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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
Yoo
o?”
    “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