Schwinn was back now, clicking away with his Instamatic. The LAPD photographer had spotted the little black plastic box, caressed his Nikon, smirked. Schwinn was oblivious to the contempt, in his own little world, crouching on all sides of the body. Getting close to the body, closer than Milo had hazarded, not even bothering to shoo the gnats swarming his white hair.

“So what do you think, boy-o?”

“About . . . ?” said Milo.

Click click click. “The bad guy—what’s your gut telling you about him?”

“Maniac.”

“Think so?” Schwinn said, almost absently. “Howling-lunatic-drooling-crazyman?” He moved away from Milo, kneeled right next to the flayed skull. Close enough to kiss the mangled flesh. Smiled. “Look at this—just bone and a few blood vessels, sliced at the back . . . a few tears, some serrations . . . real sharp blade.” Click click. “A maniac . . . some shout-at-the-moon Apache warrior? You, naughty squaw, me scalpum?”

Milo battled another abdominal heave.

Schwinn got to his feet, dangled the camera from its little black string, fiddled with his tie. His Oakie hatchet face bore a satisfied look. Cool as ice. How often had he seen this? How often did this kind of thing come up in Homicide? The first seven—even Kyle Rodriguez, had been tolerable compared to this . . .

Schwinn pointed at the girl’s propped-up legs. “See the way he posed her? He’s talking to us, boy-o. Talking through her, putting words in her mouth. What’s he want her to say, boy-o?”

Milo shook his head.

Schwinn sighed. “He wants her to say, ‘Fuck me.’ To the whole world—’C’mon over, whole damn world, and fuck me silly, anyone wants to do anything to me, they can cause I got no power.’ He’s using her like . . . a puppet—you know how kids move puppets around, get puppets to say things they’re too scared to say for themselves? This guy’s like that, only he likes big puppets.”

“He’s scared?” said Milo doubtfully.

“What the fuck do you think?” said Schwinn. “We’re talking about a coward, can’t talk to women, get laid in any normal way. Which isn’t to say he’s a wimpy type. He could be macho. He’s sure nervy enough, taking the time for that.” Backward glance at the legs. “Posing her right out in the open, risking being seen. I mean, think about it: You had your fun with the body, needed to get rid of the body, you’re carrying it around in your car, want to dump it, where would you go?”

“Somewhere remote.”