Schoelkopf waved a finger around and around. “Et-fucking-cetera.”

“Covering his rear,” said Stu. “He never mentioned the DV to us.”

“He's a star,” Petra half muttered. “Goes straight to the top.”

Schoelkopf's color deepened. “Yeah, the bastard's obviously trying to finesse, calling with no legal shield. That tells me he thinks he's smarter than he is. So if we do get some physical evidence, maybe there'll be a way to wedge him open. Not that we'd be able to talk turkey without his getting a lawyer mouthpiece faster'n Michael Jackson gets new faces. But meanwhile we finesse, too. That's what I meant by context: no premature hassling; no getting accused of tunnel vision.”

Petra said, “The news broadcast-”

“Gives you a good reason to talk to him about all sorts of things, but at the same time you need to do an exhaustive check of all similar homicides. I'm talking two years' worth- make it three. All city divisions. Keep precise written records.”

Petra was stunned. This was scut work- hours… days of it. She looked at Stu.

He said, “How closely related are we talking about?”

“Start with girls cut up with multiple wounds,” said Schoelkopf. “Girls killed in parks, blondes killed in parks, whatever, you're the D's. And make sure to check if any new slashers have been operating in noncity areas that border the park, like Burbank, Atwater. Maybe Glendale, Pasadena- yeah, definitely Glendale and Pasadena. La Canada, La Crescenta. Start with those.”

Neither Stu nor Petra spoke.

“Don't give me that surly shit,” said Schoelkopf. “This is insurance for you. ‘Yes, Mr. Pusswipe Defense Attorney, we looked into every goddamn nook and cranny before we busted Mr. Ramsey's ass.' Think-about your faces on Court TV, old Mark Fuhrman sitting around in Idaho. Because you're the ones on the line unless the case gets too big and we don't produce and they kick it over to downtown Robbery-fucking-Homicide.”

“Which they could do anyway,” said Stu.

Schoelkopf's grin was murderous. “Anything's possible, Ken. That's what makes this job so charming.” He began thumbing through the phone messages.

“What's the procedure with Ramsey?” said Stu. “Do we wait to look into all those similars before approaching him, or are we allowed to start now?”

“Allowed, again? You two think this is being imposed on you?”

“Just trying to get the rules straight.”

Schoelkopf looked up. “The only rule is be smart. Goddamn yes, you talk to Ramsey. If you don't, we'll be in a sling over that. Just do the other stuff, too. That's why God invented overtime.”

He picked up a message slip and the phone, but Stu remained seated and Petra followed his cue.

Stu said, “In terms of Ramsey's background, I've got some sources at the studios-”

“I can see a problem there,” said Schoelkopf, looking up. “Movie people are loose-lipped assholes. The fact that your sources blab to you means they're not real good at keeping their mouths shut, right?”

“That's true of any case-”

“This isn't any case.”

“What's to stop them from talking to the press, anyway, Captain?” said Petra. “What if the tabloids start throwing around money and a real feeding frenzy develops? Do we keep bird-dogging the nightly news?”

Schoelkopf's top teeth gnashed his bottom lip. “Okay, pick one or two sources, Ken,” he said, as if Petra hadn't spoken. “But know this: You will be graded. Talk to that black guy, see what he's all about. Sooner rather than later. Have a nice day.”

My eyes are closed, and I'm thinking when I feel it. Ants are crawling over me; they probably smelled the Honey Nuts. I jump to my feet and slap them off, stomp as many as I can. Someone watching me would think I'm crazy.

After what I saw, I don't feel great even being in the park, but what's my choice? For a second I imagine him finding me, chasing me, cornering me. He's got the knife, the same one, grabs me and stabs down. My heart jumps up to meet the blade.

Why would I think that?

It's 11:34 A.M., have to take my mind off it. I open the algebra book, do equations in my head. I'll try to eat- maybe a piece of beef jerky- and at 1:00 P.M., I'll go down to that place along the fence, see if the lock's still off.

Made it. Super-quiet up in Africa. Five dollars in my pocket; the rest of my money's wrapped up and buried.

Hot- summer's coming early. Lots of sleepy animals, most of them hiding in their caves. Not a lot of people- some tourists, mostly Japanese, and young moms with babies in strollers. I've got a notebook with me and a pencil, to make it look like some kind of school assignment. My smell isn't too bad out in the open. No one's looking at me weird, and someone actually smiled- a couple of tourists- a man and a woman, Americans, old, kind of geeky, with lots of cameras and this zoo map they can't seem to figure out. I probably remind them of their grandson or something.

I keep going to the top of Africa. Most of the animals are sleeping, but I don't care, it feels good to walk without having to. One rhino is out, but she just gives me a dirty look, so I head for the gorillas.

When I get there, it's a scene.

Two of the young moms are there, freaking out; one of them's brushing off her blouse and screaming, “Oh God, gross!” and the other's wheeling her stroller backward fast. Then they both race away toward North America.

I see why right away.

Shit. All over the ground near the fence that blocks off the gorilla exhibit.

Five gorillas are out, four sitting around and scratching and sleeping and one standing the way they do, bent over with his hands almost reaching the ground. A girl. The males have humongous heads and a silver stripe down their backs.

She starts walking around, stops to check out the other gorillas, scratches, walks some more. Then she bends and picks up a giant piece of shit.

And throws it.

It misses my head, and lands on the ground right next to me, exploding into nasty-smelling dust. Some of it gets on my shoes. I try to kick it loose and another chunk flies by me. And another.

“You idiot!” I hear myself scream. No one's around.

The gorilla folds her arms across her chest and just looks at me and I swear she's smiling, like this is some terrific gorilla joke.

Then she points at me. Then she picks up another hunk.

I get out of there. The whole world has gotten crazy.

I buy a lemonade from a vending machine and walk around drinking, hoping all the shit dust comes off, because I'm really tired of gross things.

Maybe I'll visit the reptile house; it's cool and shaded and seeing another two-headed king snake would be cool.

On the way in, I meet those same two grandparent tourists coming out and they smile again, still looking confused. I cruise by the boas and the anaconda, adders and lizards, rattlesnakes, vipers, and cobras. Spend some time looking at an albino python, huge and fat, with pink-white scales and weird red eyes.

Will its ugly pale face get into my dreams tonight?

That wouldn't be bad if I could get it to eat PLYR 1.

I stand there thinking of myself as the Snakemaster, communicating with reptiles through mental power. Calling the albino python to wrap itself around PLYR 1, crushing him, squeezing him like a juice orange.

Knowing what's happening to him. That's worse than just dying. Knowing.

A little while later, near the edge of the zoo, next to a playground that I guess they keep for little kids who get bored with the animals, is a vegetable patch with a rope around it.