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They hadn't covered him with a sheet yet. It was Little Sandy—Jesse. He was naked, with bruises and whip marks on his body, his wrists were tied together with rope, and he was quite dead. I could see in an instant what had killed him—I knew what a strangulation victim in death looked like. All I could think of was that Giacomo Arcardi hadn't had enough of him in the Navigator coming from the airport. He couldn't be satisfied sexually short of this. This was just how Lorenzo Rapino and the mechanical bull rider at the men's club had been killed. The serial killings had moved west.
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