A man came out of a Spanish bungalow two doors up. Rubbing his eyes, he looked away from the blood.

“That’s him,” said Milo. “Why don’t you have a chat while I see how the house-toss is going.”

Edward Moskow was in his mid-to late fifties, bald with a frizzy gray beard. His Swarthmore sweatshirt was frayed at the cuffs and a size too large. Khaki pants had faded to off-white, nearly as pallid as his bare feet.

I introduced myself, leaving out the title.

Moskow nodded.

I said, “Terrible thing to see.”

“I’ll never forget it.” He touched his forehead. “Etched right here.”

“If there’s anything else you remember…”

“Old bastard.” His voice was soft and hoarse. “Unbelievable. You’d think by that age they’d lose the urge.”

“Often they do.”

He looked at me, as if he’d just realized we were having a conversation.

I said, “It’s called criminal burnout. Otherwise known as too pooped to pop.”

Small nod.

“Mr. Moskow, how old would you say this man was?”

“Only saw him for a few seconds.” Moskow’s face screwed up and his beard bristled. “Mostly I was looking at his arm.” He raised his own limb, mimed a downward thrust. “I thought he was hitting her with his hand, ran out to confront him. By the time I got there, he was walking back to his car and I saw the blood under Mrs. Mancusi. Spreading… a flood… I’ve never seen anything like it…” He shuddered.

“In terms of his age—”

“Oh, yeah, sorry… Seventy? Sixty-five? Seventy-five? I really can’t say, all I know is he moved like an old guy. No limp or anything like that, just stiff. Like his body was all bound up.”

“Slow.”

He thought. “He didn’t run, but he wasn’t halting. All I really saw was his back. Heading for his car. I guess I’d call it a medium pace. Normal walking. Like he’d just delivered a package or something. And he didn’t look back. I’m screaming at him and it’s like I’m not there. Bastard doesn’t even bother to turn, just keeps going, gets in the car, drives off. That’s what gets me. How normal he acted.”

“Business as usual.”

He played with a loose thread at the sweatshirt’s neckline.

I said, “So you never saw his face.”

“Nope. It was crazy. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping someone will come out, but no one did.” He looked up the block. “Ghost town. Pure L.A.”

“What did you scream at him?”