The Beverly Hills Sun was one of three exclusive hotels in the chain of Poole Hotels. Located on South Santa Monica Boulevard, a mile from Rodeo Drive, the Sun was five stories of glamour, each room with a name and an individual look.

The Olympic-sized eternity pool on the rooftop was flanked with white canvas cabanas, upholstered seating, and ergonomic lounge chairs-and then there was the open-air bar.

Hot and cool young people in the entertainment business were drawn like gazelles to this oasis, one of the best settings under and above the Sun.

At nine that evening, Jared Knowles, the Sun’s night manager, was standing in front of the Bergman Suite on the fifth floor with one of the housekeepers.

He said to her, “I’ve got it, Maria. Thank you.”

When Maria had rounded the corner with the bedding in her arms, Knowles knocked loudly on the door, calling the guest’s name-but there was no answer. He put his ear to the door, hoping that he would hear the shower or the TV turned on high-but he heard nothing.

The guest, Maurice Bingham, an executive from New York, had stayed three times before at the Sun and never caused any trouble.

Knowles used his mobile phone to call Bingham’s room. He let it ring five times, hearing the ringing phone echo through the door and in his ear at the same time. He knocked again, louder this time, and still there was no answer.

The young manager prepared himself for best- and worst-case scenarios, then slipped his master key card into the slot and removed it. The light on the door turned green, and Knowles pushed down the handle and stepped into the suite.

It smelled like shit.

Knowles’s heart rate sped up, and he had to force himself to go through the foyer and into the sitting room.

Lying on the floor by the desk was Mr. Bingham, his fingers frozen in claws at his throat.