Warhol's Prophecy

CASA CASUARINA, OCEAN DRIVE, MIAMI, FLORIDA

The bullets felt heavy in his hand.

The young man in the white shirt and grey shorts fed the .40-calibre rounds into the magazine, and watched: eyes alert for the one he sought.

He would not be difficult to spot.

The target’s routine was so predictable it was almost robotic.

Every morning around 8.30, the man with the silver-grey hair would exit through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the mansion. He would then walk a few blocks at a leisurely pace, enjoying the magnificent weather, occasionally nodding greetings to those he recognized.

Then he would return, to be swallowed up again by the palatial grandeur of the residence he loved.

So predictable.

The young man studied the huge villa – seeing others walk past its stone steps.

Some would look up towards the Mediterranean-style gates. Others merely passed by.

The young man watched as patiently as a bird-watcher waiting to get a glimpse of some incredibly rare species.

He hefted the pistol in his hand, feeling its weight. The coldness of the steel was a marked contrast to the warmth he felt on his bare flesh.

The sun in Miami that morning was warm, even at such an early hour. It hung in the sky like a burnished talisman, suspended in a cloudless firmament.

The young man took off his dark glasses for a moment, wincing up at the sun.

He didn’t look at his watch. He hardly needed to. The man he waited for seemed to have his own built-in timing device. His morning stroll was like a ritual.

The young man knew: he had watched him perform it enough times.

When he saw the grey-headed figure approaching the gates, his expression didn’t change. He merely watched as the older man mounted the steps, newly purchased magazines gripped in one hand.

He began to pull open the ornate gates.

The young man strode towards him, his heart thudding harder against his ribs.

The time had come.

He pulled the pistol from his shorts and raised it so that the barrel was practically touching the back of the grey-haired man’s head.

In the stillness of the wakening day, the sound of the first shot was thunderous.

The bullet erupted from the muzzle of the pistol and – from point-blank range – drilled its way through bone and brain. A geyser of blood erupted from the wound, some of it spattering the young man himself, who barely blinked.

He fired again.

Another thunderous discharge.

More blood.

The grey-haired man fell forward, crashing face down onto the stone steps. Blood from his head wounds began to cascade down them like a viscous waterfall.

The young man stood there for precious seconds, staring at the body, then he turned and hurried away, aware that someone was already hurtling down the main path from the palazzo, shouting at him.

On the steps themselves, a spreading pool of blood stained the stonework around the bullet-blasted head of Gianni Versace.

14 July 1997

People don’t know me. They think they do, but they don’t.

Andrew Cunanan

People always turn away, from the eyes of a stranger.

Afraid to know what lies behind the stare . . .

Queensrÿche