Blood Test

“Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s a hell of an image: Santa Monica Boulevard lined with thousands of plastic cubes, each one with some poor guy wasting away inside. You could charge admission, raise enough money to find a cure.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“The wages of sin,” he shook his head. “Enough to make you a Puritan. I hear the horror stories and thank God I’m monogamous. Rick’s been fielding a lot of shit from both sides. Last week a patient came to the E.R. with a mangled arm — bar fight — and glommed onto the fact that Rick was gay. Probably a paranoid guess, because Rick doesn’t exactly swish, but he didn’t deny it when this turkey demanded to know if they were giving him a faggot doctor. The guy refused to let Rick touch him, screamed about AIDS — no matter that he’s bleeding all over the place. So Rick walked away. But the rest of the docs were up to their elbows in shit — Saturday night and they were wheeling ’em in one after the other. It threw the whole system out of whack. Everyone ended up getting pissed at Rick. He was a goddamn leper for the rest of the shift.”

“Poor guy.”

“Poor guy is right. The man was top of his class, chief resident at Stanford, and he’s taking this kind of crap? He came home in a dark mood. The hell of it is, night before, he was telling me that working with gay patients — especially the ones who came in bleeding — was making him antsy. I did heavy-duty therapy that night, Alex.”

He spooned the last bit of ice cream into his mouth.

“Heavy-duty,” he repeated and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “But hey, that’s what love’s all about, right?”

9

Milo begged off the case during the drive back to the Sea Breeze Motel.

“I can’t take it any further,” he said apologetically. “All we’ve got at this point is a missing persons squeal, and that’s stretching it.”

“I know. Thanks for coming down.”

“No big deal. It was a break from routine. Just so happens I’ve got a particularly cruddy routine right now. Gang shooting — two cholos blown away — liquor store clerk ripped with a broken bottle, and a real sweetheart — a rapist who shits on his victims’ abdomens when he’s through with them. We know he’s attacked at least seven women. The last one ended up more than defiled.”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus won’t forgive this creep.” He frowned and turned on Sawtelle toward Pico. “Each year I tell myself I’ve witnessed the depths of depravity and each year the scumbags out there prove me wrong. Maybe I should have taken the exam.”

Fifteen months ago he and I had exposed a prominent orphanage as a brothel catering to pedophiles, solving a handful of murders in the process. He’d been a hero and had been invited to take the lieutenant’s exam. There was no doubt he’d have passed, because he’s brilliant, and the brass had let him know the city was ready for a gay loot as long as he didn’t flaunt it. He’d debated it internally for a long time before turning it down.

“No way, Milo. You would have been miserable. Think back to what you told me.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t give up Walt Whitman to push paper.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Prior to his hitch in Vietnam, Milo had been enrolled in the graduate program in American Lit at Indiana U., contemplating life as a teacher, hoping the academic world would be a setting where his sexual preferences would be tolerated. He’d gotten as far as an M.A. and then the war had turned him into a policeman.

“Just imagine,” I reminded him, “endless meetings with desk jockeys, considering the political implications of taking a leak, no contact with the streets.”

He held up a hand and feigned suffering.

“Enough, I’m gonna puke.”

“Just a little aversive therapy.”

He pulled the Matador into the motel lot. The sky had darkened in anticipation of twilight and the Sea Breeze benefited from it aesthetically. Take away the sunlight and the place looked almost habitable.

The office was brightly lit and the Iranian clerk was visible behind the counter, reading. My Seville was the lone occupant of the lot. The half-empty pool looked like a crater.

Milo stopped the car and let the engine idle.

“You understand about my stepping out of this?”

“Of course. No homicide, no homicide detective.”

“They’ll probably be back for the car. I had it impounded so they’ll have to check in to get it back. They do, I’ll call you and give you a chance to talk to them. Even if they don’t show, we’ll probably find out they’re back home, no harm done.”

He realized what he’d said and grimaced.

“Shit. Where’s my head? The kid.”

“He could be all right. Maybe they’ve taken him to another hospital.” I wanted to sound hopeful but memories — the pain on Woody’s face, the bloodstain on the motel carpet — eroded my faith in a happy ending.

“If they don’t treat him that’s it, right?”

I nodded.

He stared out the windshield. “That’s one kind of murder I’ve never dealt with.”

Raoul had said the same thing in different words. I told him so.

“And this Melendez-Lynch doesn’t want to go the legal route?”