The Murder Book

What can you say to that?

I sat there, and he swiped at his brow. More sweat leaked through. He looked thoroughly miserable. Crazily enough, I felt guilty.

"We'll work it out," I heard myself saying. "Now tell me why you looked like death when you saw Janie Ingalls's photo?"

"Low blood sugar," he said. "No time for breakfast."

"Ah," I said. "Hence the vodka."

He shrugged. "I thought it was out of my head, but maybe I figure I should've pursued it."

"Maybe 'NS' means someone else thinks you should pursue it now. Do any of the other photos in the book mean anything to you?"

"Nope."

I looked at the gloves he'd discarded. "Going to run prints?"

"Maybe," he said. Then he grimaced.

"What?"

"Ghost of failures past."

He poured a fourth glass, mostly juice, maybe an ounce of vodka.

I said, "Any guesses who sent it?"

"Sounds like you've got one."

"Your ex-partner, Schwinn. He had a fondness for photography. And access to old police files."

"Why the hell would he be contacting me, now? He couldn't stand me. Didn't give a damn about the Ingalls case or any other."

"Maybe time has mellowed him. He worked Homicide for twenty years before you came on. Meaning he'd have been on the job during much of the period covered by the photos. The ones that preceded his watch, he swiped. He bent the rules, so lifting a few crime-scene photos wouldn't have been much of an ethical stretch. The book could be part of a collection he assembled over the years. He called it the murder book and bound it in blue, to be cute."

"But why send it to me via you? Why now? What's his damn point?"

"Is Janie's picture one Schwinn could've snapped himself?"

Peeling on a new pair of gloves, he flipped back to the death shot.

"Nah, this is professionally developed, better quality than what he'd have gotten with that Instamatic."

"Maybe he had the film reprocessed. Or if he's still a photography bug, he's got himself a home darkroom."

"Schwinn," he said. "Screw all this hypothesizing, Alex. The guy didn't trust me when we worked together. Why would he be contacting me?"

"What if he learned something twenty years ago that he's finally ready to share? Such as the source that directed him to Bowie Ingalls and the party. Maybe he feels guilty about holding back, has the urge to come clean. By now, he'd be close to seventy, could be sick or dying. Or just introspective- age can do that. He knows he's in no position to do anything about the case but figures you might be."

He thought about that. Degloved again, stood, stared at the fridge but didn't move. "We can spin theories all day, but the book could've been sent by anyone."

"Could it?" I said. "Janie's murder never hit the news, so it had to be someone with inside information. And Schwinn's belief in science becoming a major investigative tool might play into it. That day has arrived, right? DNA testing, all that other good stuff. If semen and blood samples were saved-"

"I don't even know if there was any semen in her, Alex. Schwinn figured it for a sex thing, but neither of us ever saw the autopsy results. Once they closed us down, I never saw a scrap of official paper." A big fist slammed the table, and the murder book jumped. "This is total bullshit."

I kept my mouth shut.

He began pacing the dining room. "Bastard- I have a good mind to go face-to-face with him. If it was him- so why was it sent to you?"

"Covering tracks," I said. "Schwinn knew we worked together- another indication of an interest in police affairs."

"Or just someone who reads the paper, Alex. Our names were paired on the Teague case."

"And you came out of that one smelling sweet, big solve. Schwinn may not have liked you or respected or trusted you, but maybe he's followed your career and changed his mind."

"Give me a break." He picked up his glass. A thread of vodka had settled on the bottom, an icy ribbon of alcohol. "All this hypothesizing, my head feels like it's gonna split open. Sometimes I wonder what exactly it is that forms the basis for our friendship."

"That's easy," I said. "Common pathology."

"What pathology?"

"Mutual inability to let go. Schwinn- or whoever sent the murder book knows it."

"Yeah, well screw him. I'm not biting."

"Your decision."

"Damn right."

"Ah," I said.

"I hate when you do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Say 'Ah.' Like a fucking dentist."

"Ah."

His arm drew back and a big-fisted hand shot toward my jaw. He tapped gently, mouthed, "Pow."

I hooked a thumb at the blue album. "So what do you want me to do, toss it?"

"Don't do anything." He got to his feet. "I'm feeling a little… gonna take a nap. The spare bedroom fixed up?"

"As always. Pleasant dreams."

"Thank you, Norman Bates." He stomped toward the rear of the house, was gone for maybe ten minutes before returning tieless, shirt untucked. Looking as if he'd crammed a night's worth of nightmares into six hundred seconds.

"What I'm gonna do," he said. "-all I'm gonna do, is make a basic attempt to find Schwinn. As in make a call. If I find him and it turns out he did send the book, he and I will have a little chat, believe me. If it wasn't him, we forget the whole thing."

"Sounds like a plan."

"What? You don't like it?"

"It's fine with me," I said.

"Good. 'Cause that's it."

"Great."

Regloving, he picked up the murder book, headed for the front door, said, "Sayonara. It's almost been fun." As he stepped outside, he said: "Be there for Robin's call. Deal with it, Alex."

"Sure."

"I don't like when you get agreeable."

"Then screw you."

He grinned. "Ah."

I sat there a long time, feeling low. Wondering if Robin would call from Eugene. Figuring if she didn't within a couple of hours, I'd go somewhere, anywhere.

I fell asleep at the dining room table. The phone woke me two hours later.

"Alex."

"Hi."

"I finally got you," she said. "I've tried so many times."

"Been out. Sorry."

"Out of town?"

"Just errands. How's it going?"

"Fine. Great- the tour. We've been getting excellent publicity. Sellout crowds."

"How's Oregon?"

"Green, pretty. Mostly I've seen soundstages."

"How's Spike?"

"He's good… adapting… I miss you."

"Miss you, too."

"Alex?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What's- are you okay?"

"Sure… so tell me, are sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll what they're cracked up to be?"

"It's not like that," she said.

"Which part? The sex or the drugs?"

Silence. "I'm working really hard," she said. "Everyone is. The logistics are incredible, putting everything together."

"Exciting."

"It's satisfying."

"I'd hope so," I said.

Longer silence. "I feel," she said, "that you're very far away from me. And please don't be literal."

"As opposed to metaphorical?"

"You're angry."

"I'm not, I love you."

"I really do miss you, Alex."

"Nothing's stopping you from coming home anytime," I said.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?" I said. "What, it's turned into a heavy metal tour, shackles and chains?"

"Please don't be like this, Alex."