that’s what love’s all about, right?”
9
MILO BEGGED off the case during the drive back to the
Sea Breeze Motel.
“I can’t take it any further,” he said apologetically.
“All we’ve got at this point is a missing persons squeal, and that’s stretching
it.”
“I know. Thanks for coming down.”
“No big deal. It was a break from routine. Just so
happens I’ve got a particularly cruddy routine right now. Gang shooting—two cholos blown away—liquor store clerk ripped with a broken bottle, and a real
sweetheart—a rapist who shits on his victims’ abdomens when he’s through with
them. We know he’s attacked at least seven women. The last one ended up more
than defiled.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus won’t forgive this creep.” He frowned and
turned on Sawtelle toward Pico. “Each year I tell myself I’ve witnessed the
depths of depravity and each year the scumbags out there prove me wrong. Maybe
I should have taken the exam.”
Fifteen months ago he and I had exposed a prominent
orphanage as a brothel catering to pedophiles, solving a handful of murders in
the process. He’d been a hero and had been invited to take the lieutenant’s
exam. There was no doubt he’d have passed, because he’s brilliant, and the
brass had let him know the city was ready for a gay loot as long as he didn’t
flaunt it. He’d debated it internally for a long time before turning it down.
“No way, Milo. You would have been miserable. Think
back to what you told me.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t give up Walt Whitman to push paper.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Prior to his hitch in Vietnam, Milo had been enrolled
in the graduate program in American Lit at Indiana U., contemplating life as a
teacher, hoping the academic world would be a setting where his sexual
preferences would be tolerated. He’d gotten as far as an M.A. and then the war
had turned him into a policeman.
“Just imagine,” I reminded him, “endless meetings with
desk jockeys, considering the political implications of taking a leak, no
contact with the streets.”
He held up a hand and feigned suffering.
“Enough, I’m gonna puke.”
“Just a little aversive therapy.”
He pulled the Matador into the motel lot. The sky had
darkened in anticipation of twilight and the Sea Breeze benefited from it
aesthetically. Take away the sunlight and the place looked almost habitable.
The office was brightly lit and the Iranian clerk was
visible behind the counter, reading. My Seville was the lone occupant of the
lot. The half-empty pool looked like a crater.
Milo stopped the car and let the engine idle.
“You understand about my stepping out of this?”
“Of course. No homicide, no homicide detective.”
“They’ll probably be back for the car. I had it
impounded so they’ll have to check in to get it back. They do, I’ll call you
and give you a chance to talk to them. Even if they don’t show, we’ll probably
find out they’re back home, no harm done.”
He realized what he’d said and grimaced.
“Shit. Where’s my head? The kid.”
“He could be all right. Maybe they’ve taken him to
another hospital.” I wanted to sound hopeful but memories—the pain on Woody’s
face, the bloodstain on the motel carpet—eroded my faith in a happy ending.
“If they don’t treat him that’s it, right?”
I nodded.
He stared out the windshield. “That’s one kind of
murder I’ve never dealt with.”
Raoul had said the same thing in different words. I
told him so.
“And this Melendez-Lynch doesn’t want to go the legal
route?”
“He was trying to avoid it. It may end up in court
yet.”
He gave his big head a shake and placed a hand on my
shoulder. “I’ll keep my ears open. Anything comes up I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate it. And thanks for everything, Milo.”
“It was nothing. Literally.” We shook hands. “Say
hello to the entrepreneur when she gets back.”
“Will do. The best
9
MILO BEGGED off the case during the drive back to the
Sea Breeze Motel.
“I can’t take it any further,” he said apologetically.
“All we’ve got at this point is a missing persons squeal, and that’s stretching
it.”
“I know. Thanks for coming down.”
“No big deal. It was a break from routine. Just so
happens I’ve got a particularly cruddy routine right now. Gang shooting—two cholos blown away—liquor store clerk ripped with a broken bottle, and a real
sweetheart—a rapist who shits on his victims’ abdomens when he’s through with
them. We know he’s attacked at least seven women. The last one ended up more
than defiled.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus won’t forgive this creep.” He frowned and
turned on Sawtelle toward Pico. “Each year I tell myself I’ve witnessed the
depths of depravity and each year the scumbags out there prove me wrong. Maybe
I should have taken the exam.”
Fifteen months ago he and I had exposed a prominent
orphanage as a brothel catering to pedophiles, solving a handful of murders in
the process. He’d been a hero and had been invited to take the lieutenant’s
exam. There was no doubt he’d have passed, because he’s brilliant, and the
brass had let him know the city was ready for a gay loot as long as he didn’t
flaunt it. He’d debated it internally for a long time before turning it down.
“No way, Milo. You would have been miserable. Think
back to what you told me.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t give up Walt Whitman to push paper.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Prior to his hitch in Vietnam, Milo had been enrolled
in the graduate program in American Lit at Indiana U., contemplating life as a
teacher, hoping the academic world would be a setting where his sexual
preferences would be tolerated. He’d gotten as far as an M.A. and then the war
had turned him into a policeman.
“Just imagine,” I reminded him, “endless meetings with
desk jockeys, considering the political implications of taking a leak, no
contact with the streets.”
He held up a hand and feigned suffering.
“Enough, I’m gonna puke.”
“Just a little aversive therapy.”
He pulled the Matador into the motel lot. The sky had
darkened in anticipation of twilight and the Sea Breeze benefited from it
aesthetically. Take away the sunlight and the place looked almost habitable.
The office was brightly lit and the Iranian clerk was
visible behind the counter, reading. My Seville was the lone occupant of the
lot. The half-empty pool looked like a crater.
Milo stopped the car and let the engine idle.
“You understand about my stepping out of this?”
“Of course. No homicide, no homicide detective.”
“They’ll probably be back for the car. I had it
impounded so they’ll have to check in to get it back. They do, I’ll call you
and give you a chance to talk to them. Even if they don’t show, we’ll probably
find out they’re back home, no harm done.”
He realized what he’d said and grimaced.
“Shit. Where’s my head? The kid.”
“He could be all right. Maybe they’ve taken him to
another hospital.” I wanted to sound hopeful but memories—the pain on Woody’s
face, the bloodstain on the motel carpet—eroded my faith in a happy ending.
“If they don’t treat him that’s it, right?”
I nodded.
He stared out the windshield. “That’s one kind of
murder I’ve never dealt with.”
Raoul had said the same thing in different words. I
told him so.
“And this Melendez-Lynch doesn’t want to go the legal
route?”
“He was trying to avoid it. It may end up in court
yet.”
He gave his big head a shake and placed a hand on my
shoulder. “I’ll keep my ears open. Anything comes up I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate it. And thanks for everything, Milo.”
“It was nothing. Literally.” We shook hands. “Say
hello to the entrepreneur when she gets back.”
“Will do. The best
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