around the eyes and mouth, he looked at peace. Pallid, acne-pitted face a bit leaner than usual, beer gut light-years from flat but definitely less bulge.
Dieting? On the wagon, yet again?
He'd dressed with uncommon color harmony: cheap but clean navy blazer, cotton khakis, white shirt with just a touch of fray at the neckline, navy tie, brand-new beige desert boots with pink rubber soles that squeaked as he shifted his weight and continued to study me. Brand-new haircut, too. The usual motif- clipped fuzzy at the sides and back, the top left long and shaggy, multiple cowlicks sprouting at the crown. A black forelock hooked over his pockmarked forehead. The hair from his temples to the bottoms of too-long sideburns had denatured to snow- white. The contrast with the black hair on top was unseemly- Mr. Skunk, he'd taken to calling himself.
'Spiffed and freshly barbered,' I said. 'Is this some new-leaf thing? Should I not attempt to feed you? Either way, take the damn book.'
'Robin-'
'Later.' I thrust the blue album at him.
He kept his arms folded. 'Just put it back down on the table.' Pulling out a pair of surgical gloves from the sets, he encased his hands in latex, studied the blue leather cover, opened the book, read the frontispiece, moved on to the first photo.
'Old,' he murmured. 'The tint and the clothes. Probably someone's creepy collection from the attic.'
'Department shots?'
'Probably.'
'A home collection pilfered from the evidence room?'
'Cases get filed away, someone gets itchy-fingered, who's gonna notice if one shot per file gets lifted.'
'A cop?'
'A cop or a civilian ghoul. Lots of people have access, Alex. Some of them like the job because they dig blood.'
' 'The murder book,' ' I said. 'Same title as an official case file.'
'Same color, too. Whoever sent this knows procedure.'
'Evoking procedure… why send it to me?'
He didn't answer.
I said, 'It's not all antique. Keep going.'
He studied several more photos, flipped back to the initial shot, then forward to where he'd left off. Resuming his inspection, picking up speed and skimming the horror, just as I had. Then he stopped. Stared at a photo toward the back of the book. Chunky knuckles swelled the gloves as he gripped the album.
'When exactly did you get this?'
'Today's mail.'
He reached for the wrapping paper, took in the address, verified the postmark. Turned back to the album.
'What is it?' I said.
He placed the book on the table, open to the page that had stopped him. Resting his palms on either side of the album, he sat there. Ground his teeth. Laughed. The sound could have paralyzed prey.
Photograph Number 40.
A body in a ditch, muddy water pooled in the trough. Rusty blood on beige dirt. Off to the right side of the frame, dry weeds bristled. White-ink arrows were aimed at the subject, but the subject was obvious.
A young woman, maybe a teenager. Very thin- concave belly, rib cage washboard, fragile shoulders, spindly arms and legs. Slash and puncture wounds meshed her abdomen and neck. Curious black polka dots, too. Both breasts were gone, replaced by purplish discs the shape of marquis diamonds. Her angular face had been posed in profile, gazing to the right. Above her brow, where the hair should have been, floated a ruby cloud.
Purple ligature marks banded both wrists and ankles. More black dots speckled both legs- punctuation marks ringed with rosy haloes- inflammation.
Cigarette burns.
Long white legs had been drawn up in a parody of sexual welcome.
I'd skimmed right past this one.
Central, Beaudry Ave., body dump above 101 freeway on-ramp. Sex murder, scalped and strangled and slashed and burned. NS.
' 'NS,' ' I said. 'No Solve?'
Milo said, 'There was nothing else besides the book and wrapping? No note?'
'Nope. Just this.'
He checked the blue wrapping again, did the same for the pink butcher paper, returned to the brutalized girl. Sat there for a long time until, finally, he freed one hand and rubbed his face as if washing without water. Old nervous habit. Sometimes it helps cue me in to his mood, sometimes I barely notice it.
He repeated the gesture. Squeezed the bridge of his nose. Rubbed yet again. Twisted his mouth and didn't relax it and stared some more.
'My, my,' he said.
Several moments later: 'Yeah, that would be my guess. No Solve.'
' 'NS' wasn't appended to any of the other photos,' I said.
No answer.
'Meaning this is what we're supposed to look at?' I said.
No answer.
'Who was she?' I said.
His lips slackened and he looked up at me and showed me some teeth. Not a smile, not even close to a smile. This was the expression a bear might take on when it spots a free meal.
He picked up the blue book. It vibrated. Shaking hands. I'd never seen that happen before. Emitting another terrible laugh, he repositioned the binder flat on the table. Squared the corners. Got up and walked into the living room. Facing the fireplace, he lifted a poker and tapped the granite hearth very softly.
I took a closer look at the mutilated girl.
His head shook violently. 'What do you wanna fill your head with that for?'
'What about your head?' I said.
'Mine's already polluted.'
He put the poker back. Paced the room.
'Who was she?' he said. 'Someone turned into nothing.'
CHAPTER 5
The first seven killings weren't as bad as he'd thought.
Not bad at all, compared to what he'd seen in Vietnam.
The department had assigned him to Central Division, not far- geographically or culturally- from Rampart, where he'd paid a year of uniform dues, followed by eight months with Newton Bunco.
Managing to talk his way out of the initial Newton assignment: Vice. Wouldn't
He was twenty-seven years old, already fighting the battle of the bulge, brand-new to Homicide and not sure if he had the stomach for it. For any kind of police work. But, at this point- after Southeast Asia, what else was there?
A freshly minted Detective One, managing to hold on to his secret, though he knew there'd been talk.
No one confronting him directly, but he had ears.
