Jonathan Kellerman - Devil's Waltz

His hair had been recently cut — clipped short at back and sides, left full at the top. The black thatch hanging over his forehead showed a few strands of white. His sideburns reached the bottom of his ear lobes, a good inch longer than department regulations — but that was the least of the department’s problems with him.

Milo was oblivious to fashion. He’d had the same look since I’d known him. Now Melrose trendies were adopting it; I doubted he’d noticed.

His big, pockmarked face was night-shift pale. But his startling green eyes seemed clearer than usual.

He said, “ You look wired.”

Opening the refrigerator, he bypassed the bottles of Grolsch, removed an unopened quart jar of grapefruit juice, and uncapped it with a quick twist of two thick fingers.

I handed him a glass. He filled it, drained it, filled again and drank.

“Vitamin C, free enterprise, snappy-sounding business title — you’re moving too fast for me, Milo.”

Putting the glass down, he licked his lips. “Actually,” he said, “ Blue’ s an acronym. Big Lug’s Uneasy Enterprise — Rick’s idea of wit. Though I admit it was accurate at the time — jumping into the private sector wasn’t exactly your smooth transition. But I’m glad I did it, because of the bread. I’ve become serious about financial security in my old age.”

“What do you charge?”

“Fifty to eighty per hour, depending. Not as good as a shrink, but I’m not complaining. City wants to waste what it taught me, have me sit in front of a screen all day, it’s their loss. By night, I’m getting my detective exercise.”

“Any interesting cases?”

“Nah, mostly petty bullshit surveillance to keep the paranoids happy. But at least it gets me out on the street.”

He poured more juice and drank. “I don’t know how long I can take it — the day job.”

He rubbed his face, as if washing without water. Suddenly, he looked worn, stripped of entrepreneurial cheer.

I thought of all he’d been through during the last year. Breaking the jaw of a superior who’d put his life in danger. Doing it on live television. The police department settling with him because going public could have proved embarrassing. No charges pressed, six months’ unpaid leave, then a return to West L.A. Robbery/Homicide with a one-notch demotion to Detective II. Finding out, six months later, that no detective jobs were open at West L.A., or any other division, due to “unforeseen” budget cuts.

They shunted him — “temporarily” — to a data-processing job at Parker Center, where he was put under the tutelage of a flagrantly effeminate civilian instructor and taught how to play with computers. The department’s not-so-subtle reminder that assault was one thing, but what he did in bed was neither forgotten nor forgiven.

“Still thinking of going to court?” I said.

“I don’t know. Rick wants me to fight to the death. Says the way they reneged proves they’ll never give me a break. But I know if I take it to court, that’s it for me in the department. Even if I win.”

He removed his jacket and tossed it on the counter. “Enough bullshit self-pity. What can I do for you ?”

I told him about Cassie Jones, gave him a mini-lecture on Munchausen syndrome. He drank and made no comment. Looked almost as if he were tuning out.

I said, “Have you heard of this before?”

“No. Why?”

“Most people react a little more strongly.”

“Just taking it all in... Actually, it reminded me of something. Several years ago. There was this guy came into the E.R. at Cedars. Bleeding ulcer. Rick saw him, asked him about stress. Guy says he’s been hitting the bottle very heavy ’cause he’s guilty about being a murderer and getting away with it. Seems he’d been with a call girl, gotten mad and cut her up. Badly — real psycho slasher thing. Rick nodded and said uh-huh; then he got the hell out of there and called Security — then me. The murder had taken place in Westwood. At the time I was in a car with Del Hardy, working on some robberies over in Pico-Robertson, and the two of us bopped over right away, Mirandized him, and listened to what he had to say.

“The turkey was overjoyed to see us. Vomiting out details like we were his salvation. Names, addresses, dates, weapon. He denied any other murders and came up clean for wants and warrants. A real middle-of-the-road type of guy, even owned his own business — carpet cleaning, I think. We booked him, had him repeat his confession on tape, and figured we’d picked up a dream solve. Then we proceeded to round up verifying details and found nothing. No crime, no physical evidence of any murder at that particular date and place; no hooker had ever lived at that address or anywhere nearby. No hooker fitting the name and description he’d given us had ever existed anywhere in L.A. So we checked unidentified victims, but none of the Jane Does in the morgue fit, and no moniker in Vice’s files matched the one he said his girl used. We even ran checks in other cities, contacted the FBI, figuring maybe he got disoriented — some kind of psycho thing — and mixed up his locale. He kept insisting it had happened exactly the way he was telling it. Kept saying he wanted to be punished.

“After three straight days of this: nada . Guy’s got a court-appointed attorney against his will, and the lawyer’s screaming at us to make a case or let his client go. Our lieutenant is putting the pressure on — put up or shut up. So we keep digging. Zilch.

“At this point we begin to suspect we’ve been had, and confront the guy. He denies it. Really convincing — De Niro could have taken lessons. So we go over it again . Backtracking, double-checking, driving ourselves crazy. And still come up empty. Finally, we’re convinced it’s a scam, get overtly pissed off at the guy — major league bad-cop/bad-cop. He reacts by getting pissed off, too. But it’s an embarrassed kind of anger. Slimy. Like he knows he’s been found out and is being extra-indignant in order to put us on the defensive.”

He shook his head and hummed the Twilight Zone theme.

“What happened?” I said.

“What could happen? We let him walk out and never heard from the asshole again. We could have busted him for filing a false report, but that would have bought us lots of paperwork and court time, and for what? Lecture and a fine on a first offense knocked down to a misdemeanor? No, thank you. We were really steamed, Alex. I’ve never seen Del so mad. It had been a heavy week, plenty of real crimes, very few solutions. And this bastard yanks our chains with total bullshit. ”

Remembered anger colored his face.

“Confessors,” he said. “Attention-seeking, jerking everyone around. Doesn’t that sound like your Munchausen losers?”

“Sounds a lot like them,” I said. “Never thought of it that way.”

“See? I’m a regular font of insight. Go on with your case.”

I told him the rest of it.

He said, “Okay, so what do you want? Background checks on the mother? Both parents? The nurse?”

“I hadn’t thought in those terms.”

“No? What, then?”

“I really don’t know, Milo. I guess I just wanted some counsel.”

He placed his hands atop his belly, bowed his head, and raised it. “Honorable Buddha on duty. Honorable Buddha counsels as following: Shoot all bad guys. Let some other deity sort them out.”

“Be good to know who the bad guys are.”

“Exactly. That’s why I suggested background checks. At least on your prime suspect.”

“That would have to be the mother.”

“Then she gets checked first. But as long as I’m punching buttons, I can throw in any others as a bonus. More fun than the payroll shit they’re punishing me with.”