Grabbing Munchie by a shell-filled bandolier, he yanked the killer toward the door. On his way out of the room, Remo picked up something from Munchie's desktop arsenal.

"What the hell were you just doing on the phone?" Remo asked as they made their way down the hall.

"Negotiating," Munchie said nervously. His belly jiggled as he huffed and puffed to keep up. "You know, my first television interview, post-tragedy. They've been calling like crazy ever since my story went national. The network-TV people have been very sympathetic to my problem."

They were stepping over the body of a forty something male with salt-and-pepper hair and a hole in his forehead.

"Your problem," Remo said, his voice flat.

Munchie nodded. "I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome," the killer explained. "It makes me tired and irritable all the time. Are you with the police? You don't look like you're with the police. What did you mean about my own funeral?"

"You're claiming you killed two dozen people because you were sleepy?" Remo asked.

"Well, yeah," Munchie said. "I also had Attention Deficit Disorder as a kid. Could have contributed. Oh, and I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"From what?"

"Vietnam," Munchie insisted.

"I saw the news, genius. You're forty-one years old. You were barely out of diapers when Vietnam ended."

Munchie bit his lip. "I suffer from low self-esteem...?" he suggested tentatively.

"You ought to. You're a murderer," Remo replied, shoving the killer along.

"I have a bad body image," Munchie argued.

"Join a gym."

They were at the fire exit at the end of the hall. Munchie's face grew hopeful. He had gotten the impression that this dead-eyed stranger was actually planning to do him bodily harm. "Will I be able to?"