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followed José.
    It took twenty minutes to make the trip from the donut shop on Manchester Boulevard to Dockweiler. The sun was peeking over the mountains, casting a pink and purple glow on the Los Angeles sky. The pinkish haze was an indicator that the Santa Ana winds would be screaming through the canyons later on as the desert high-pressure system built strength. The dust particles were already being picked up, sent aloft and trapped in the upper atmosphere. They reflected the early morning light. It was calm for now but wouldn't stay that way for long. Still, for early September it was going to be a beautiful warm Southern California day.
    When they pulled up, Fred and José could see six cruisers with their lights on. The county lifeguards yellow truck was in the center of the parking lot, doors wide open and there were eight officers milling about at the entrance to the public restroom.
    “What have we got here detective?” Fred asked Sam Johnson as he made his way to the door.
    “Not so fast soldier,” Sam warned.
    “It’s a crime scene but we haven’t secured the perimeter yet.” Sam stuck his arm out to keep Fred from passing. Fred was irritated at being held back, but stopped.
    “All right already. What do you take me for, a rookie? I was interested in what was going on.  That’s all.”
    “Aren’t you retired yet?” Sam shot back sarcastically.
    “Three more weeks, Sam! Now, what the fuck is it?” Fred demanded.
    “We have a Caucasian female, early 20s, with multiple stab wounds. Someone must've really been pissed at her. I've never seen anything quite like it. The perp damn near severed her head.” Sam said.
    “Who found her?” Fred asked as he peered around the corner.
    In the dim light of the bathroom, he could see the corpse. The girl was laying spread eagle on the floor. Her dress was hiked up around her stomach. She was lying in a pool of her own blood and her panties were around one ankle. She had obviously been raped.
    “A jogger found her about an hour ago.”
    “What's his name?” Fred asked.
    “Name’s John Adamson. He said he was out for an early morning jog on the Strand and had to use the restroom. That's when he found her.”
    “What was he doing in the women's restroom?”
    “I asked the same thing myself,” the officer said,” but when I poked my head in the men's restroom I could understand. In there, someone had vomited right in the doorway and by the looks of the mess that person had way too much Thai food and beer.”
    Fred had only taken one-step towards the doorway before the smell hit him. He turned his head away and covered his mouth. The coffee and donuts he ate earlier were starting to rise in the back of his throat. If he weren’t careful, he’d add to the mess.
    “Okay, I guess his story checks out,” he said while he took a deep breath of ocean air to settle his stomach.
    "What's his relationship to the victim?" Fred queried.
    "As far as we know, he has no relationship whatsoever. He had nothing to do with the murder. Or at least that's what it looks like.”
    "Did you get his particulars?"
    "Yes, and we are following up now," John said. "We ran his driver’s license, and he lives in Playa Del Ray, a few miles from here. We sent a squad car over to his house, and his wife verified he jogs on the beach two or three times a week.”
    The other officer smiled.
    “What's the smile for?” Fred asked.
    "Oh nothing. People are crazy. You know that. I know that. You don't have to be in this job long to figure it out."
    Fred knew precisely what he meant. He had dealt with many lunatics over the past 30 years, and he was fed up with it.
    "So what happened?" Fred continued.
    "Well, when we got to his address, a woman in a pink robe came to the door. When she saw our uniforms, she almost went ballistic. Apparently, she watches too many cop shows and thought we were there to tell her that her husband had been run over. Before we could even ask her a question, she