The Murder Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 putrefaction. The coroner was guestimating a half day to a day since death, but no way to know how long the body had been lying there or what temperature it had been stored at. The logical guess was that the killer had driven up last night, after dark, placed the corpse, zipped right onto the 101, and sped off happy.
    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,