“Yeah, ’cause you’re not a nervy killer, to you it would just be dumping. Not our boy. On the one hand, he’s smart. Doing it right by the freeway, once he’s finished, he can get back on, no one’s conspicuous on the 101. He does it after dark, checks to make sure no one’s watching, pulls over, arranges her, then zoom zoom zoom. It’s a decent plan. It could work nice, especially this late, rush hour’s over. But taking the time to stop is still a risk, just to play puppet. So this wasn’t about dumping. This was showing off—having his cake and eating it twice. He ain’t stupid or crazy.”

“Playing a game,” said Milo, because that sounded agreeable. Thinking about chess, but unable to really reconcile this with any game.

“ ‘Look at me,’ ” said Schwinn. “That’s what he’s telling us. ‘Look what I can do.’ It’s not enough he overpowered her and fucked the hell out of her—hundred to one we’ll find a mess of semen up her twat, her ass. What he wants now is to share her with the world. I control her, everyone hop on board.”

“Gang bang,” said Milo, hoarsely, flashing back to Hank Swangle’s party at Newton Division. The Newton groupie, a heavy, blond bank clerk, prim and upright during the day, a whole other life when it came to cops. Pillowy, drunk, and glazed when collegial hands had shoved Milo into the room with her. The groupie reaching out to Milo, lipstick smeared, mouthing, “Next.” Like a take-a-number line in a bakery. He’d muttered some excuse, hurried out . . . why the hell was he thinking of that, now? And now the nausea was returning—his hands throbbed, he was clenching them.

Schwinn was staring at him.

He forced himself to release the fingers, kept his voice level. “So he’s more rational than a maniac. But we are talking someone mentally abnormal, right? Someone normal wouldn’t do this.” Hearing the stupidity of each word as it tumbled out.

Schwinn smiled again. “Normal. Whatever the hell that means.” He turned his back on Milo, walked away without a word, swinging his camera. Stood off by himself next to the coroner’s van, leaving Milo with his bad sketches and compulsive hash marks.

Whatever the hell that means.

A knowing smile. Loose talk about Milo’s sexuality wafting from Rampart and Newton to Central? Was that why the guy was so hostile?

Milo’s hands were clenching again. He’d started to think of himself as maybe fitting in, handling the first seven 187s okay, getting into the 187 groove and thinking he might stick with Homicide, murder would turn out to be something he could finally live with.