The Murder Book

A sad case, Kyle Rodriguez, but he got over it by the time Case Seven rolled around.

A street slashing, good old Central Avenue, again. Knife fight, lots of blood all over the sidewalk, but only one db, a thirtyish Mexican guy in work clothes, with the homemade haircut and cheap shoes of a recently arrived illegal. Two dozen witnesses in a nearby cantina spoke no English and claimed blindness. This one wasn't even detective work. Solved courtesy of the blues- patrol car spotted a lurching perp ten blocks away, bleeding profusely from his own wounds. The uniforms cuffed him as he howled in agony, sat him down on the curb, called Schwinn and Milo, then phoned for the ambulance that transported the wretch to the jail ward at County Hospital.

By the time the detectives got there, the idiot was being loaded onto a gurney, had lost so much blood it was touch-and-go. He ended up surviving but gave up most of his colon and a bedside statement, pled guilty from a wheelchair, got sent back to the jail ward till someone figured out what to do with him.

Now, Number Eight. Schwinn just kept munching the burrito.

Finally, he wiped his mouth. 'Beaudry, top of the freeway, huh? Wanna drive?' Getting out and heading for the passenger side before Milo could answer.

Milo said, 'Either way,' just to hear the sound of his own voice.

Even away from the wheel, Schwinn went through his jumpy predrive ritual. Ratcheting the seat back noisily, then returning it to where it had been. Checking the knot of his tie in the rearview, poking around at the corner of his lipless mouth. Making sure no cherry-colored residue of decongestant syrup remained.

Forty-eight years old but his hair was dead white and skimpy, thinning to skin at the crown. Five-ten and Milo figured him for no more than 140, most of it gristle. He had a lantern jaw, that stingy little paper cut of a mouth, deep seams scoring his rawboned face, and heavy bags under intelligent, suspicious eyes. The package shouted dust bowl. Schwinn had been born in Tulsa, labeled himself Ultra-Okie to Milo minutes after they'd met.

Then he'd paused and looked the young detective in the eye. Expecting Milo to say something about his own heritage.

How about Black Irish Indiana Fag?

Milo said, 'Like the Steinbeck book.'

'Yeah,' said Schwinn, disappointed. 'Grapes of Wrath. Ever read it?'

'Sure.'

'I didn't.' Defiant tone. 'Why the fuck should I? Everything in there I already learned from my daddy's stories.' Schwinn's mouth formed a poor excuse for a smile. 'I hate books. Hate TV and stupid-ass radio, too.' Pausing, as if laying down a gauntlet.

Milo kept quiet.

Schwinn frowned. 'Hate sports, too- what's the point of all that?'

'Yeah, it can get excessive.'

'You've got the size. Play sports in college?'

'High school football,' said Milo.

'Not good enough for college?'

'Not nearly.'

'You read much?'

'A bit,' said Milo. Why did that sound confessional?

'Me too.' Schwinn put his palms together. Aimed those accusatory eyes at Milo. Leaving Milo no choice.

'You hate books but you read.'

'Magazines,' said Schwinn, triumphantly. 'Magazines cut to the chase- take your Reader's Digest, collects all the bullshit and condenses it to where you don't need a shave by the time you finish. The other one I like is Smithsonian.'

Now there was a surprise.

'Smithsonian,' said Milo.

'Never heard of it?' said Schwinn, as if relishing a secret. 'The museum, in Washington, they put out a magazine. My wife went and subscribed to it and I was ready to kick her butt- just what we needed, more paper cluttering up the house. But it's not half-bad. They've got all sorts of stuff in there. I feel educated when I close the covers, know what I mean?'

'Sure.'

'Now you,' said Schwinn, 'they tell me you are educated.' Making it sound like a criminal charge. 'Got yourself a master's degree, is that right?'

Milo nodded.

'From where?'

' Indiana U. But school isn't necessarily education.'

'Yeah, but sometimes it is- what'd you study at Indiana Yooo?'

'English.'

Schwinn laughed. 'God loves me, sent me a partner who can spell. Anyway, give me magazines and burn all the books as far as I'm concerned. I like science. Sometimes when I'm at the morgue I look at medical books- forensic medicine, abnormal psychology, even anthropology 'cause they're learning to do stuff with bones.' His own bony finger wagged. 'Let me tell you something, boy-o: One day, science is gonna be a big damn deal in our business. One day, to be doing our job a guy's gonna have to be a scientist- show up at a crime scene, scrape the db, carry a little microscope, learn the biochemical makeup of every damn scrote the vic hung out with for the last ten years.'

'Transfer evidence?' Milo said. 'You think it'll get that good?'

'Sure, yeah,' Schwinn said, impatiently. 'Right now transfer evidence is for the most part useless bullshit, but wait and see.'

They had been driving around Central on their first day as partners. Aimlessly, Milo thought. He kept waiting for Schwinn to point out known felons, hot spots, whatever, but the guy seemed unaware of his surroundings, all he wanted to do was talk. Later, Milo would learn that Schwinn had plenty to offer. Solid detective logic and basic advice. ('Carry your own camera, gloves, and fingerprint powder. Take care of your own self, don't depend on anyone.') But right now, this first day, riding around- everything- seemed pointless.

'Transfer,' said Schwinn. 'All we can transfer now is ABO blood type. What a crock. Big deal, a million scrotes are type O, most of the rest are A, so what does that do? That and hair, sometimes they take hair, put it in little plastic envelopes, but what the fuck can they do with it, you always get some Hebe lawyer proving hair don't mean shit. No, I'm talking serious science, something nuclear, like the way they date fossils. Carbon dating. One day, we'll be anthropologists. Too bad you don't have a master's degree in anthropology… can you type okay?'

A few miles later. Milo was taking in the neighborhood on his own, studying faces, places, when Schwinn proclaimed: 'English won't do you a damn bit of good, boy-o, cause our customers don't talkie mucho English. Not the Mexes, not the niggers, either- not unless you want to call that jive they give you English.'

Milo kept his mouth shut.

'Screw English,' said Schwinn. 'Fuck English in the ass with a hydrochloric acid dildo. The wave of the future is science.'

They hadn't been told much about the Beaudry call. Female Caucasian db, discovered by a trash-picker sifting through the brush that crested the freeway on-ramp.

Rain had fallen the previous night and the dirt upon which the corpse had been placed was poor-drainage clay that retained an inch of grimy water in the ruts.

Despite a nice soft muddy area, no tire tracks, no footprints. The ragpicker was an old black guy named Elmer Jacquette, tall, emaciated, stooped, with Parkinsonian tremors in his hands that fit with his agitation as he retold the story to anyone who'd listen.

'And there it was, right out there, Lord Jesus…'

No one was listening anymore. Uniforms and crime-scene personnel and the coroner's man were busy doing their jobs. Lots of other people stood around, making small talk. Flashing vehicles blocked Beaudry all the way back to Temple as a bored-looking patrolman detoured would-be freeway speeders.

Not too many cars out: 9 P.M. Well past rush hour. Rigor had come and gone, as had the beginnings of