“ ‘NS’ wasn’t appended to any of the other photos,” I said.

No answer.

“Meaning this is what we’re supposed to look at?” I said.

No answer.

“Who was she?” I said.

His lips slackened and he looked up at me and showed me some teeth. Not a smile, not even close to a smile. This was the expression a bear might take on when it spots a free meal.

He picked up the blue book. It vibrated. Shaking hands. I’d never seen that happen before. Emitting another terrible laugh, he repositioned the binder flat on the table. Squared the corners. Got up and walked into the living room. Facing the fireplace, he lifted a poker and tapped the granite hearth very softly.

I took a closer look at the mutilated girl.

His head shook violently. “What do you wanna fill your head with that for?”

“What about your head?” I said.

“Mine’s already polluted.”

Mine, too. “Who was she, Milo?”

He put the poker back. Paced the room.

“Who was she?” he said. “Someone turned into nothing.”

CHAPTER

5

The first seven killings weren’t as bad as he’d thought.

Not bad at all, compared to what he’d seen in Vietnam.

The department had assigned him to Central Division, not far—geographically or culturally—from Rampart, where he’d paid a year of uniform dues, followed by eight months with Newton Bunco.

Managing to talk his way out of the initial Newton assignment: Vice. Wouldn’t that have been a yuk-fest. Ha ha ha. The sound of one voice laughing.

He was twenty-seven years old, already fighting the battle of the bulge, brand-new to Homicide and not sure if he had the stomach for it. For any kind of police work. But, at this point—after Southeast Asia, what else was there?

A freshly minted Detective One, managing to hold on to his secret, though he knew there’d been talk.

No one confronting him directly, but he had ears.

Something different about him—like he thinks he’s better than anyone.

Drinks, but doesn’t talk.

Doesn’t shoot the shit.

Came to Hank Swangle’s bachelor party but when they brought the groupie in and the gang bang started, where the fuck was he?

Free blow job and he splits.

Doesn’t chase pussy, period.

Weird.

His test scores and solve-rates and persistence got him to Central Homicide, where they paired him with a rail-thin forty-eight-year-old DII named Pierce Schwinn, who looked sixty and fancied himself a philosopher. Mostly, he and Schwinn worked nights, because Schwinn thrived in the dark: Bright lights gave the guy migraines, and he complained of chronic insomnia. No big mystery there, the guy popped decongestants like candy for a perpetually stuffed nose and downed a dozen cups of coffee per shift.