day.
âWhoâs in charge here?â the assistant medical examiner wanted to know.
Ollie merely gave him a look: he was the only person here with a gold and blue-enameled detectiveâs shield pinned to his jacket lapel, so who the hell did the man
think
was in charge? The only other cops at the scene were a pair of blues, both of them standing around looking bewildered, their thumbs up their asses. Did the man think
uniforms
were now handling homicide investigations?
Or maybe the man had forgotten that he and Ollie had worked together before. Ollie could not imagine this; he did not consider himself an eminently forgettable human being. Did the man work with detectives as fat as Ollie every day of the week? The man
had
to know that the fat detective in the loud sports jacket was the one in charge here. Or was he pretending not to know Ollie because he didnât want Ollie to think the only
reason
he remembered him was
because
he was fat? If so, that was stupid. Ollie
knew
he was fat. He also knew that behind his back people called him Fat Ollie. He considered it a measure of respect that nobody ever called him this to his face.
âOh, hello, Weeks,â the ME said, as if noticing him for the first time, which was tantamount to suddenly noticing a hippopotamus at the dinner table. âWhatâve we got?â
âDead black girl in the kitchen,â Ollie said.
The MEâs name was Frederick Kurtz, a Nazi bastard if Ollie had ever met one. Even had a little Hitler mustache under his nose. Little black satchel like some mad doctor at Buchenwald. Wearing a rumpled suit looked as if heâd slept in it all this past week. Had a bad cold, too. Kept taking a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket and blowing fresh snot into it, the fuckin Nazi. Ollie followed him into the kitchen.
The girl lay on her back in front of the sink counter, the knife still in her. This was going to be a real tough call. It would take a fuckin Nazi rocket scientist to diagnose this one as a fatal stabbing. Nobody had yet taken the knife out of her because rule number one was you didnât touch anything till the ME officially pronounced the vic dead. Ollie waited while Kurtz circled the body like a vulture, trying to find a comfortable position from which to examine the dead girl. He put his satchel down on the floor beside her, and leaned over close to her mouth, as if hoping to catch a shimmer of breath from her lips. Ollie was thinking if the girl was still breathing, sheâd be sanctified before nightfall. Be the first black saint from this city. Kurtz placed his forefinger and middle finger on the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse in the carotid artery. Fat Chance Department, Ollie thought.
âReckon sheâs dead?â he asked, trying to sound like John Wayne, but succeeding only in sounding like W. C. Fields. Ollie sometimes tried to do Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, and Robert De Niro, but somehow all his imitations came out sounding like W. C. Fields. He didnât realize this. He actually considered his imitations right on the money, and often thought of himself as the man with the golden ear. Kurtz knew sarcasm when he heard it, however, even when it came from a fat dick who neither looked nor sounded like a cowboy. He didnât answer Ollie. Instead, he put his stethoscope to the girlâs chest, already knowing she was dead as a doornail, to coin a medical phrase, and went about his examination pretending Ollie wasnât there, something difficult to do under any circumstances. A voice from the bedroom doorway startled Kurtz, echoing as it did his own earlier question,
âWhoâs in charge here?â Monoghan asked.
Same stupid question from another jackass who should know better, Ollie thought. In this city, the detective catching the squeal was the cop officially investigating the case from that moment on. Detective Monoghan, his partner Detective Monroe, and variousother
âWhoâs in charge here?â the assistant medical examiner wanted to know.
Ollie merely gave him a look: he was the only person here with a gold and blue-enameled detectiveâs shield pinned to his jacket lapel, so who the hell did the man
think
was in charge? The only other cops at the scene were a pair of blues, both of them standing around looking bewildered, their thumbs up their asses. Did the man think
uniforms
were now handling homicide investigations?
Or maybe the man had forgotten that he and Ollie had worked together before. Ollie could not imagine this; he did not consider himself an eminently forgettable human being. Did the man work with detectives as fat as Ollie every day of the week? The man
had
to know that the fat detective in the loud sports jacket was the one in charge here. Or was he pretending not to know Ollie because he didnât want Ollie to think the only
reason
he remembered him was
because
he was fat? If so, that was stupid. Ollie
knew
he was fat. He also knew that behind his back people called him Fat Ollie. He considered it a measure of respect that nobody ever called him this to his face.
âOh, hello, Weeks,â the ME said, as if noticing him for the first time, which was tantamount to suddenly noticing a hippopotamus at the dinner table. âWhatâve we got?â
âDead black girl in the kitchen,â Ollie said.
The MEâs name was Frederick Kurtz, a Nazi bastard if Ollie had ever met one. Even had a little Hitler mustache under his nose. Little black satchel like some mad doctor at Buchenwald. Wearing a rumpled suit looked as if heâd slept in it all this past week. Had a bad cold, too. Kept taking a soiled handkerchief from his back pocket and blowing fresh snot into it, the fuckin Nazi. Ollie followed him into the kitchen.
The girl lay on her back in front of the sink counter, the knife still in her. This was going to be a real tough call. It would take a fuckin Nazi rocket scientist to diagnose this one as a fatal stabbing. Nobody had yet taken the knife out of her because rule number one was you didnât touch anything till the ME officially pronounced the vic dead. Ollie waited while Kurtz circled the body like a vulture, trying to find a comfortable position from which to examine the dead girl. He put his satchel down on the floor beside her, and leaned over close to her mouth, as if hoping to catch a shimmer of breath from her lips. Ollie was thinking if the girl was still breathing, sheâd be sanctified before nightfall. Be the first black saint from this city. Kurtz placed his forefinger and middle finger on the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse in the carotid artery. Fat Chance Department, Ollie thought.
âReckon sheâs dead?â he asked, trying to sound like John Wayne, but succeeding only in sounding like W. C. Fields. Ollie sometimes tried to do Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, and Robert De Niro, but somehow all his imitations came out sounding like W. C. Fields. He didnât realize this. He actually considered his imitations right on the money, and often thought of himself as the man with the golden ear. Kurtz knew sarcasm when he heard it, however, even when it came from a fat dick who neither looked nor sounded like a cowboy. He didnât answer Ollie. Instead, he put his stethoscope to the girlâs chest, already knowing she was dead as a doornail, to coin a medical phrase, and went about his examination pretending Ollie wasnât there, something difficult to do under any circumstances. A voice from the bedroom doorway startled Kurtz, echoing as it did his own earlier question,
âWhoâs in charge here?â Monoghan asked.
Same stupid question from another jackass who should know better, Ollie thought. In this city, the detective catching the squeal was the cop officially investigating the case from that moment on. Detective Monoghan, his partner Detective Monroe, and variousother