SIXTEEN
Floyd Ritter wheels the Murder Tours bus into a parking space across the street from the Hyatt Regency. He smiles grimly as he looks out at the entrance to the hotel, which is ringed with yellow crime scene tape. Uniformed police officers stand guard by the doors. He glances in the rearview at his passengers. Every seat is taken. Peeping Toms and voyeurs, Ritter thinks, wanting the thrill of murder without having to pull the trigger. If only you knew what it was really like to kill, Ritter thinks. He shuts off the engine and reaches for the microphone, then stands and faces the passengers.
“Okay, listen up, folks.”
The passengers look up at him with expectant faces. This is the good part, Ritter imagines they’re thinking. This is why we’re here. They’ve looked out at the window
