He handed me a crumpled piece of paper that I smoothed. Ballistics report from the crime lab, stamped PRIORITY and initialed by Detective L. L. Ogden. Comparisons between the .22 used to kill Gavin and the blonde and the gun that had terminated Flora’s life. A tech named Nishiyama had signed off on the test.
Similar weapons, probably cheap, imported semiautomatics, but no match.
“With a cheapie,” I said, “you could use one, toss it, get another.”
“Anything’s possible, but a match would’ve been a helluva lot nicer. Now I’ve pissed off a colleague and gotten no closer to a solve.”
“She’s a D-II, you’re a lieutenant. I thought the lines of authority were clearer.”
“In title only. My lack of administrative duties cuts both ways, everyone knows I’ve got no juice.” He rifled though his messages. “Looks like no luck yet on the blonde . . .” His eyes shifted to his Timex. “Koppel’s on the air.”
He switched on his desk radio and tuned in the talk station. Another host, same level of derision. A rant about racial profiling; this guy hated it.
Milo said, “Sure, let’s inspect Grandma’s shoes at the airport while Mr. Hamas waltzes through.”
The host said, “Okay, folks, this is Tom Curlie at the top of the hour, and we’ve got a hot guest coming any minute. Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, noted psychiatrist, and anyone who listens to the show knows she’s been on before and knows she’s smart . . . and anyone who doesn’t listen, who the hell needs you heh-heh . . . today we’ll be talking about . . . what’s that . . . my engineer, the ever-charismatic Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel is running late . . . better do something about the punctuality, Doc. Maybe see a psychiatrist heh-heh-heh . . . meanwhile let’s talk about car insurance. Have you ever been rear-ended by one of those lunatics who seem to be everywhere like invaders from outer space? You know what I’m talking about: space-outs, cell-phone freaks, and just plain lousy dri-vers. Has one of them bendered your fender? Or worse? Then you know the value of good insurance, and Low-Ball Insurance is the best value around . . .”
Milo said, “Koppel’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“Why let facts get in the way?”
Tom Curlie finished his spiel and segued to a prerecorded commercial for do-it-yourself legal forms. Then a woman with a sultry voice reported on the weather and freeway traffic.
Another commercial came on—Tom Curlie rhapsodizing about something called a Divine Mochalicious that could be had at any branch of CafeCafe, then he said, “The enigmatic yet pedestrian Gary is informing me that Dr. Mary Lou Koppel, our psychiatric guest, has still not arrived at the studio and that said headshrinker cannot be reached on her cell phone. Tsk, tsk, Mary Lou. You are now officially off the privileged roster that makes up guests on the Tom Curlie show because Tom Curlie stands for punctuality and personal responsibility and all the other virtues that have made this country great. Even though this country, in a lapse of judgment, elected a president who don’t talk good . . . okay, who needs her, folks? Let’s talk about psychiatrists and why they’re so doggone nuts themselves. I mean, is that just my imagination, or are they all just a little bit off? So what’s that all about, gang? Someone becoming a headshrinker because her own head’s too doggone big for her own good? Or is it a matter of a rotten childhood heh-heh-heh? How do you guys feel about that, c’mon, call and let me know at 1 888 TOM CURLIE. Here we go, those lines are lighting up and my first call is Fred from Downey. Hey, Fred. Had your head shrunk lately?”
“Hey, Tom. First of all I wanna tell you that I listen to you every day, and that you’re really coo—”
“Excellent judgment, Fred, but what about those psychiatrists—those head docs, those voodoo incantators, those shrinks? Think they’re rowing with one paddle, blinking with one eye, suffering from brain freeze, dancing with shadows in the hall of mirrors? Is that what it boils down to, Fred? They become shrinks because they need to get shrunk?”
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