“Yeah,” said Schwinn, disappointed. “Grapes of Wrath. Ever read it?”

“Sure.”

“I didn’t.” Defiant tone. “Why the fuck should I? Everything in there I already learned from my daddy’s stories.” Schwinn’s mouth formed a poor excuse for a smile. “I hate books. Hate TV and stupid-ass radio, too.” Pausing, as if laying down a gauntlet.

Milo kept quiet.

Schwinn frowned. “Hate sports, too—what’s the point of all that?”

“Yeah, it can get excessive.”

“You’ve got the size. Play sports in college?”

“High school football,” said Milo.

“Not good enough for college?”

“Not nearly.”

“You read much?”

“A bit,” said Milo. Why did that sound confessional?

“Me too.” Schwinn put his palms together. Aimed those accusatory eyes at Milo. Leaving Milo no choice.

“You hate books but you read.”

“Magazines,” said Schwinn, triumphantly. “Magazines cut to the chase—take your Reader’s Digest, collects all the bullshit and condenses it to where you don’t need a shave by the time you finish. The other one I like is Smithsonian.”

Now there was a surprise.

“Smithsonian,” said Milo.

“Never heard of it?” said Schwinn, as if relishing a secret. “The museum, in Washington, they put out a magazine. My wife went and subscribed to it and I was ready to kick her butt—just what we needed, more paper cluttering up the house. But it’s not half-bad. They’ve got all sorts of stuff in there. I feel educated when I close the covers, know what I mean?”

“Sure.”

“Now you,” said Schwinn, “they tell me you are educated.” Making it sound like a criminal charge. “Got yourself a master’s degree, is that right?”

Milo nodded.

“From where?”

“Indiana U. But school isn’t necessarily education.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it is—what’d you study at Indiana Yooo?”

“English.”

Schwinn laughed. “God loves me, sent me a partner who can spell. Anyway, give me magazines and burn all the books as far as I’m concerned. I like science. Sometimes when I’m at the morgue I look at medical books—forensic medicine, abnormal psychology, even anthropology ’cause they’re learning to do stuff with bones.” His own bony finger wagged. “Let me tell you something, boy-o: One day, science is gonna be a big damn deal in our business. One day, to be doing our job a guy’s 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.”