There were vending machines in the hallway. They had been blasted open, their contents looted.

The building was still. The only activity came from the small room in the distant back.

Remo followed a trail of bodies to a rear office. When he peeked around the corner, he saw the face that had been plastered across his TV set an hour before.

Paul "Munchie" Grunladd looked like Satan's Santa. The killer had a wild, untamed beard that clung to his face like a tenacious porcupine. Long, mottled hair stuck out in every direction. What looked like cornrows were merely tangles of dirt and grease.

Munchie was six foot five and weighed more than four hundred pounds. His great, ponderous belly stretched the fabric of his flannel shirt. Buttons strained to bursting.

A shotgun, two rifles, handguns and sacks of boxed ammo sat on the desk, surrounded by a pile of candy from the blasted-open vending machines.

The killer was leaning back in his chair. One finger was digging deep in his ear. In his other hand he clutched a phone. It looked like a toy in his big, meaty paw.

A pair of crisscrossing bandoliers ran over his shoulders and across his chest. Munchie munched casually on Butterfingers and Pay Days as he spoke into the phone.

"No way," the killer was insisting. "You make me so mad, Jane Pauley. I'm warning you, Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters are already in a hairpulling contest over my story over on ABC." The line clicked. "Hold on a sec, I think that's 60 Minutes calling back."

Munchie unplugged finger from ear and tapped the phone.

It wasn't 60 Minutes. In fact, it was no one. Scowling, he tried to switch back to Jane Pauley. He found that she was gone, too.