—
I was behind the wheel of the Seville by the time Milo finished giving me the basics. Took Beverly Glen through Westwood over to Pico, hooked west to Butler Avenue, then south to the West L.A. station.
A uniform was waiting at the staff lot to card-key me in.
“Good morning, Doctor.”
“Good morning.”
Not for everyone.
—
Substantial time lapse between the discovery of an unexplained death and any sort of forensic analysis is the rule, not the exception. Unlike what you’re fed on whiz-bang TV shows, processing a dead human is a painstaking process involving a small army of people who know tortoise beats hare every time.
Uniforms are the first to arrive, then detectives, then coroner’s investigators and crime scene techs. Everyone knows the rules and waits their turn.
Last in line are the crypt drivers who bag and zip thenclickety-clackthe gurney open and roll the body smoothly into their van as the wheeled cart folds flat obediently. The duration of the ride to 1104 North Mission Road in East L.A. depends on where in the sprawl of L.A. County the crime occurred and, more important, the traffic situation. Just like any other commute.
The body’s driven to the back of the Coroner’s and eased onto a loading dock. No tasteless humor to be heard, just the mute ballet of people doing their jobs.
And the buzz of aspirational flies collecting at doors and windows. No matter how tightly the building is sealed, they never stop trying.
—
In a homicide, the case belongs to the detective but the body belongs to the coroner and it’s hands-off until the coroner’s investigator gives the okay. The C.I. this morning had already been to a shooting near Skid Row and didn’t arrive until just after five a.m.
Milo had spent the time inside the hospital, interviewing nurses and doctors, all of them wide-eyed with shock and having nothing to offer. The flustered guard was located dry-retching in a bathroom. Because of his age and obvious frailty, Milo went easy on him.
Not that pressuring him would’ve made a difference. All Atkins Gillibrand knew was that after he’d seen “the bundle,” he notified the white coats and watched in horror as they unwrapped it.
“They didn’t do no doctoring, sir, not a bit. Checked for a pulse, said she was long-cold, and called 911.”
Nossir, he didn’t know her. No one else did, either. Pretty girl, though, couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-five.
Canvassing the neighborhood is basic procedure but in this case it was irrelevant because there were no residences or open businesses nearby, just shuttered industrial buildings and the freeway jumble. Homeless people often camp under the passes but no sign of any so maybe they’d fled at the sight of black-and-whites speeding by, light bars strobing the darkness.
Once Milo had learned all that, there was little for him to do. When the C.I., a retired RN named Gladys King, arrived, the same applied to her.
No pockets through which to rummage or labels to read, no obvious “defects.”
“Probably an O.D.,” she said.
Milo said, “She was dumped by a guy who sped off.”
“Ah,” said King. “Guess that makes it your business. Good luck.”
Chapter
2
Our silent walk covered three blocks before Milo hooked a thumb at a café with a tricolor Italian flag over the door.
Geppetto’s wasClosed SATURDAYS until noon.One person inside, a squat, aproned, gray-haired man sweeping. Milo rapped the glass, the man saw us and unlocked the door, beaming.
“The usual,Comandante?”
“Sounds good, Miro.”
