I'm not a person who believes in kismet, nor would anyone who knows me expect me to admit such a thing. I am not a superstitious person. I don't know anything about astrology, and since I have never passed through any doorway linking atheism and agnosticism, divine intervention holds no water for me, either.
To this day, I still feel that I just happened to be in one particular place at one particular time when something interesting happened. True, I was only there because a bomb of amazing magnitude had been detonated in the life I'd known for decades, and the fallout had shunted me away from the site of the explosion with a quickness and fortuitousness my life had never known before, straight into the territory where the events I will chronicle in this book were taking place.
Even a person as macabre as I sometimes can be would never say, "It was meant to be," when talking about a murder. It was not meant to be. At some point before I knew anything about it, it simply was–and a second later, it simply had been.
Then I showed up with nothing but mild curiosity, a notebook and a desire to be neither seen nor heard.
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