The scream rent the air-conditioned silence of the hotel corridor.
Having entered the suite only seconds earlier, the chambermaid stumbled from the room crying for help, sobbing, and randomly banging on the doors of other guest rooms. Later, her supervisor would chastise her for this hysterical reaction, but at that point in time she was in the throes of hysteria.
Unfortunately for her, few guests were in their rooms that afternoon. Most were out enjoying the unique charms of Charleston’s historic district. But finally she managed to rouse one guest, a man from Michigan, who, wilted from the unaccustomed heat, had returned to his room to take a nap.
Though groggy from being abruptly awakened, he immediately determined that only a major catastrophe could cause the level of panic the chambermaid was experiencing. Before he could even make sense of her blubbering, he called the front desk and alerted hotel personnel to an emergency on the top floor.
Two Charleston policemen, whose beat included the newly opened Charles Towne Plaza, promptly responded to the summons. A flustered hotel security guard led them to the penthouse suite, where the maid had gone in for early turndown service, only to find that it wouldn’t be needed. The occupant was sprawled on the suite’s parlor floor, dead.
The police officer knelt down near the body. “Holy… that looks like—”
“It’s him all right,” said his partner in an equally awestruck voice. “Is this gonna stir up a shitstorm or what?”