“And Poulsenn would’ve known about Schwinn’s resentment . . . yeah, it’d be interesting to know what happened to his career. I can’t exactly waltz into Parker Center and stick my nose in the files . . .” He frowned, called DMV and identified himself as someone named Lt. Horacio Batista. A few minutes later, he had statistics on three Lester Poulsenns living in California but all were too young to be the man who’d played second fiddle to John G. Broussard.

“He could’ve moved out of state,” I said, “meaning he’s probably not our man. Or he’s yet another disappearing act.”

He got to his feet again and paced; the light razor bounced. Returning to the book, he touched a blue cover. “Installments—hey, folks, join the murder book club.”

We divided up the workload this way:

1. I’d try to learn what I could about Lester Poulsenn, check newspaper microfilms for twenty- to twenty-five-year-old stories about misbehaving cops and chase down whatever details I could find about the disposition of their cases. A long shot, because the department kept corruption stories quiet, just as it had with Pierce Schwinn. Unless, as in the Rampart scandal or the Hollywood Division burglary case of ten years ago, the stink got too strong
to mask.

2. Milo would go off to do his thing, not telling me what or where
or when.

The search on my computer revealed no Lester Poulsenns who fit the bill. I made another futile call to Vancouver, comforted myself with self-pity, and drove to the U.

It took three hours to go through five years of microfilm, and I came up with several instances of felonious police officers. A pair of West Valley detectives had offered their services as contract killers. Both were serving life sentences in protective isolation at the state penitentiary at Pelican Bay. A Glendale traffic officer had been arrested for having sex with a thirteen-year-old baby-sitter. Ten years of jail, this prince was out by now, but an alliance with Schwinn and a child molester seemed unlikely. A female Pasadena gang officer had slept with several minor-age gang members, and two Van Nuys uniforms had been caught burglarizing pawnshops on their patrol route. Convictions and incarceration for all. In each instance a hookup with Schwinn seemed improbable. I copied down all the names, anyway, punched Lester Poulsenn’s name into the periodicals index and felt my pupils dilate as a single reference popped into view.

Twenty-year-old reference.

Poulsenn, L.L. Veteran LAPD detective
found murdered in Watts.

The Sacramento Bee. I located the spool, jammed it into the machine, twirled like mad until I came to the story. Associated Press wire service piece. The L.A. papers hadn’t picked it up.

The Bee had run it in a side column at the back of the main section titled “Elsewhere in the State.” Sandwiched between the account of a dead black rhinoceros at the San Diego Zoo and a Berkeley bank robbery.