Kill For Me Read Free Page B

to shatter it.
    Didn’t work.
    “So then,” the killer said later, “I shot at the window to break it, and then shot at her several times.”
    Sandee reacted quickly; she started “kicking and screaming.”
    One bullet traveled through her foot, hit her in the face.
    The killer kept firing, screaming as the gun unloaded eight rounds.
    Bang. Bang. Bang.
    Pause.
    Bang-bang-bang. Bang. Bang.
    Sounded like rapid backfires from a car.
    “I think I hit her in the foot and in the leg, like maybe in the torso several times,” the killer later stated. “I am told that she was shot in the head, but I don’t recall shooting her in the head.”
    The killer was staring directly at Sandee’s face while firing. The murderer’s eyes awash in violence and anger as Sandee fought for her life inside her BMW, watching her killer unload round after round into her body at point-blank range. It was almost surreal: happening, but not happening.
    One bullet hit Sandee between the eyes.
    “Look at her face,” Svengali had told his killer, “to make sure she is dead….”
    The killer did that.
    Sandee appeared to be gone—though she wasn’t. There was blood all over her face and torso, soaking quickly into her clothing like sweat. The carpeting on the floorboards of the Beemer was quickly saturated with even more blood.
    Sandee’s killer ran down the driveway fast. Hopped into the car and sped off.
    No lights came on. Nobody seemed to be following.
    “It’s over,” the killer told Svengali, calling him after getting on the main road. “It’s done.”
    Silence.
    “She’s gone?” he asked.
    “It’s over…. I want pizza.”
    “Pizza?”
    Arguably, a stalker had just crossed the line and turned into a cold-blooded, ruthless killer: Having fired at a woman as she sat in her car, this maniac now wanted food. A large pizza, in fact, as if it were some sort of reward, a prize for completing a job they had talked about for months.
    “Yes, I want pizza.”
    “What kind?”
    “I want double cheese and chicken and tomatoes.”
    “You cannot have double cheese.” They were on strict diets, he reminded his killer. Double cheese was too fattening.
    “Why not?” The killer was driving erratically, cruising down Park Boulevard, backtracking over Old Tampa Bay on the 275, heading toward home, in Brandon, on the east side of Tampa, about thirty-five minutes from the murder scene.
    “Why can’t I have double cheese?” The killer sounded like a pouting child. The job was done. The one who did the dirty work should be able to have any damn type of pizza in the world.
    “Because I already ordered the pizzas,” he said.

4
    You’re sound asleep. A noise in the night startles you awake. Ten minutes later, your life has been turned upside down.
    It started at about two o’clock that same afternoon, July 5, 2003, when Anthony “Tony” Ponicall walked into his Pinellas Park, Florida, home from his job at US Airways in Tampa. Tony was bushed. It had been a long shift. Sandee Rozzo wasn’t home. According to Tony, he and Sandee had dated for the past two years. They met at US Airways. Both were ramp attendants. Tony had seen Sandee earlier that morning as she walked in from a prior night’s shift. It was right around sunup, near five o’clock.
    “I was up in the morning,” Tony told police. “I wasn’t ready to go to work yet, but I was up when she came in.”
    They said hello. How was your night? Get some rest. Those little things friends and perhaps lovers say to one another casually during the course of a day. Those words that come out of our mouths at random, as if we’re programmed to say them. Yet never, in our wildest dreams, do we think “Have a good day” will be the last thing we ever say to someone we care about deeply.
    According to some who knew Sandee well, Sandee said she had finally fallen into the relationship with Tony. For a long time, she had viewed what she and Tony had as roommates and friends. Nothing