filled with laughter and protest, the scrappy doggerel of childhood.
No media cars, yet. Or maybe a murder down here just wasn't good enough copy.
It took a while to get past the uniform but finally I was allowed to make my way to Milo.
He was talking to a gray-haired man in an olive suit and writing in his notepad. A stethoscope hung around the other man's neck and he talked steadily, without visible emotion. Two black men with badges on their sportcoats stood twenty feet away, looking at a figure on the ground. A photographer snapped pictures and techs worked under the swing set with a portable vacuum, brushes, and tweezers. Other uniforms crowded the scene but they didn't seem to have much to do. Among them was a short, bearded Hispanic man around fifty, wearing gray work clothes.
As I came closer, the black detectives stopped chatting and watched me. One was fortyish, five nine and soft- heavy, with a head shaved clean, bulldog jowls, and a dyspeptic expression. His jacket was beige over black trousers and his tie was black printed with crimson orchids. His companion was ten years younger, tall and slim with a bushy mustache and a full head of hair. He wore a navy blazer, cream slacks, blue tie. Both had analytic eyes.
Milo saw me and held up a finger.
The black detectives resumed their conversation.
I took a look at the dead girl on the field.
Not much bigger than Irit. Lying the same way Irit had been positioned, hands to the sides, palms up, feet straight out. But this face was different: swollen and purplish, tongue extending from the lower left corner of the mouth, the neck circled by a red, puckered ring of bruise.
Her age was hard to make out but she looked in her teens. Black, wavy hair, broad features, dark eyes, some acne on the cheeks. Light-skinned black, or Latino. She wore navy sweatpants and white tennis shoes, a short denim jacket over a black top.
Dirty fingernails.
The eyes open, staring sightlessly at the milk-colored sky.
The tongue lavender-gray, huge.
Behind her, a foot of rope hung from the top bar of the swing set, the end cut cleanly. No breeze, no movement.
The coroner left and Milo approached the black detectives while waving me over. He introduced the heavy one as Willis Hooks, his partner as Roy McLaren.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Hooks. His hand was baked leather.
McLaren nodded. He had clear, nearly coal-black skin, and clean features. Turning back to look at the dead girl, he set his jaw and chewed air.
“Was she left that way or cut down?” I said.
“Cut down,” said Milo. “Why?”
“My first thought was she looks like Irit. The position.”
He turned to the body and his eyebrows rose a millimeter.
“Irit's yours?” said Hooks.
Milo nodded. “She was arranged just like that.”
“Well, unless the janitor's our killer I don't see any big deal about that.”
“The janitor cut her down?” I said.
“Uh-huh.” Hooks pulled out his pad. “School custodian, excuse me. Guillermo Montez, that older Mexican guy in the gray uniform. Showed up for work at seven this morning, mopped the main building first then came out here to pick up trash from the yard and found her. Ran back to get a knife and cut her down, but she was dead, had been for several hours. Said the rope was thick, it took work.”
“Dr. Cohen said she'd been dead at least three or four hours by then, maybe more,” said Milo.
“Cohen's usually pretty close,” said McLaren.
“So she was killed sometime during the night,” I said, “but the sun's been out since six. No one driving or walking by saw her?”
“Apparently not,” said Hooks. “Or maybe someone did.” He turned to Milo. “Tell me more about yours.”
Milo did.
Hooks listened with his finger to his mouth. “Apart from the retardation, I don't see any big parallels.” He looked at his partner.
McLaren said, “No, I wouldn't call this gentle strangulation.”
“Ours wasn't raped,” said Milo. “Cohen told me there were no obvious signs of rape with yours, either.”
“So far,” said McLaren. “But who knows. Janitor says her pants were up but maybe the bad guy pulled them up. Coroner'll get in there and let us know for sure.”
“The strangulation,” said Milo. “From the size of the ligature burn, the rope could have actually killed her, as opposed to his doing it some other way first and then stringing her up.”
Hooks said, “Could be. It would be tough stringing up someone who struggled, even a small girl, but if she was flying, maybe. We know she used crack.”
“Who was she?” I said.
“Local girl named Latvinia Shaver,” said Hooks. “Patrol officer ID'd her before we got here, but I know her myself from working Vice a couple of years ago.”
“A pro?” said Milo.
“She's been busted for it, but I wouldn't call her a pro. Just a street girl, nothing cooking up here.” He tapped his bald head. “Nothing to do all day, so she gets into trouble, maybe does some guy for a vial or some spare change.”
“Big crack habit?”
“Patrol officer said nothing big that she was aware of but hold on, let's ask her.”
He went over to the uniforms and pulled a short, slim woman away from the group.
“Officer Rinaldo,” he said, “meet Detective Sturgis and Dr. Delaware, who's a psychological consultant. Officer Rinaldo knew Latvinia.”
“Just a bit,” said Rinaldo, in a subdued voice. “From the neighborhood.” She looked to be twenty-five, with hennaed hair pulled into a ponytail and thin, pained features that seemed to be aging quickly.
“What do you know besides her tricking for dope?” said Hooks.
“Not a bad kid,” said Rinaldo. “Basically. But she was retarded.”
“How retarded?” said Milo.
“I think she was eighteen or nineteen, but she acted more like twelve. Or even younger. The family's pretty messed up. She lives with a grandmother or maybe it's an older aunt, over on Thirty-ninth, people constantly going in and out.”
“Crack house?”
“I don't know for sure but it wouldn't surprise me. She has a brother up in San Quentin, used to be big in the Tray-One Crips.”
“Name?”
“Don't know that either, sorry. I just remember that 'cause the grandmother told me about him, said she was glad he was gone so Latvinia wouldn't be influenced.”
She frowned. “The lady seemed to be trying.”
Hooks wrote something down.
“Any gangster boyfriends or known acquaintances?” said McLaren.
Rinaldo shrugged. “As far as I could see she didn't hang with anyone in particular. No gang, I mean. More like whoever was around… basically she was pretty promiscuous. She drank, too, 'cause I caught her woozy a few times, with bottles of malt and gin.”
“Bust her for it?”
Rinaldo blushed. “No, I just took it away and tossed it. You know how it is out here.”
“Sure do,” said Hooks. “Anything else in her fun-pack?”
“Probably, but I never saw anything worse- I mean, she didn't shoot heroin, far as I know.”
“She have any kids?”
“Not that I heard about. But maybe, she was pretty easygoing, you know? Easy to con. Like a kid with a
