“A nationwide manhunt is intensifying for this man: twenty-seven-year-old Andrew Cunanan. Police believe Cunanan could be the serial killer responsible for four killings that stretch from Minneapolis to Chicago. They are requesting that anyone with information about the man you see here on your television screen contact your local police station. He is considered armed and dangerous.”
“But why?”
“They haven’t found this guy yet. I’ve got a great lead that he might be heading south. I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“It’s your father’s birthday, though. Can’t you just take one night off?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I just can’t. Tell Dad I said happy birthday. I’m really sorry. Really.”
“Just come for coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee, Mom.”
“Since when?”
“I never have. Nice of you to notice.”
“Who doesn’t drink coffee?”
“Some people don’t. Anyway, they’re boarding my flight now. I’ve got to go.”
“Where are you going again?”
Isabel sighed. “Miami.”
“Nice work if you can get it. I bet it’s eighty degrees and sunny there.”
“I’m not going on vacation, Mom. I’m going to work.”
“I know, I know. You’re always going to work. Don’t you ever take any time off?”
“Not really.”
“What am I going to tell your father? It’s his birthday, after all.”
“I don’t know,” she said, and then paused. “Wait. Tell Dad his boy turned out just like him. Like in the song.”
“You’re talking gibberish now, Isabel.” Her mother sounded annoyed.
“The Harry Chapin song. You know the one. ‘My boy was just like me. He turned out just like me.’”