The Murder Book (5 page)

But
this
. This was nothing
but
personal. Reduction of human form to meat and juice and refuse. Creating the antiperson.

He took a deep breath and buttoned his jacket and managed another look at the corpse. How old could she be, seventeen, eighteen? The hands, about the only parts of her not bloody, were smooth, pale, free of blemish. Long, tapering fingers, pink-polished nails. From what he could tell — and it was hard to tell anything because of the damage — she’d had delicate features, might’ve been pretty.

No blood on the hands. No defense wounds…

The girl was frozen in time, a heap of ruin. Aborted — like a shiny little wristwatch, stomped on, the crystal shattered.

Manipulated after death, too. The killer spreading her legs, tenting them, pointing the feet at a slight outward angle.

Leaving her out in the open, horrible statuary.

Overkill,
the assistant coroner had pronounced, as if you needed a medical degree for
that
.

Schwinn had told Milo to count wounds, but the task wasn’t that simple. The slashes and cuts were straightforward, but did he count the ligature burns around both wrists and ankles as wounds? And what about the deep, angry red trench around her neck? Schwinn had gone off to get his Instamatic — always a shutterbug — and Milo didn’t want to ask him — loathed coming across uncertain, the rookie he was.

He decided to include the ligatures in a separate column, continued making hash marks. Reviewed his count of the knife wounds. Both premortem and after death, the coroner was guessing. One, two, three, four… he confirmed fifty-six, began his tally of the cigarette burns.

Inflammation around the singed circles said the burns had been inflicted before death.

Very little spent blood at the scene. She’d been killed somewhere else, left here.

But lots of dried blood atop the head, forming a blackening cap that kept attracting the flies.

The finishing touch: scalping her. Should that be counted as one giant wound, or did he need to peer under the blood, see how many times the killer had hacked away the skin?

A cloud of night gnats circled above the body, and Milo scatted it away, noted “removal of cranial skin,” as a separate item. Drawing the body and topping it with the cap, his lousy rendering making the blood look like a beanie, so inadequately offensive. He frowned, closed his pad, stepped back. Studied the body from a new perspective. Fought back yet another wave of nausea.

The old black guy who’d found her had heaved his cookies. From the moment Milo had seen the girl, he’d struggled not to do the same. Tightening his bowels and his gut, trying to come up with a mantra that would do the trick.

You’re no virgin, you’ve seen worse.

Thinking of the worst:
melon-sized holes in chests, hearts bursting — that kid, that Indian kid from New Mexico — Bradley Two Wolves — who’d stepped on a mine and lost everything below the navel but was still talking as Milo pretended to do something for him. Looking up at Milo with soft brown eyes
— alive
eyes, dear God — talking calmly, having a goddamn conversation with nothing left and everything leaking out.
That
was worse, right? Having to talk back to the upper half of Bradley Two Wolves, chitchatting about Bradley’s pretty little girlfriend in Galisteo, Bradley’s dreams — once he got back to the States, he was gonna marry Tina, get a job with Tina’s dad putting up adobe fences, have a bunch of kids. Kids. With nothing below the —
Milo smiled down at Bradley and Bradley smiled back and died.

That had been worse. And back then Milo had managed to keep his cool, keep the conversation going. Cleaning up afterward, loading half-of-Bradley in a body bag that was much too roomy. Writing out Bradley’s death tag for the flight surgeon to sign. For the next few weeks, Milo had smoked a lot of dope, sniffed some heroin, done an R and R in Bangkok, where he tried some opium. He’d even hazarded an attempt at a skinny Bangkok whore. That hadn’t gone so great, but bottom line: He’d
maintained
.

You can handle this, stupid.

Breathe slowly, don’t give Schwinn something else to lecture about —

Schwinn was back now, clicking away with his Instamatic. The LAPD photographer had spotted the little black plastic box, caressed his Nikon, smirked. Schwinn was oblivious to the contempt, in his own little world, crouching on all sides of the body. Getting close to the body, closer than Milo had hazarded, not even bothering to shoo the gnats swarming his white hair.

“So what do you think, boy-o?”

“About… ?” said Milo.

Click click click.
“The bad guy — what’s your gut telling you about him?”

“Maniac.”

“Think so?” Schwinn said, almost absently. “Howling-lunatic-drooling-crazyman?” He moved away from Milo, kneeled right next to the flayed skull. Close enough to kiss the mangled flesh. Smiled. “Look at this — just bone and a few blood vessels, sliced at the back… a few tears, some serrations… real sharp blade.”
Click click.
“A maniac… some shout-at-the-moon Apache warrior?
You,
naughty squaw,
me
scalpum?”

Milo battled another abdominal heave.

Schwinn got to his feet, dangled the camera from its little black string, fiddled with his tie. His Oakie hatchet face bore a satisfied look. Cool as ice. How often had
he
seen this? How often did this kind of thing come up in Homicide? The first seven — even Kyle Rodriguez, had been tolerable compared to this…

Schwinn pointed at the girl’s propped-up legs. “See the way he posed her? He’s talking to us, boy-o. Talking through her, putting words in her mouth. What’s he want her to say, boy-o?”

Milo shook his head.

Schwinn sighed. “He wants her to say, ‘Fuck me.’ To the whole world — ’C’mon over, whole damn world, and fuck me silly, anyone wants to do anything to me, they can cause I got no power.’ He’s using her like… a puppet — you know how kids move puppets around, get puppets to say things they’re too scared to say for themselves? This guy’s like that, only he likes big puppets.”

“He’s scared?” said Milo doubtfully.

“What the fuck do
you
think?” said Schwinn. “We’re talking about a coward, can’t talk to women, get laid in any normal way. Which isn’t to say he’s a wimpy type. He could be macho. He’s sure nervy enough, taking the time for that.” Backward glance at the legs. “Posing her right out in the open, risking being seen. I mean, think about it: You had your fun with the body, needed to get rid of the body, you’re carrying it around in your car, want to dump it, where would you go?”

“Somewhere remote.”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re not a nervy killer, to you it would just be dumping. Not our boy. On the one hand, he’s smart. Doing it right by the freeway, once he’s finished, he can get back on, no one’s conspicuous on the 101. He does it after dark, checks to make sure no one’s watching, pulls over, arranges her, then zoom zoom zoom. It’s a decent plan. It could work nice, especially this late, rush hour’s over. But taking the time to
stop
is still a risk, just to play puppet. So this wasn’t about dumping. This was showing off — having his cake and eating it twice. He ain’t stupid or crazy.”

“Playing a game,” said Milo, because that sounded agreeable. Thinking about chess, but unable to really reconcile this with any game.

“ ‘Look at me,’ ”
said Schwinn. “That’s what he’s telling us. ‘Look what I can do.’ It’s not enough he overpowered her and fucked the hell out of her — hundred to one we’ll find a mess of semen up her twat, her ass. What he wants now is to share her with the world. I control her, everyone hop on board.”

“Gang bang,” said Milo, hoarsely, flashing back to Hank Swangle’s party at Newton Division. The Newton groupie, a heavy, blond bank clerk, prim and upright during the day, a whole other life when it came to cops. Pillowy, drunk, and glazed when collegial hands had shoved Milo into the room with her. The groupie reaching out to Milo, lipstick smeared, mouthing, “Next.” Like a take-a-number line in a bakery. He’d muttered some excuse, hurried out… why the hell was he thinking of that, now? And now the nausea was returning — his hands throbbed, he was clenching them.

Schwinn was staring at him.

He forced himself to release the fingers, kept his voice level. “So he’s more rational than a maniac. But we are talking someone mentally abnormal, right? Someone normal wouldn’t do this.” Hearing the stupidity of each word as it tumbled out.

Schwinn smiled again. “Normal. Whatever the hell that means.” He turned his back on Milo, walked away without a word, swinging his camera. Stood off by himself next to the coroner’s van, leaving Milo with his bad sketches and compulsive hash marks.

Whatever the hell that means.

A knowing smile. Loose talk about Milo’s sexuality wafting from Rampart and Newton to Central? Was that why the guy was so hostile?

Milo’s hands were clenching again. He’d started to think of himself as maybe fitting in, handling the first seven 187s okay, getting into the 187 groove and thinking he might stick with Homicide, murder would turn out to be something he could finally live with.

Now he cursed the world, got close to the girl. Closer even than Schwinn. Taking in the sights, the smell, every wound — drinking in the horror, telling himself
shut up, idiot, who the hell are you to complain, look at her.

But the rage intensified, flowed over him, and suddenly he felt hard, cruel, vengeful, analytic.

Seized by a rush of
appetite
.

Trying to make sense of this. Needing to.

He smelled the girl’s rot. Wanted, suddenly, to enter her hell.

It was nearly eleven by the time he and Schwinn were back in the unmarked.

“You drive again,” said Schwinn. No sign of any hostility, no more possible double entendres, and Milo started to think he’d been paranoid about the normalcy comment. Just Schwinn flapping his lips, because the guy was like that.

He started up the engine. “Where to?”

“Anywhere. Tell you what, take the freeway for a couple exits, then turn around, go back downtown. I need to think.”

Milo complied. Cruising down the ramp, as the killer had done. Schwinn stretched and yawned, sniffed and produced his bottle of decongestant and took a long red swallow. Then he leaned over and switched off the radio, closed his eyes, fooled with the corners of his lips. This was going to be one of those silent stretches.

It lasted until Milo was back on city streets, driving up Temple, passing the Music Center and the dirt lots that surrounded it. Lots of empty space as the rich folk planned additional shrines to culture. Talking urban renewal — pretending anyone would ever bother with this poor excuse for a downtown, pretending it wasn’t a cement grid of government buildings where bureaucrats worked the day shift and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and everything got cold and black at night.

“So what’s next?” said Schwinn. “On the girl. What do you think?”

“Find out who she was?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard, those smooth nails, nice straight teeth. If she was a street slut, her comedown was recent. Someone’ll miss her.”

“Should we start with Missing Persons?” said Milo.

“
You’ll
start with Missing Persons. Start calling tomorrow morning ’cause MP doesn’t staff heavy at night, good luck trying to get those guys off their asses at this hour.”

“But if she was reported missing, getting the info tonight would give us a head start—”

“On what? This is no race, boy-o. If our bad boy’s out of town, he’s long gone, anyway. If not, a few hours won’t make a damn bit of difference.”

“Still, her parents have got to be worried—”

“Fine, amigo,” said Schwinn. “Be a social worker. I’m going home.”

No anger, just that know-it-all smugness.

“Want me to head back to the station?” said Milo.

“Yeah, yeah. No, forget that. Pull over —
now
, boy-o. Over
there
, yeah yeah yeah stop next to that
bus
bench.”

The bench was a few yards up, on the north side of Temple. Milo was in the left-hand lane and had to turn sharply not to overshoot. He edged to the curb, looked around to see what had changed Schwinn’s mind.

Dark, empty block, no one around — no, there
was
someone. A figure emerging from the shadows. Walking west. Walking quickly.

“A source?” said Milo, as the shape took form. Female form.

Schwinn tightened his tie knot. “Stay put and keep the engine going.” He got out of the car, quickly, got to the sidewalk just in time to meet the woman. Her arrival was heralded by spike heels snapping on the pavement.

A tall woman — black, Milo saw, as she shifted into the streetlight. Tall and busty. Maybe forty. Wearing a blue leather mini and a baby blue halter top. Jumbo pile of henna-colored waves atop her head, what looked to be ten pounds of hair.

Schwinn, standing facing her, looking even skinnier than usual. Legs slightly spread. Smiling.

The woman smiled back. Offered both cheeks to Schwinn. One of those Italian movie greetings.

A few moments of conversation, too low for Milo to make out, then both of them got in the backseat of the unmarked.

“This is Tonya,” said Schwinn. “She’s a good pal of the department. Tonya, meet my brand-new partner, Milo. He’s got a master’s degree.”

“Ooh,” said Tonya. “Are you masterful, honey?”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Tonya laughed.

“Start driving,” said Schwinn.

“Master’s degree,” said Tonya, as they pulled away.

At Fifth Street, Schwinn said, “Turn left. Drive into the alley behind those buildings.”

“Masturbator’s degree?” said Tonya.

“Speaking of which,” said Schwinn. “My darling dear.”

“Ooh, I love when you talk that way, Mr. S.”

Milo reduced his speed.

Schwinn said, “Don’t do that, just drive regular — turn again and make a right — go east. Alameda, where the factories are.”