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Inside, he claims, were Cunanan, Versace, and San Francisco socialite Harry de Wildt. Right after one or two of these homicides, he probably goes to a gay bar in the afternoon when the news comes on and his face is on TV, and he’s sitting there drinking a beer and loving it.

With characteristic hyperbole, he embellished it for Gruen­wald, adding, “I said, ‘If you’re Gianni Versace, then I’m Coco Chanel!

’ ”Doug Stubblefield, a research analyst and close friend of Cunanan’s, recalls that during Versace’s visit he was walking on Market Street on his way to another gay dance club when a big white chauffeured car pulled up alongside him. Cunanan’s little buddies have been interviewed,” he told me, “and they say the two people he most admired in San Francisco are Mr. Harry de Wildt.”After Versace’s murder, the words of Chicago police captain Tom Cronin, a serial-killer expert I had interviewed, rang in my ears: “Down deep inside, the publicity is more sexual to him than anything else.

“It was very Andrew to do that—have the car pull over.” Although Stubblefield is certain he saw the three, de Wildt told me the day before Cunanan’s suicide, “I categorically deny Mr. Cunanan.” De Wildt admitted, however, that he had been warned by the F. on July 15, said he could identify Cunanan as the killer who walked left down Ocean Drive.

Other witnesses say the killer then cut left into an alley, then right down another alley, where he was captured on a hotel’s security camera.

He tracked possible sugar daddies with care and would say with a pout that he didn’t know whether to fly to New York or Paris for dinner.

He could describe the texture and delicacy of the blowfish he claimed to have eaten at an 0 Japanese lunch.“He was more the tying-up-and-whips type—just the degradation, not the asphyxiation.” The weekend before Cunanan left California for Minnesota, where he probably murdered both Madson and Trail, signs were mounting that he was spiraling out of control. He had stepped over the edge.”Friends remember that Cunanan often drop­ped Versace’s name, and during my investigation I learned that the two men had met in the past.On April 18, Cunanan was in San Francisco and ran into his old friend John Semerau at the Midnight Sun, a gay bar, where he showed him a flyer for an S&M party he was planning to attend the next night. “He grabbed me around the neck so hard he was choking me by his grip,” recalls Semerau, who angrily told Cunanan, “ ‘Andrew, you’re really hurting me—stop it! Now I realize the guy was hunting—he was getting the thrill of the hunt, the thrill of the kill. They had come in contact in a San Francisco nightclub, Colossus, in 1990; Versace was in town because he had designed costumes for the San Francisco Opera.By hiding in Miami after Versace’s murder, Cunanan had broken his usual pattern of picking up a new getaway car and leaving the vehicle tied to a previous killing behind. C., in order to learn the real story of Andrew Cunanan, a chronic liar and consumer of status with an avid appetite for sadomasochistic pornography.“He liked S&M,” his former roommate Erik Greenman told me.Or he could say of a work of art what year it had been painted, who had owned it through the centuries, what churches it had hung in. Cunanan’s story is a singular study in promise crushed.

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