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“So, assuming you’re right, the victim would most likely have been found lying on her back—not her side. And assuming no staging of the corpse. Why not a man and a woman? Or two men?”
“It could be. But one would have to be an observer.”
“Because?”
“The way she landed on her side. Someone would have to be carrying her hero-style—cradling her—and then just…” he leans down and opens his arms, mimicking the drop.
“And what does that tell us?”
“He’s a big motherfucker, for one.” Mani is quiet for a moment.
After a few seconds of silence, I add, “Statistically, we’re looking for one male. She’s gotta be five-seven andone-fifteen,” I say, indicating the victim. “If she was dropped—and I agree with your assumption—it was by a male. And it’s not gang related.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s not gang-related,” I repeat. “No LA gang would dump a body like this: Out in the open, with no calling card. And gangs target rival gang members, primarily in retaliation.” I point at the body. “So, if we’re looking for a male, and a gang or organized crime syndicate isnotinvolved, we’re looking foronemale.”
“Statistically,” Mani says. “But notprobably.”
“Statisticallyisprobably. And until we have more information, stats and assumptions are how we narrow down the possibilities.”
Mani pushes to a stand and places his hands on his hips. Frustration seeps out of him.
“You’ve been distracted lately.” I don’t have to remind him that while I was studying and testing for my lieutenant advancement, Mani was barely making debrief every morning—he knows.
“Just because I have someone waiting for me at home, doesn’t mean I’m distracted,” he snaps.
“Angie’s amazing,” I say, instantly placating. “But if you’re telling me your wife’s not a distraction, well, I pity you, Sanchez.” I grin, taking the sting out of my words. “And all our deducing has only brought us closer to one fact: We can probably eradicate fifty-point-six percent of the population as suspects.”
“Yeah.”
“If it makes you feel better, while you were home with your beautiful wife, I was pulling so many doubles I started hallucinating.”
Mani laughs. He’s a small man with a lean, rangy frame, but he laughs like a hyena on crack. As in loudly.And maniacally. Loud enough that the group of young officers turn en masse to stare at us, their faces set in the exact expression of horror:How dare you laugh near a corpse.
“Your cackling is scaring the children,” I warn. But I nod at the rookies, my face set. They all flush and turn back to their mumbled conversation.
“Ahhh,” Mani wipes at his eyes, instantly sobering. “Sorry. Sometimes laughing is the only way to get through this shit job.”
I don’t laugh.
“Mind if I let you take over with the Medical Examiner?”
“Nah,” he bumps my shoulder with his fist, “I got it from here.”
“Set up the Book and start the chronological record and the crime report. Email me everything as it comes through.” I internally sift through the LAPD’s Murder Book structure, making mental notes of everything we can start gathering while we wait for the coroner to examine the body. “We’ll reconvene on next steps later. Start at the last known address—”
“Two-zero-four-five Clementine Lane,” Mani reminds me.
“Notify next of kin. Have them come in for informational interviews this afternoon.” I begin walking back to my cruiser, already dreading the day ahead.
“Hey, Aiden!”
I turn when Mani calls me. “Yeah.”
“Angie wants to know if she can set you up with that friend of hers. The Pilates instructor.”
“Hey, Mani?”
