Marc discovered "Last Call"--at least for our little house--and I'm giving my endorsement here. It's the early nineties. A closeted married man ends up dead; his body is "disarticulated"; parts are found in various bins, where they shouldn't be. Another guy--the "Norm-from-CHEERS" for a certain gay bar in the West Village--ends up murdered in similar circumstances. And others die. A serial killer must be out and about. An investigation begins. But many cops are homophobic, and terror around HIV/AIDS seems to be fueling new hate crimes. One observer remarks that if you're murdered and you'd like to be a news story, you need to be "white, straight, and killed in Central Park." Meanwhile, the killer becomes careless. He seems to let slip that he works as a nurse--at St. Vincent's? And he might give his real first name to a pianist in a piano bar. Like any other good true-crime story, "Last Call" is a window to anot...