The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  "I've got a lot to learn," he said. "Wasting my time with those MP clowns. Meanwhile you're getting all this—"

  "Don't lick my ass, son," said Schwinn, and suddenly the hatchet face was inches from Milo's and Milo could smell the Aqua Velva and the salsa verde. "I didn't do dick, and I don't know dick. And you did way less than dick."

  "Hey, sorry if—"

  "Fuck sorry, pal. You think this is some game? Like getting a master's degree, hand in your homework, and lick the teacher's ass and get your little ass-licking grade? You think that's what this is about?"

  Talking way too fast for normal. What the hell had set him off?

  Milo kept silent. Schwinn laughed bitterly, moved away, sat back so heavily against the seat that Milo's heavy body rocked. "Let me tell you, boy-o, that other shit we've been shoveling since I let you ride with me— niggers and pachucos offing each other and waiting around for us to pick 'em up and if we don't, no one gives a shit— you think that's what the 187 universe is all about?"

  Milo's face was hot from jawline to scalp. He kept his mouth shut.

  "This . . ." said Schwinn, pulling a letter-sized, baby blue envelope from an inside suit pocket and removing a stack of color photos. Twenty-four-hour photo lab logo. The Instamatic shots he'd snapped at Beaudry.

  He fanned them out on his skinny lap, faceup, like fortune-teller's cards. Close-ups of the dead girl's bloody, scalped head. Intimate portraits of the lifeless face, splayed legs . . .

  "This," he said, "is why we get paid. The other stuff clerks could handle."

  The first seven murders had gotten Milo to think of himself as a clerk with a badge. He didn't dare agree. Agreement seemed to infuriate the sonofa—

  "You thought you were gonna get some fun for yourself when you signed up to be a Big Bad Homicide Hero," said Schwinn. "Right?" Talking even faster, but managing to snap off each word. "Or maybe you heard that bullshit about Homicide being for intellectuals and you've got that master's degree and you thought hey, that's me! So tell me, this look intellectual to you?" Tapping a photo. "You think this can be figured out using brains?"

  Shaking his head and looking as if he'd tasted something putrid, Schwinn hooked a fingernail under a corner of a photo and flicked.

  Plink, plink.

  Milo said, "Look, I'm just—"

  "Do you have any idea how often something like this actually gets closed? Those clowns in the Academy probably told you Homicide has a seventy, eighty percent solve rate, right? Well, that's horseshit. That's the stupid stuff— which should be a hundred percent it's so stupid, so big fucking deal, eighty percent. Shit." He turned and spit out the window. Shifted back to Milo. "With this"— plink plink— "you're lucky to close four outta ten. Meaning most of the time you lose and the guy gets to do it again and he's saying 'Fuck you' to you just like he is to her."

  Schwinn freed his fingernail and began tapping the snapshot, blunt-edged index finger landing repetitively on the dead girl's crotch.

  Milo realized he was holding his breath, had been doing it since Schwinn launched the tirade. His skin remained saturated with heat, and he wiped his face with one hand.

  Schwinn smiled. "I'm pissing you off. Or maybe I'm scaring you. You do that— with the hand— when you're pissed off or scared."

  "What's the point, Pierce?"

  "The point is you said I learned a lot, and I didn't learn dick."

  "I was just—"

  "Don't just anything," said Schwinn. "There's no room for just, there's no room for bullshit. I don't need the brass sending me some . . . fly-by-night master's deg—"

  "Fuck that," said Milo, letting out breath and rage. "I've been—"

  "You've been watching me, checking me out, from the minute you started—"

  "I've been hoping to learn something."

  "For what?" said Schwinn. "So you can add up the brownie points, then move on to an ass-warming job with the brass. Boy-o, I know what you're about—"

  Milo felt himself using his bulk. Moving closer to Schwinn, looming over the skinny man, his index finger pointing like a gun. "You don't know shi—"

  Schwinn didn't yield. "I know assholes with master's degrees don't stick with this." Tap tap. "I know I don't wanna waste my time working a whodunit with a suck-up intellectual who all he wants to do is climb the ladder. You got ambition, find yourself some suck-up job like Daryl Gates did, driving Chief Parker's car, one day that clown'll probably end up chief." Taptaptap. "This ain't career-building, muchacho. This is a whodunit. Get it? This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets."

  "You're wrong," said Milo. "About me."

  "Am I?" Knowing smile.

  Ah, thought Milo. Here it comes. The crux.

  But Schwinn just sat there, grinning, tapping the photo.

  Long silence. Then suddenly, as if someone had pulled the plug on him, the guy slumped heavily, looking defeated. "You have no idea what you're up against." He slipped the photos back in the envelope.

  Milo thought: If you hate the job, retire, asshole. Grab your pension two years early and waste the rest of your life growing tomatoes in some loser trailer park.

  Long, turgid moments passed.

  Milo said, "Big whodunit, and we're sitting here?"

  "What's the alternative, Sherlock?" said Schwinn, hooking a thumb at the pink building. "We go in there and talk to this asshole and maybe his daughter's the one who got turned into shit, or she's not. One way, we've crawled an inch on a hundred-mile hike, the other way, we haven't even started. Either way we got nothing to be proud of."

  CHAPTER 8

  Just as quickly as his moods had shifted, Schwinn bounded out of the car.

  The guy was unstable, no question about it, Milo thought as he followed.

  The front door was unlocked. Twelve mailboxes to the right. The layout was precisely as Milo had envisioned.

  Screw you, expert.

  Box Eleven was labeled Ingalls in smudged red ballpoint. They climbed the stairs, and Schwinn was out of breath by the time they reached the third floor. Tightening his tie knot, he pounded the door, and it opened a few seconds later.

  The man who answered was bleary-eyed and skinny-fat.

  All sharp bones and stick limbs and saggy sallow skin but with a melon gut. He wore a dirty yellow tank top and blue swim shorts. No hips or butt, and the shorts bagged under the swell of his pot. Not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere but his belly. But what he carried there was grotesque and Milo thought, Pregnant.

  "Bowie Ingalls?" said Schwinn.

  Two-second delay, then a small, squirrelly nod. Beery sweat poured out of the guy, and the sour smell wafted into the hallway.

  Schwinn hadn't recited any physical stats on Ingalls— hadn't said anything at all by way of preparation. To Milo, Ingalls appeared in his midforties, with thick, wavy coarse black hair worn past his shoulders— too long and luxuriant for a guy his age— and five days of gray stubble that did nothing to mask his weak features. Where his eyes weren't pink they were jaundiced and unfocused. Deep brown irises, just like those of the dead girl.

  Ingalls studied their badges. The guy's timing was off, like a clock with damaged works. He flinched, then grinned, said, "Whus up?" The words wheezed out on a cloud of hops and malt that mixed with the odors already saturated into the building's walls: mold and kerosene, the incongruous blessing of savory home cooking.

  "Can we come in?" said Schwinn.

  Ingalls had opened the door halfway. Behind him was dirt-colored furniture, heaps of rumpled clothes, takeout Chinese cartons, Bud empties.

  Lots of empties, some crushed, some intact. Even at a good clip, the number of cans added up to more than one day of serious drinking.

  A multiday bender. Unless the guy had company. Even with company, a focused juice-a-thon.

  Guy's daughter goes missing for four days, he doesn't report it, holes up instead, sucking suds. Milo found himself entertaining the worst-case scenario: Daddy did it. Began scannin
g Ingalls's sallow face for anxiety, guilt, scratches, maybe that explained the delays . . .

  But all he saw was confusion. Ingalls stood there, caught up in a booze-flummox.

  "Sir," said Schwinn, using the word as an insult, the way only cops can, "can we come in?"

  "Uh— yeah, sure— whu for?"

  "Whu for your daughter."

  Ingalls's eyes drooped. Not anxiety. Resignation. As in, here we go again. Preparing himself for a lecture on child-rearing.

  "Whu, she cut school again? They call in the cops for that now?"

  Schwinn smiled and moved to enter the apartment and Ingalls stepped aside, nearly stumbling. When the three of them were on the other side of the door, Schwinn closed it. He and Milo began the instinctive visual scan.

  Off-white walls, brown deepening to black in the cracks and the corners. The entire front space was maybe fifteen feet square, a living room-dining area-kitchen combo, the kitchen counters crowded with more take-out boxes, used paper plates, empty soup cans. Two miserly windows on the facing wall were shuttered by yellow plastic blinds. A scabrous brown-gray sofa and a red plastic chair were both heaped with unwashed clothes and crumpled paper. Next to the chair, a stack of records tilted precariously. The Mothers of Invention's Freak Out on top, a fifteen-year-old LP. Nearby was a cheap phonograph half-covered by a snot green bathrobe. An open doorway led to a dead-end wall.

  A full-view of the front room revealed even more beer cans.

  "Where does Janie go to school, sir?" said Schwinn.

  "Hollywood High. What kinda hassle she get herself into now?" Bowie Ingalls scratched an armpit and drew himself up to his full height. Trying to produce some fatherly indignation.

  "When's the last time you saw her, sir?"

  "Um . . . she was— she slept over a friend's."

  "When, sir?" said Schwinn, still taking in the room. Cool, all business. No one watching him do the detective thing would've imagined his lunatic tirade five minutes ago.

  Milo stood to the side, worked on his cool. His mind wanted to work, but his body wasn't giving up the anger planted by Schwinn's outburst; heart still racing, face still hot. Despite the importance of the task at hand, he kept entertaining himself with images of Schwinn falling on his ass— hoist on his own petard, the self-righteous fucker— busted in flagrante with Tonya or some other "source." That brought a smile to Milo's brain. Then a question arose: If Schwinn didn't trust him, why had he risked doing Tonya right in front of him? Maybe the guy was just nuts . . . he shook all that off and returned to Bowie Ingalls's face. Still no fear, just maddening dullness.

  "Um . . . Friday night," Ingalls said, as if guessing. "You can sit down if you want."

  There was only one place to sit in the damned sty. A man-sized clearing among the garbage on the couch. Ingalls's dozing spot. Appetizing.

  "No, thanks," said Schwinn. He had his pad out now. Milo waited a few moments before producing his. Not wanting to be part of some Ike-and-Mike vaudeville routine. "So Janie slept at a friend's Friday night."

  "Yeah. Friday."

  "Four days ago." Schwinn's gold Parker ballpoint was out, and he scrawled.

  "Yeah. She does it all the time."

  "Sleeps over at a friend's?"

  "She's sixteen," said Ingalls, whining a bit.

  "What's the friend's name? The one from Friday night."

  Ingalls's tongue rolled around his left cheek. "Linda . . . no— Melinda."

  "Last name?"

  Blank stare.

  "You don't know Melinda's last name?"

  "Don't like the little slut," said Ingalls. "Bad influence. Don't like her coming around."

  "Melinda's a bad influence on Janie?"

  "Yeah. You know."

  "Gets Janie in trouble," said Schwinn.

  "You know," said Ingalls. "Kids. Doing stuff."

  Milo wondered what could possibly offend a scrote like Ingalls.

  Schwinn said, "Stuff."

  "Yeah."

  "Such as?"

  "You know," Ingalls insisted. "Cutting school, running around."

  "Dope?"

  "I dunno about that."

  "Hmm," said Schwinn, writing. "So Melinda's a bad influence on Janie but you let Janie sleep over Melinda's house."

  "Let?" said Ingalls, coughing. "You got kids?"

  "Haven't been blessed."

  "Figures you ask me that. Nowadays, kids don't get let anything. They do whatever the hell they want to. Can't even get her to tell me where she's going. Or to stay in school. I tried dropping her off, personally, but she just went in, waited till I was gone, and left. That's why I figured this was about school. What is it about, anyway? She in trouble?"

  "You've had trouble with Janie before?"

  "No," said Ingalls. "Not really. Like I said, just school and running around. Being gone for a few days. But she always comes back. Let me tell you, man, you can't control 'em. Once the hippies got in and took over the city, forget it. Her mother was a hippie back in the hippie days. Hippie junkie slut, ran out on us, left me with Janie."

  "Janie into drugs?"

  "Not around here," said Ingalls. "She knows better than that." He blinked several times, grimaced, trying to clear his head and not succeeding. "What's this about? What'd she do?"

  Ignoring the question, Schwinn kept writing. Then: "Hollywood High . . . what year's she in?"

  "Second year."

  "Sophomore."

  Another delayed-reaction nod from Ingalls. How many of the cans had been consumed this morning?

  "Sophomore." Schwinn copied that down. "When's her birthday?"

  "Um . . . March," said Ingalls. "March . . . um . . . ten."

  "She was sixteen last March ten."

  "Yeah."

  Sixteen-and-a-half-year-old sophomore, thought Milo. A year behind. Borderline intelligence? Some kind of learning problem? Yet another factor that had propelled her toward victimhood? If she was the one . . .

  He glanced at Schwinn but Schwinn was still writing and Milo hazarded a question of his own: "School's hard for Janie, huh?"

  Schwinn's eyebrows rose for a second, but he kept making notes.

  "She hates it," said Ingalls. "Can barely read. That's why she hated to—" The bloodshot eyes filled with fear. "What's going on? What'd she do?"

  Focused on Milo, now. Looking to Milo for an answer, but that was one ad lib Milo wasn't going to risk, and Ingalls shifted his attention back to Schwinn. "C'mon, what's going on, man? What'd she do?"

  "Maybe nothing," said Schwinn, producing the blue envelope. "Maybe something was done to her."

  He fanned out the snaps again, stretching his arm and offering Ingalls the display.

  "Huh?" said Ingalls, not moving. Then: "No."

  Calmly, no inflection. Milo thought: Okay, it wasn't her, false lead, good for him, bad for us, they'd accomplished nothing, Schwinn was right. As usual. The pompous bastard, he'd be gloating, the remainder of the shift would be unbearable—

  But Schwinn continued to hold the pictures steady, and Bowie Ingalls continued to stare at them.

  "No," Ingalls repeated. He made a grab for the pictures, not a serious attempt, just a pathetic stab. Schwinn held firm, and Ingalls stepped away from the horror, pressing his hands to the sides of his head. Stamping his foot hard enough to make the floor quake.

  Suddenly, he grabbed his melon-belly, bent over as if seized by cramps. Stamped again, howled, "No!"

  Kept howling.

  Schwinn let him rant for a while, then eased him over to the clearing on the couch, and told Milo, "Get him some fortification."

  Milo found an unopened Bud, popped the top, held it to Ingalls's lips, but Ingalls shook his head. "No, no, no. Get that the fuck away from me."

  The guy lives in a booze-haze but won't medicate himself when he sinks to the bottom. Milo supposed that passed for dignity.

  He and Schwinn stood there for what seemed to be an eternity. Schwinn serene— used to this. Enjoying it?<
br />
  Finally, Ingalls looked up. "Where?" he said. "Who?"

  Schwinn gave him the basic details, talking quietly. Ingalls moaned through the entire recitation.

  "Janie, Janie—"

  "What can you tell us that would help us?" said Schwinn.

  "Nothing. What could I tell . . .?" Ingalls shuddered. Shivered. Crossed skinny arms over his chest. "That— who would— oh, God . . . Janie . . ."