Nocturnal: A Novel

silver-haired man who moved with the stiff slowness of age. He was squatting on his heels, examining some detail of the deceased.

Light-colored roofs aren’t a good complement to splattered blood. Long brown lines and streaks marked the rough gray paint, creating a Jackson Pollock canvas of death and dirt.

The body lay twisted in a rather unnatural position. The deceased’s legs looked broken — both forelegs and femurs.

“Wow,” Bryan said. “Someone had it in for that guy.”

Pookie put on his aviator sunglasses, then feathered back his heavy black hair. He’d started doing that since he began the series bible — Hollywood wasn’t calling yet, but Pookie Chang would be ready when it did.

“Had it in for a child rapist? Gee, Bri-Bri, I can’t imagine a connection like that. What’s under the tarp, I wonder?” Pookie pointed to the right of the body. A blue, police-issue tarp flapped in the light morning breeze, its corners held down by duct tape. The tarp lay flat against the roof, no room for body-sized lumps — or even severed-limb-sized lumps — beneath it.

Some of the streaks of dried brown blood led under the blue material. The wind caught an edge of the tarp, just a little, lifting it. Like the flash of a fan dancer, Bryan saw a here-then-gone glimpse of what was underneath. Was that a drawing of some kind?

“Hey,” Pookie said, “the ME … is that Old Man Metz?”

Bryan nodded as soon as Pookie said the name. “Yeah, that’s the Silver Eagle all right. I haven’t seen him outside of the ME’s office in … like five years or so.”

“That pisses me off,” Pookie said. “I mean, even more than before. Did you know Metz was a consultant on that Dirty Harry reboot? Metz knows Hollywood types. And Verde gets to work with him? Verde is a pig-fucker.”

Metz wore a blue uniform jacket — gold braid around the cuffs, two rows of polished brass buttons down the chest. Most of the people from the medical examiner’s office wore windbreaker jackets for pickups, but not Metz. He still sported the same formal attire that had been de rigueur for his department back in the day.

Metz had been the main guy in the ME’s office for thirty years. He was a law enforcement legend. When he walked into a courtroom, lawyers from both sides trembled. Under examination, he often made lawyers look like idiots. He’d written textbooks. He’d been consulted by some of the world’s top crime writers. What Metz didn’t do anymore, though, was go out into the field. The guy was pushing seventy. Even the great ones have limits.

“I’m pissed,” Pookie said. “You ever see Metz in a courtroom? He’s so effing cool. And he’s the only one with a better nickname than you.”

Some people in the department called Bryan the Terminator. “I’m half of Schwarzenegger’s size and I don’t look anything like him.”

“It’s not about looks, dummy, it’s because you kill people,” Pookie said. “That, and you have all the emotional response of a used Duracell. Don’t be so sensitive. People only say it because they respect you.”

Pookie would think that. He saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Pookie didn’t seem to hear the condescending tone with which people used the nickname. Some guys in the department thought Bryan was trigger-happy, a cop who used the gun as a default action instead of as a last resort.

“I’d rather you didn’t use that name, okay?”

Pookie shrugged. “Well, work as long as Metz and get that fabuloso gray do, and maybe they’ll call you the Silver Eagle instead of him. I mean, look at that hair. Home-slice looks like a walking shampoo commercial.”

Metz looked up from the body. He stared at Bryan and Pookie for a second, gave a single nod — chin down, pause, chin up — then went back to work.

“He’s so cool,” Pookie said. “I’d like to be as cool as that when I’m his age, but I think I’ll be busy filling my pants and drooling on myself.”

“Everyone has to have goals, Pooks.”

“True. Oh, that reminds me. Later I’ll tell you about my stock tip. Depends adult undergarments. An aging boomer population makes that stock gold. Brown gold, Bryan.”

“Not now,” Bryan said. “What the hell is that under the tarp?”

Rich Verde looked up from the body and locked eyes with Bryan and Pookie. He shook his head. It didn’t take advanced skills to read his lips: these fucking guys.

Pookie waved, high and happy. “Morning, Rich! Helluva day, ain’t it?”

Rich walked over. Birdman followed, already shaking his head slowly and rolling his eyes.

An odder couple you could not find. Rich Verde was pushing sixty. He’d been busting ass back when Bryan and Pookie were in diapers. Verde still dressed in the cheap polyester suits that had been in style when he’d made his bones thirty years earlier. His pencil mustache just screamed douchebag. Birdman had been promoted from Vice just a few weeks earlier. With his scraggly brown beard, brown knit hat, jeans and tan Carhartt jacket, he looked more like someone who would be the arrest-ee than the arrest- or.

Verde walked right up to Pookie until they almost touched noses.

“Chang,” Verde said. “What the fuck are you two cocksuckers doing here?”

Pookie smiled, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic case and gave it an audible rattle. “Tic Tac?”

Verde’s eyes narrowed.

Pookie leaned to the left, gave an upward nod to Bobby. “Hey there, Birdman.”

“ ’Sup,” Birdman said. He smiled. The morning sun glinted off his gold front-left incisor.

“Bobby, don’t talk to this asshole,” Verde said. “Clauser, Chang, get your asses the fuck outta here.”

Pookie laughed. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, but I kissed yours,” Verde said. “With tongue. Far as you know, I’m your daddy.”

“If so, I thank God that chronic halitosis isn’t congenital.” Pookie leaned to the right, looked over Verde’s right shoulder. “I see the Silver Eagle came out for this one. That’s good, Rich — that means everything will be shipshape when Bryan and I take over.”

Verde pointed to the roof door. “Get lost.”

The wind reversed direction, bringing with it that smell — urine.

Urine … and something else …

“Jeez,” Pookie said. “Speaking of Depends, did someone forget theirs today?”

Birdman nodded. “The perp pissed on him, man. Pretty messed up, huh?”

Verde turned. “Shut the fuck up, Bobby.”

Bobby held up his hands, palms out. He walked back to Metz and Paul Maloney’s body.

“Hey,” Bryan said. “You guys smell that? Not the piss … that other smell?”

Pookie and Verde both sniffed, thought about it, then shook their heads.

How could they not smell that?

Pookie offered Verde the Tic Tacs again. Verde just glared.

Pookie shrugged and put them away. “Look, Polyester, do me a favor and be thorough with your report, okay? Once the chief sees the vic’s name, you know she’s going to give the case to us. We’d hate to have to call you to fill in the blanks.”

Verde smiled, shook his head. “Not this time, Chang. Zou put us on this case herself. I wouldn’t rock the boat on this one if I was you.”

Pookie’s ever-present, condescending grin faded a bit. He was eyeing Verde up, seeing if the man was telling the truth.

The roof suddenly shifted; Bryan stumbled left, trying to keep his balance. Pookie caught him, steadied him.

“Bri-Bri, you okay?”

Bryan blinked, rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, just got dizzy for a second.”

Verde sneered. “Take some advice, Terminator — save the bottle for off-duty time.”

Verde turned and walked back to the body.

Bryan stared after the man. “I hate that name.”