The Murder Book

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

"Me too." Schwi

"You hate books but you read."

"Magazines," said Schwi

Now there was a surprise.

"Smithsonian," said Milo.

"Never heard of it?" said Schwi

"Sure."

"Now you," said Schwi

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."

Schwi

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

"Sure, yeah," Schwi

They had been driving around Central on their first day as partners. Aimlessly, Milo thought. He kept waiting for Schwi

"Transfer," said Schwi

A few miles later. Milo was taking in the neighborhood on his own, studying faces, places, when Schwi

Milo kept his mouth shut.

"Screw English," said Schwi

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 perso

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

No passing motorist had seen it, because when you were in a hurry, why would you study the dirt above the on-ramp? You never get to know a city unless you walk. Which is why so few people know L.A., thought Milo. After living here for two years, he still felt like a stranger.

Elmer Jacquette walked all the time, because he had no car. Covered the area from his East Hollywood flop to the western borders of downtown, poking around for cans, bottles, discards he tried to peddle to thrift shops in return for soup kitchen vouchers. One time, he'd found a working watch- gold, he thought, turned out to be plated but he got ten bucks for it, anyway, at a pawnshop on South Vermont.

He'd seen the body right away- how could you not from up close, all pale in the moonlight, the sour smell, the way the poor girl's legs had been bent and spread- and his gorge had risen immediately and soon his franks-and-beans di

Jacquette had the good sense to run a good fifteen feet from the body before vomiting. When the uniforms arrived, he pointed out the emetic mound, apologizing. Not wanting to a

Yessir, nossir.

They'd kept him around, waiting for the detectives to arrive. Now, the men in suits were finally here and Jacquette stood over by one of the police cars as someone pointed him out and they approached him, stepping into the glare of those harsh lights the cops had put all over the place.

Two suits. A ski

They stopped at the body first. The old one took one look, wrinkled his nose, got an a

The fat kid was something else. Barely glanced at the body before whipping his head away. Bad skin, that one, and he'd gone white as a sheet, started rubbing his face with one hand, over and over.

Tightening up that big heavy body of his like he was ready to lose his lunch.

Elmer wondered how long the kid had been on the job, if he'd actually blow chunks. If the kid did heave, would he be smart enough to avoid the body, like Elmer had?

'Cause this kid didn't look like no veteran.