Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

West side of the street, Milo had said. The alley.

Not far from the restaurant where I’d stuffed my face three hours before. Now the thought of eating churned my stomach.

A patrol car blocked the alley, ruby-sapphire lights flashing, the crown jewels of trouble. The uniform with his foot propped on the front bumper was young and pumped up and distrustful, and his palm shot out reflexively as I edged the Seville near. I stuck my head out, called out my name. He wasn’t hearing it, scowled at the Seville’s grille, ordered me to move it. I shouted louder, and he sauntered over, uni-browed angrily, hand on his holster. My face was hot, but I forced myself to talk slowly and politely. Finally, he made the call that cleared me, and when I got out he said, “Over there,” as if imparting something profound.

Pointing south down the alley, but there was no need for direction. The knot of vehicles was a huge chrome tumor under the sizzle of power lines. As I ran toward the crime scene, the stench of rotted upholstery and gasoline and putrefying vegetables nearly gagged me.

I spotted Milo next to the coroner’s van, hunched and scrawling furiously. One of his legs was bent, and the roll of his belly protruded far beyond his lapels. He licked his pencil, then jockeyed for comfort the way big, heavy men often do.

The high-intensity spots the techs had set up turned his face white and powdery, as if dusted with flour, showcasing pouches and pits, the saggy smudges under his eyes. I continued toward him, feeling numb and sick and out of place.

When I was ten feet away, he looked up. Now his face was strangely diffuse, as if my eyes had suddenly lost acuity. Except for his eyes: They gleamed, sharp, too bright, jumpy as a coyote’s, emerald green bleached by the spots to sea foam. He had on a flesh-colored, poly-wool sport coat, baggy brown cords, white wash-and-wear shirt with a skimpy, curling collar, and a skinny green tie that glistened like a strip of tooth gel. His hair needed cutting; the top, ink black, left longish, as usual, shot off in all directions, and the spiky forelock that shaded his brow arched over his high-bridged nose. His temples, clipped to bristle, were snow-white from ear top to the bottom of Elvisoid sideburns. The contrast was unnatural; recently, he’d taken to calling himself El Skunko, was making more and more cracks about senility and mortality. He was less than a year older than I, seemed to have aged a lot during the last year or so. Robin told me I looked young when she thought I needed to hear that. I wondered what Rick told Milo.

He closed his notepad, rubbed his face, shook his head.

“Where is she?” I said.

“Already in the van,” he said, tilting his head toward the coroner’s transport. The doors were closed. A driver sat behind the wheel.

I started toward the van. He held my arm. “You don’t want to see her.”

“I can handle it.”

“Don’t put yourself through it. What’s the point?”

I continued to the van, and he opened the door, slid out the gurney, unzipped the first two feet of the body bag. I caught a nose-full of rotten-meat stench and a glimpse of misshapen green-gray face, purplish, swollen eyes, protuberant tongue, long blond strands, before he resealed the bag and led me away.

As the van drove off he sighed, rubbed his face again, as if washing without water. “She’s been dead for a while, Alex. Four, five days, maybe more, at the bottom of one of the Dumpsters, under a load of trash.” He pointed. “That one, behind the patio furniture outlet. Someone wrapped her in heavy-duty plastic – industrial sheeting. Nights have been cool, but still…”

“Who found her?” I said.

“The outlet uses a private trash service. They pick up once a week, at night, showed up a couple of hours ago. When they latched the Dumpster onto their truck and upended it, she fell out – Do you really want to hear this?”

“Go on.”

“Part of her rolled out. A leg. The driver heard her hit the ground, went over to check, and uncovered the rest of her. She was bound, hands and feet – hog-tied. Shot in the back of the head. Two shots, close range, both in the brain stem. Coroner says one bullet would’ve done the trick. Someone was being careful. Or angry. Or both. Or just liked to play with his firestick.”

“Large caliber?”

“Large enough to blacken her eyes and do that to her face. Alex, why are you-”

“Sounds like an execution,” I said. It came out calm and flat. My eyes filled with water, and I swiped at them.

He didn’t answer.

“Four or five days or more,” I went on. “So it happened soon after she disappeared.”

“Looks like it.”

“How’d you identify her?”

“Moment I saw her, I knew exactly who she was. When I spoke to Missing Persons for you, they sent me her sheet and I’d seen her booking photo.”

“Well,” I said. “Now you’ve got a relief from your cold cases.”

“I’m sorry about this, Alex.”

“I just left a message for her mother. Told her I was still working on finding Lauren. Nothing like success, huh?” My eyes brimmed, and a hand-wipe didn’t do the trick. As I reached for my handkerchief, Milo turned away.

I stood there and let the tears gush. What the hell was this all about? I was no stranger to tragedy, had trained myself to maintain distance.

Lauren was dead at twenty-five, but my memories were dominated by a fifteen-year-old face. Too much makeup, useless little black purse. Ridiculous shoes.

I’ve changed.

You’ve grown up.

Have I?

My gorge rose, and this time I didn’t think I could hold back.

Milo’s voice was far away, fuzzed and funneled by distance. “You all right?”

I tried to mouth the word “Fine.” Turned and sprinted up the alley, found a spot away from the crime scene, and vomited convulsively.

The burn of rice wine, the fishy aftertaste of a fine Japanese dinner.

I waited in Milo’s unmarked as he did what he needed to do. My throat was raw, and my body was sheathed in clammy sweat. Yet I felt strangely serene. Milo’d left his cell phone on the front seat, and I called Robin.

She picked up right away – waiting.

“Sorry to ruin another evening,” I said.

“What happened?”

“Someone got killed. The case I mentioned today – what I couldn’t talk about. A girl I once treated. You’ll probably read about it in the paper tomorrow. They just found her body.”

“Oh, God – a child ?”

“A young woman. She was a child when I met her. She’d gone missing, her mother asked me to help – I may end up going with Milo to notify her. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“Alex, I’m so sorry.”

A laugh slipped out from between my lips. Inappropriate. Inexplicable.

“Love you,” I said.

“I know you do.”

Milo got behind the wheel, and I told him about Shawna Yeager.

He said, “I remember that one – the beauty queen. Guy named Leo Riley ended up with it, thank God.”

“Tough one?”

“Impossible from the get-go, not a shred of physical evidence and no witnesses. Leo used to gripe about it – his last case before retiring and he had to end it open. His hunch was some warpo got hold of the girl, did his thing, put her where she’ll never be found.” He eyed the Dumpster. “Whoever did this didn’t care about that.”

“True,” I said.

“Why’d you tell me about the Yeager girl?”

I repeated my conversation with Gene Dalby.

He said, “Two students, blond, good-looking, a year apart. If I’m right about the Yeager girl being a sex thing, that’s a long time between victims. Nothing you’ve said screams pattern.”