it was. Murder. Premeditated, coordinated and so profoundly awful, that Nick’s death has taken on a life of it’s own.
In 2015, I met with Ben Stiller, who is playing Nick in the film. I met with the director first, who suggested to Mr. Stiller that we contact each other because I had something positive to say about Nick when nobody else did. It was strange meeting Mr. Stiller. He looks like Nick and moves a bit like he did in a way that left me feeling both haunted and relieved. I remember hugging him before the poor man could move. I remember doing the same thing as I left. Finally, someone was interested in the complexity of the man and the chaos surrounding his life.
A year prior to the shooting, in the fall of 1986, I was a 27 year old post grad film student looking for work as a screenwriter. When I got my Masters in Screenwriting from Columbia I thought I would procure an agent and be on my way to having my thesis screenplay made into a movie, or get a job as a staff writer on one of the few shows that shot at Astoria Studios in Queens. Much to my surprise, jobs were scarce for a screenwriting grad in New York, so when my former college roommate told me her brother worked in the theatrical department of a talent agency, I went to see him.
The talent agency was looking for a receptionist. I took the job and answered phones there for most of my first year. A lot of the clients who were struggling at the time are now stars; John Tutorro, Julianne Moore, John Goodman, and the list goes on and on. It was thrilling seeing them on and off-Broadway, and talking to them in the office when they visited between auditions. Sometimes they came in to borrow money or pore over agency submissions to make sure their names were on lists submitted to casting directors. Sometimes they just came in to get out of the cold, or hang out with each other, or attend the annual Christmas party which was full of free food and booze.
Within the year, I was promoted to Junior Agent. I was promoted partially because of my love for the clients and the satisfaction I got when I booked them a job, and partly because the AIDS epidemic had struck down one of our prized senior agents. I watched Jeffrey Lowenthal waste away, first at work and then in his hospital bed. He was a force, and anyone who knew him or was represented by him knows that to be accurate. He had a saying I still use today. When he pushed too far on a deal and things fell through, he never felt self-conscious about it. Instead he would throw up his hands and tell the actor, “It got away from me”. How true I have found that to be in life.
After Jeffrey’s death, I worked under the tutelage of another senior agent, whose workload had doubled since Jeffrey had died. That agent, David Leibhart, was also struck down by the AIDS virus shortly after. For months he came into the office, threw his briefcase down on his desk and fretted about a spot on his hands. Having just lost Jeffrey, it seemed impossible that David would get sick so soon after, but the spots in fact were the first signs that the virus had taken hold. Panic had begun to set in everywhere in the industry. People were afraid to touch the cups at the water cooler, and avoided close contact and even handshakes with co-workers. To compensate for the double loss of these two talented men, I was promoted to Agent and the company lawyer was “deputized” as well. I was only there for a short time, possibly a year and a half, but it was a seminal time in my life. Anyone who has ever been a talent agent can tell that a year and half at that job can feel like a lifetime. Between Halloween and Christmas I had gone from the outside reception area to sitting at a dead man’s desk across from a lawyer who was a great negotiator, although not nearly as fun as my former workmates.
I went home every night exhausted after hours on the phone followed by a night crawl of the city searching for untapped talent. I peeked in the shadows in a small theater on one of the Alphabet Streets, or in the then unappealing Meatpacking District. Inside the theaters there were usually about ten rows of broken seats and a stage upon which stood an actor or actors, waiting for someone like me to find them. I miss showcases. At the time, I dreaded these outtings. They were depressing and smelled of piss and poorly recirculated air. Now I think of them fondly. If it all sounds ‘noir’, it was. I got mugged more than once, surrendering my purse with a sigh of the repeatedly offended. Still, had I stayed inside my comfort zone, I would have missed seeing Willem Defoe prance around the stage in a grass skirt with nothing underneath (God bless ‘The Wooster Group’), or a production of one of Keith Reddin’s newest plays.
After awhile, I grew restless and frustrated. I was spending too much time dealing with interoffice politics and a new world of theater where celebrities filled all the good leading roles. I wanted to quit, but had no other job options and I had rent to pay. Luckily (or so I thought), a friend told me about a possible opportunity working with someone she knew who was a talent manager.
Will Mott was looking for a partner to help him with his business. He didn’t like to work alone. He didn’t need any financial investment from someone, just a second ‘pair of hands’ to help act as liason between the actors and their agents. I had never heard of such a job. None of my clients were famous enough to have managers yet. It was explained to me that managers had more of a relationship with the clients and the casting and theater establishment, while leaving the negotiating to agents. It sounded perfect for me. For a time it was.
I met with Will Mott one rainy day at the Empire Diner on the West Side to discuss our partnership. The lunch went so well, I gave notice at the agency and started work within two weeks.
Will Mott had a very round head encircled by stray strands of blonde hair and a button style nose with round blue eyes. He had a wide smile held up by a rather strong chin. He was from somewhere down South and had a very soft accent, stretching out words to make room for an extra breath here and there. He smoked cigarettes openly but held it between his lips at the corner of his mouth, ready to pluck it out and extinguish it in an instant, as if afraid he would get caught and chastised for the habit.
The business was called Will Mott Management. Will Mott is a man I think of nearly every day. Will Mott, whose name offers no results from a google search, no matter how deeply I wander into the vortex of ‘Will Mottage’. I realize I am repeating his name, like someone hoping to make contact with the dead at a sceance. I heard he died homeless on the streets of New York. I pray it is as fantastic a story as it sounds. Fantastic as in ‘not real’, for that rumor pains me. I really hope this shout out works, because I need to talk to my old partner. The problem is, there are no other hands to hold onto while I send my plea into the beyond. It’s just me out here trying to bring him back to life. To my life.
I want Will Mott to confirm that we knew Nick DeNoia in a different way from other people, and that he remembers Nick the victim of a shooting, rather than a worthy target. The first words I heard from someone who heard about the incident were “I’m not surprised someone shot Nick DeNoia.” I was, and I can say for a fact that no one was more surprised than Will Mott. Perhaps if Nick had been successful at the time, people would have felt sorry for him. It seems to me that when someone famous, even with a loathsome past, dies by another’s hand, all is forgiven. Such is not the case for someone on the fringes. I have met and worked with people whose behavior was just as bad or worse, but because they were respected for their work, their devious dealings were not acknowledged. Nick made the mistake of getting shot while he was still trying to climb his way to the top.
Will Mott, Nick and I all shared an office. The space had an odd setup. Every morning I stepped off the tiny elevator with it’s circular window with metal webbing encased inside dirty glass. I walked the few steps to our always open door, greek diner coffee cup and pack of Marlboro’s in hand. We had two desks at each opposite wall, one for me and one for Will. Through a second interior door by my desk, lay Nick DeNoia’s office. This meant he had to walk through our space to get to his. The setup lent itself to socializing. Whenever Nick strutted in, he’d stop and talk casually with Will and myself. We talked about how cold it always was in the office, how he’d been up all night, and sometimes he would just stand in the middle of the room or by one of our desks, holding forth on some random topic or another. His hours were random, and his presence may have been more deeply felt when held in comparison to his absences.
I found Nick charming and funny and flirtatious. There are plenty of people who will read this and find these words outrageous, infuriating and naive. Those people remember him as cruel, controlling and outrageously selfish and unethical. I never read the book that was written about the murder. It was written by someone at the club who knew him as nothing more than a major dick. I understand that. I am also asking that those people understand that there was another man in there. People are complicated, and Nick was living proof of that. There was something about him, different from charm, but with a similar magnetic pull. He was someone who gave off the air of being able to handle any situation in a dominant fashion. That was my experience, and I believe that we experience people more than we get to know them. If I have offended anyone who was offended by him, I am sorry. I am also sorry for what he must have thought when he found himself staring down the barrel of the gun. Hate him, yes. Revile him, yes. Look down on him, yes. Wanted him locked up, okay, I believe anyone who says they have reason for wanting that to happen. Having his head blown off, not so sure I can wrap my head around that. Maybe I am just arguing against the death penalty here.
There was one other positive attribute to Nick, and that was that Will Mott had loved him. I could see that he did, although Will mentioned it outright on only one ocassion. The sentiment may have been one sided, but Nick never took advantage of that as far as I could tell. Nick held his secret preference for men rabidly, assuming a personality that was a sort of caricature of a heterosexual man. He wore unbuttoned shirts that showed off a hairy chest, and he walked with a swagger, not a swish. He impressed me as a homosexual man who was desperately trying to be seen as the polar opposite, running a club where men stripped for women to prove that he wasn’t gay.
Ogling those male strippers was exactly what Nick would do when he auditioned new dancers in the office. Sometimes Nick would have them sidle up to my desk and plunk down a boom box on the corner, having them audition for the nightclub by dancing in front of me. I noticed that Nick enjoyed this more than I did. I thought it was silly and the three of us, Nick, Will and I, would laugh afterwards about how red my face would turn while the men gyrated by my in-box (pun intended). Chippendale’s was built for women to drool over men, not men to ogle other men. And then there was AIDS. What nightclub owner with male strippers being ogled by women wants to be part of that community? Not Nick.
Nick had been married to Jennifer O’Neal, whose career he oversaw for a time during their relationship.They divorced, but Nick always told everyone about the marriage within minutes of meeting them. He also spent a good amount of time sharing his two Emmy statues for a children’s show he had produced called “Unicorn Tales”. He held them up and looked at them frequently, with pride and a sense of melancholy. I think those Emmy’s did him in spiritually. He was so proud of them. He thought they would prove his talent as a producer. I believe he was heartbroken when the awards didn’t bring him the credibility in television and film that he so desperately wanted. How does a man go from children’s shows to male strippers? Fucking show business. Just like the death of a relative, it brings out the worst in people. An inheritance can break the bond of family and friendship and the frantic need for lucritive properties can lay waste to dozens. Even the most pious of producers will sell or eat their young for success.
The day of the murder Will and I had a meeting set up for a client of ours at William Morris, which Will was supposed to attend. He knew the agent, and the client was mine. At the last minute, I decided to go in his place. Will wasn’t feeling well, and took me up on the offer quickly. The meeting went smoothly, and on the way back to the office I suggested that the client and I stop for a cup of coffee. At the time it seemed just as random as it does now. I remember thinking that. ‘Why am I suggesting this?’ I thought. I had already had my one morning cigarette and ‘cuppa joe’.
Upon returning to the building I saw that the entrance was wrapped in police tape, and that there were police officers pushing back a curious crowd. I immediately had a bad feeling when I saw the yellow strands of tape hanging from construction horses, and a random checkerboard arrangement of orange traffic cones. I knew somehow that something had happened on our floor. In our office. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was Nick’s recent level of stress, the shouting into the phone about his business partner and arguments with Floridian nightclub owners. When I told the officers where I worked they told me to go home and immediately phone my business partner. I ran home and did just that.
The phone rang only once before Will answered it. “They’ve shot Nick”, he said. Someone took the receiver from him and said, “Stay where you are, we need to speak with you. Why did you leave the office and return during the time the event took place?” I have asked myself the same question for the last thirty years. Fate, a sense of foreboding, some kind of premonition on my part? No. Random ass shit. That’s the scariest part. I just made decisions in the moment. It may be referred to nowadays as practicing mindfulness. Living in the moment lost it’s lustre for me for a long time. I never knew which decision, however small, might affect myself or my family.
I grew impatient waiting for the detective, and I was leaving for the office when I saw a man in a trenchcoat walking down the hallway towards my apartment, accompanied by two officers. I remember clearly how silly the detective looked sitting on my floral futon, and how there was hardly any room for the other officers in the rest of the space, one of them forced into the kitchen area just to find a place to stand.
After a brief conversation during which the detective proposed the love triangle theory, I was told that I needed to accompany the officers to the police station. I was ushered into the backseat of a police cruiser, behind a thick nearly opaque divide. The car stopped at one point to intervene in an armed dispute and then resumed the drive down to the station. Things had started moving forward of their own weight, and I found myself entangled in a headspinning situation beyond my control. The detective explained to me that they needed my fingerprints. I was also told not to leave town. It was just a procedural thing, he said. I knew it was because I had left the office during the exact time of the murder. That by stopping for a cup of coffee, I had missed the entirety of the crime. It seemed like motive on paper, but the detective assured me it was just formality. I was in shock. I rolled my thumb over the inkpad with the hand held guidance of one of the officers.
I was not afraid for myself. I was afraid for Will. If they were investigating the theory of a love triangle, I worried that they would implicate him in the geometrics of it all. That night I watched the evening news and everything they said was a lie. The whole description of the office and the incident and everything but Nick’s name was innaccurate. To this day I don’t believe a word an investigative reporter says in regards to a crime.
Memories of traumatic incidents can be tricky. I wonder if some of my recollections are colored by a need for self comfort, protecting myself from remembering just how awful that day was and the misery of the days that followed. Sometimes I wonder if I am embellishing the horror of it all and need to let go of what happened. No. There was shock, there was terror, there was blood, and there was indifference, and I am haunted by it. There were three and now there is just me. That is the mind bending part. I know what I know because of what I saw: a closed door with part of a body jutting out beyond the legs of a desk. Blood soaking the walls and the floor. A detective who had left the door ajar talking to a few other plain clothes men. Blood on our office floor from where Will had stumbled to call 911.
Nick had been sitting behind his desk in an office he paid rent on, on the ninth floor of a building across the street from the landmark bus station, when a hit man who’d been paid what I remember was a shitty amount of money (is there a good amount of money for killing someone, are there ‘quotes’ or favored nations clauses for such work?) shot him point blank in the head. The rest Will told me in great detail as the coroner arrived and the circle of discussion widened outside Nick’s office door.
Will said he went to use the bathroom and inside was a man nervously washing his hands in the sink. Will waited for him to finish, wondering where the man might be going, as we were the only office open on that floor. Just the same, he shrugged it off and went back inside the office to his desk. Soon after, the same man from the bathroom, walked up to Will and said, “Are you Nick?” Will answered no. The man continued past my desk and into Nick’s office where he shot him in the head at close range. He then left quickly, but methodically. Will ran to Nick, but blood was shooting up from his head like a fountain and would not be contained. Will tried to hold the wound closed somehow, gave up and cradled him in his arms until the blood and all of its life giving properties had stopped spurting.
After Will told me everything, he forgot it. It is a kind of amnesia not unheard of in people who have witnessed a violent crime. I had taken in every word, every image, and the fear tansferred to me with a force I have never experienced before or since. I cannot abide murder mysteries or crime shows in general. That shit is not entertaining. It can happen. To you or me or someone we know. That is a fact I did not know at the time. I understand it all too well now. Some of my memories are blurry, while others are crystal clear. Voices, feelings, can be filled with details, while other things, such as what Nick was wearing and whether or not he smoked or did drugs or what was said the day before, or sometimes even the date of the murder draw a blank in my mind.
Both men are gone, Nick with a shot to the head, Will via slow fade into non existence, leaving me with an indelible imprint of what really happened that day. I am haunted, but not by Nick. I am haunted, but not by Will. I am haunted by the living who dealt with the murder ‘most foully’. The gossips, the detectives, and the tell alls. I am not saying that I am a better detective than the one the NYPD had assigned to the case. I just know what I know. Which is that you should always follow the money, right? When your preconceived notions of who you think people are get in the way, a dead man can lay underground for a long time while everyone above it fucks around. Why on earth would anyone pursue the theory of a love triangle when Nick De Noia was locked in a very hostile battle over Chippendale’s franchising with his own partner, ‘Steve’ (Somen was his given name) Banerjee. Banerjee was in his forties, as was Nick, and both men were desperate for Chippendale’s to be the making of their fortunes. The problem was that the franchisee’s, which were nightclubs in other cities, like Miami, liked Nick and not his partner.
It is an absolute fact that Nick would scream at club owners, and he was beligereant and underhanded in his dealings with Banerjee. He knew he was screwing over his partner, but the whole franchising thing started moving forward fast, and Nick wasn’t going to let anyone derail that train. I remember a meeting in his office with Banerjee and how freaked out Nick was afterward. I think he was surprised that he couldn’t charm his way out of the situation.
In addition to the sinister world of greed and police indifference, of strange news reporting and overworked coroners and creepy ‘looky loos’, there was the psychic, a friend of one of our clients, who scanned the office for Nick’s spirit. Her so called ‘reading’ of the space buried myself and Will by claiming to have resurrected the spirit of Nick, and that he was an angry, vengeful wraith roaming our offices, stuck between two worlds. She may as well have unplugged the phones, turned off the lights and closed the doors on any of our futures. I feel preyed upon by that memory. I also had a burning question for her that I never asked nor had answered. If she was psychic, why on earth didn’t she fucking tell us this was going to happen in the first place? I tried to keep the business together. I stayed on top of the other client’s needs as best I could, but it was soon apparent, that wasn’t enough.
I was in for a terrible shock the first time I visited Will in his apartment after the murder. He lived in the village in an ivy covered brownstone. I had always liked his place. There was an Antebellum via New York Public Library vibe to it. Now, it was strewn with newspapapers and true crime paperbacks and the smell of weed. I had no idea how to talk to him. The day of the murder we had never been more close. Now it was like sitting across from a stranger. I felt it then. The world got smaller. I realized there would be no more Will Mott Management. Banerjee had seen to that as well. I guess you could say a stray bullet had ricocheted out of Nick’s office and into ours.
Will Mott disappeared before my very eyes. The life was drained from him and his skin was gray from lack of sun and spirit. He couldn’t mourn so he withdrew into himself. I know that now. It doesn’t make the memory any less frightening. I don’t know which was scarier. being in our office with a dead man or being in Will’s apartment with him, alive but lifeless just the same. He only wanted to talk about Manson, or Bundy, the smell of pot reeking in the curtains and throw rugs.
Will’s apartment had itself become a crime scene. A kind of slow murder of the soul. A suicide? Not really. I think whoever killed Nick, killed Will and the psychic just threw the first shovelfull of dirt on both graves. I suppose they died together in secret just the way they had lived in secret. One gentle man who loved a brute, and the brute who let him. A confused man child with a hairy chest and manly gait who would peek his head out from his office in between calls and chat with Will and I for a few laughs before retreating to his desk, feet up, screaming obscenities at club owners while his two Emmy’s for children’s programming sat on the shelf behind him.
With Will absent, I had to go into the office alone every day for weeks after the murder to answer the phones, and pull messages from the machine. There was police tape across the door of the office, strewn in a manner easily outdone by my children on Halloween with their Party City fake yellow strips strewn across our gate.I remember sitting there pressing the black piano key of a play and hearing requests from those who still hadn’t heard the news, those who offered condolences, the ones who shared their fears of coming in, and the curious ones who wanted me to phone them back for a color commentary.
There was blood on the floor near my desk, and the door to Nick’s office had been left ajar. I fought the urge to look behind the door at the empty chair and the blood on the walls and desk in the back office. I was afraid. I was afraid that whoever had done it might come back. The elevator and the bathroom were within my sightline and I wondered who else might come out from one of the doors. I remembered the advice Will had given me after the shooting: “If anyone ever comes up to you and says “Are you Nick? just say “no.’’
The police dismissed me as a suspect and deemed that I was not a flight risk, and as soon as my travel ban was lifted I got the hell out of town. I fled the City to live with a friend in North Carolina for a bit. I hung out in bars filled with Marines from Camp LeJeune and had affairs and tried to distract myself from what had happened. I stayed for a little while before returning to the City. I took temp jobs and met a guy and took his last name so that nobody would recognize mine. I worked in law firms mostly, proofreading long electrical company contracts and transportation regulations. I worked at the World Trade Center for a time, at the Port Authority offices. I convinced my husband to move to California where I continued my undercover persona and worked in casting and other odd jobs on studio lots.
Years later a friend called me and said, “Hey, you know that murder you told me about in your office? They just solved it”. I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s not that I had moved past it. Far from it. I had tried to put it out of my mind. I figured nobody cared about what really happened, and I couldn’t handle remembering it. Only it had changed me. I sat at home afraid to go out. I was afraid to make choices because I believed the wrong ones could affect you for life. Because it’s fucking true. I could barely figure out what to eat for dinner. The news made me angry. It had been Banerjee all along and he had hung himself in prison. The first bit of news was upsetting enough, the second bit was infurating. Why didn’t anybody figure this out sooner? Why didn’t anybody talk to me or Will? Why did Banerjee get to hang himself?
I phoned a victims of violence group but hung up when they asked me if I had lost a child. I felt like a wimp. Yet I was stuck. My husband, a producer/writer in the entertainment industry, came home one day with a dvd of a TV movie I hadn’t known about. It was about the murder, and it was made for the USA Network. It upset me because a cartoonish version of Nick was all that was shown. He was portrayed as a screaming asshole, of course. I couldn’t watch the whole movie, but there was one scene I really wanted to see. As sick as it sounds, I wanted to watch the re-enactment of the crime. I wanted to see with my own eyes what Will had seen. The exterior of the office was all wrong, but Nick’s office was dead on. The hitman entered the office and raised the gun and shot Nick. I couldn’t look away. I thought it might damage me even further, but instead I found it cathartic. It was somehow proof that it really happened.
When Banerjee killed himself, I didn’t feel sorry for him. I am sure in the film he will be portrayed in some sort of sympathetic fashion. I hear that Dev Patel is playing Banerjee. I love Dev Patel, but I worry that he’s about twenty years too young to convey the desperation of an older man, like Nick, who knew he was staring down his last chance at showbiz success. Prove me wrong, please. Not that anybody cares what I think, I am happy that in the film, Ben Stiller will play Nick. I know he will get it right. “Aren’t you ever an asshole at work?” I had asked him when we met. He nodded his head. I said, “What if somebody shot you for it?” I rethought my comments driving home afterwards, because Nick was not shot for being asshole , no matter how many people think that was a fitting end to his life. He wasn’t shot because he violated anyone or stole a business out from under his partner or many of the other wrongdoings for which he was guilty. He was shot over money.
My sadness is not solely, or even mostly, connected to what happened to Nick. My real sorrow is that nobody cares about Will. He will not be mentioned in the film. I play no part in the dramatization of events, and that’s as it was in life. What happened in that office was witnessed by one man and the aftermath by myself. I was a bystander in Nick’s life and in his death. It is not part of the story, but it is part of my story. Will was a huge part of Nick’s life, and as far as I can tell, nobody ever knew or cared. I feel guilty for not keeping better track of Will. I should have tried harder. If somebody out there knows any different and thinks this is a lot of hooey because he is fine and living a nice life somewhere in North Carolina, well then, I look forward to making a fool out of myself for this rendition of events.
Whether or not he’s out there, he’s a part of me, as is Nick. So much happened that day, that year, that decade, that fed into the shooting. The thing is, not much has changed. The same thing would happen today, I am convinced of it. People are desperate in the entertainment industry. There’s something about the business that makes people crazy. It’s like some sort of meta symbolism of what it means to leave a legacy, to make a mark. It’s like politics of course. Maybe business too. Nick wanted that. If he was alive today, he most certainly would have been a consultant on Magic Mike (whatever kind of monster Nick was to some people, I’m just being real about the business), and he would have driven everyone around him crazy. I’d like to think they would have just barred him from the set rather than blown his head off.
I wrote this for myself, I confess. I wrote this because I want more than anything, for someone, maybe Will himself, to tell me what became of him, even if it’s hard to hear. I have come to look more fondly on the human race, as I have come to understand that death, and murder in particular, needs to be explained. People come up with reasons like, ‘he ate too much sugar that’s why he had a heart attack’, or ‘she shouldn’t have dressed like that and walked alone down that street’. I get it. I still hate it. I have learned to make decisions, through trauma therapy and a lot of hard work. I sometimes have trouble still, taking out my car keys and putting them back, wondering if a slow elevator is saving me from harm, or a fast one delivering me away from it. People scare me to this day as they are unpredictable. They are often desperate and tell themselves stories where they try to orchestrate a winning end. When their best laid plans start to unravel, sometimes they do too. I’ve got the flashbacks to prove it.
I’ve been back to New York and stood outside the building. It’s just a building now, but it was a set piece for awhile. It will probably make a very good movie. Everone knows who the killer is, but nobody knows how many other lives he took that day.
