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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.”
    “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