"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.

Now he cursed the world, got close to the girl. Closer even than Schwinn. Taking in the sights, the smell, every wound- drinking in the horror, telling himself shut up, idiot, who the hell are you to complain, look at her.

But the rage intensified, flowed over him, and suddenly he felt hard, cruel, vengeful, analytic.

Seized by a rush of appetite.

Trying to make sense of this. Needing to.

He smelled the girl's rot. Wanted, suddenly, to enter her hell.

It was nearly eleven by the time he and Schwinn were back in the unmarked.

"You drive again," said Schwinn. No sign of any hostility, no more possible double entendres, and Milo started to think he'd been paranoid about the normalcy comment. Just Schwinn flapping his lips, because the guy was like that.

He started up the engine. "Where to?"

"Anywhere. Tell you what, take the freeway for a couple exits, then turn around, go back downtown. I need to think."

Milo complied. Cruising down the ramp, as the killer had done. Schwinn stretched and yawned, sniffed and produced his bottle of decongestant and took a long red swallow. Then he leaned over and switched off the radio, closed his eyes, fooled with the corners of his lips. This was going to be one of those silent stretches.

It lasted until Milo was back on city streets, driving up Temple, passing the Music Center and the dirt lots that surrounded it. Lots of empty space as the rich folk planned additional shrines to culture. Talking urban renewal- pretending anyone would ever bother with this poor excuse for a downtown, pretending it wasn't a cement grid of government buildings where bureaucrats worked the day shift and couldn't wait to get the hell out of there and everything got cold and black at night.

"So what's next?" said Schwinn. "On the girl. What do you think?"

"Find out who she was?"

"Shouldn't be too hard, those smooth nails, nice straight teeth. If she was a street slut, her comedown was recent. Someone'll miss her."

"Should we start with Missing Persons?" said Milo.

"You'll start with Missing Persons. Start calling tomorrow morning 'cause MP doesn't staff heavy at night, good luck trying to get those guys off their asses at this hour."

"But if she was reported missing, getting the info tonight would give us a head start-"

"On what? This is no race, boy-o. If our bad boy's out of town, he's long gone, anyway. If not, a few hours won't make a damn bit of difference."

"Still, her parents have got to be worried-"

"Fine, amigo," said Schwinn. "Be a social worker. I'm going home."

No anger, just that know-it-all smugness.

"Want me to head back to the station?" said Milo.

"Yeah, yeah. No, forget that. Pull over- now, boy-o. Over there, yeah yeah yeah stop next to that bus bench."

The bench was a few yards up, on the north side of Temple. Milo was in the left-hand lane and had to turn sharply not to overshoot. He edged to the curb, looked around to see what had changed Schwinn's mind.

Dark, empty block, no one around- no, there was someone. A figure emerging from the shadows. Walking west. Walking quickly.

"A source?" said Milo, as the shape took form. Female form.

Schwinn tightened his tie knot. "Stay put and keep the engine going." He got out of the car, quickly, got to the sidewalk just in time to meet the woman. Her arrival was heralded by spike heels snapping on the pavement.

A tall woman- black, Milo saw, as she shifted into the streetlight. Tall and busty. Maybe forty. Wearing a blue leather mini and a baby blue halter top. Jumbo pile of henna-colored waves atop her head, what looked to be ten pounds of hair.

Schwinn, standing facing her, looking even skinnier than usual. Legs slightly spread. Smiling.

The woman smiled back. Offered both cheeks to Schwinn. One of those Italian movie greetings.

A few moments of conversation, too low for Milo to make out, then both of them got in the backseat of the unmarked.

"This is Tonya," said Schwinn. "She's a good pal of the department. Tonya, meet my brand-new partner, Milo. He's got a master's degree."

"Ooh," said Tonya. "Are you masterful, honey?"

"Nice to meet you, ma'am."

Tonya laughed.

"Start driving," said Schwinn.

"Master's degree," said Tonya, as they pulled away.

At Fifth Street, Schwinn said, "Turn left. Drive into the alley behind those buildings."

"Masturbator's degree?" said Tonya.

"Speaking of which," said Schwinn. "My darling dear."

"Ooh, I love when you talk that way, Mr. S."

Milo reduced his speed.

Schwinn said, "Don't do that, just drive regular- turn again and make a right- go east. Alameda, where the factories are."

"Industrial revolution," said Tonya, and Milo heard something else: the rustle of clothing, the sprick of a zipper undone. He hazarded one look in the rearview, saw Schwinn's head, resting against the back of the seat. Eyes closed. Peaceful smile. Ten pounds of henna bobbing.

A moment later: "Oh, yes, Miss T. I missed you, did you know that?"

"Did you, baby? Aw, you're just saying that."

"Oh, no, it's true."

"Is it, baby?"

"You bet. Miss me, too?"

"You know I do, Mr. S."

"Every day, Miss T?"

"Every day, Mr. S.- c'mon, baby, move a little, help me with this."

"Happy to help," said Schwinn. "Protect and serve."

Milo forced his eyes straight ahead.

No sound in the car but heavy breathing.

"Yeah, yeah," Schwinn was saying now. His voice weak. Milo thought: This is what it takes to knock off the asshole's smugness.

"Oh yeah, just like that, my darling… dear. Oh, yes, you're… a… specialist. A… scientist, yes, yes."