“Cases get filed away, someone gets itchy-fingered, who’s gonna notice if one shot per file gets lifted.”

“A cop?”

“A cop or a civilian ghoul. Lots of people have access, Alex. Some of them like the job because they dig blood.”

“ ‘The murder book,’ ” I said. “Same title as an official case file.”

“Same color, too. Whoever sent this knows procedure.”

“Evoking procedure . . . why send it to me?”

He didn’t answer.

I said, “It’s not all antique. Keep going.”

He studied several more photos, flipped back to the initial shot, then forward to where he’d left off. Resuming his inspection, picking up speed and skimming the horror, just as I had. Then he stopped. Stared at a photo toward the back of the book. Chunky knuckles swelled the gloves as he gripped the album.

“When exactly did you get this?”

“Today’s mail.”

He reached for the wrapping paper, took in the address, verified the postmark. Turned back to the album.

“What is it?” I said.

He placed the book on the table, open to the page that had stopped him. Resting his palms on either side of the album, he sat there. Ground his teeth. Laughed. The sound could have paralyzed prey.

Photograph Number 40.

A body in a ditch, muddy water pooled in the trough. Rusty blood on beige dirt. Off to the right side of the frame, dry weeds bristled. White-ink arrows were aimed at the subject, but the subject was obvious.

A young woman, maybe a teenager. Very thin—concave belly, rib cage washboard, fragile shoulders, spindly arms and legs. Slash and puncture wounds meshed her abdomen and neck. Curious black polka dots, too. Both breasts were gone, replaced by purplish discs the shape of marquis diamonds. Her angular face had been posed in profile, gazing to the right. Above her brow, where the hair should have been, floated a ruby cloud.

Purple ligature marks banded both wrists and ankles. More black dots speckled both legs—punctuation marks ringed with rosy haloes—inflammation.

Cigarette burns.

Long white legs had been drawn up in a parody of sexual welcome.

I’d skimmed right past this one.

Central, Beaudry Ave., body dump above 101 freeway on-ramp. Sex murder, scalped and strangled and slashed and burned. NS.

“ ‘NS,’ ” I said. “No Solve?”

Milo said, “There was nothing else besides the book and wrapping? No note?”

“Nope. Just this.”

He checked the blue wrapping again, did the same for the pink butcher paper, returned to the brutalized girl. Sat there for a long time until, finally, he freed one hand and rubbed his face as if washing without water. Old nervous habit. Sometimes it helps cue me in to his mood, sometimes I barely notice it.

He repeated the gesture. Squeezed the bridge of his nose. Rubbed yet again. Twisted his mouth and didn’t relax it and stared some more.

“My, my,” he said.

Several moments later: “Yeah, that would be my guess. No Solve.”