grotesque, the better. A young woman with no name dying was of no interest to them. Murder her, and they would prick up their ears. Chuck her from a moving vehicle, and they would come running. Call her a zombie, and they would wet themselves getting there.
Their interest in the case would run equal to the life of the shock factor. For that reason he supposed he should have been grateful his victim had been disfigured by having some sick fuck pour acid in her face while she was still breathing. That would hold the public’s interest longer than a mere stabbing or shooting.
“Aloha! Welcome to paradise!”
Tippen had dressed in baggy khaki shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, black socks, and sandals. His bony knees looked as big as doorknobs on his skinny, hairy white legs. He sauntered toward the cubicle wearing Ray-Bans, an umbrella drink in hand.
“You look like a fucking cartoon,” Kovac said.
“Absurdity is the humor of the superior mind,” Tippen returned without rancor.
“Yeah, well, you’ve got that covered. The socks are an especially nice touch. What are you doing here?” Kovac asked. “Are the strip clubs closed for the holiday?”
Tippen leaned a shoulder against the cubicle wall and shoved the sunglasses on top of his head. “You’re not the only one without a life, you know. I came in and commandeered a conference room. I thought maybe if we pretend we have a task force on this, the boss will just go along. We’ll act like it’s been going on for weeks. He’ll be too embarrassed to call us on it.”
“A pretend task force,” Kovac said. “I like it. Do we get to spend pretend money on it?”
“And get imaginary overtime pay too.”
“Is there another kind?”
“Not in this economy.”
“Ah, well, what the hell would we do with money anyway?” Kovac asked. “Buy shit we don’t have time to use ’cause we’re always on the job on account of the city can’t afford to hire enough cops?”
He poured more Scotch into his coffee mug and cast the pink umbrella in Tippen’s drink a dubious look as they walked toward the conference room. “What the hell are you drinking?”
“A mai tai. In keeping with our tropical surroundings.”
“That’s a chick’s drink.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“If I’m gonna get fired for drinking on the job, I’m going down drinking a man’s drink,” Kovac said, raising his mug.
“Belching and farting all the way.”
“Damn straight.”
“You’re a man’s man, my friend. A credit to our gender. I’m proud to know you. How did the autopsy go?”
Kovac took another sip of the Scotch as he took a seat at the table where Tippen had deposited several cardboard file boxes full of paperwork generated by the Doc Holiday murders. The room was small and windowless and as hot as a freaking sauna.
“Not so well for the victim,” he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Turns out, she’s dead.”
“Of what?”
“Undecided. Möller wants more time to go over the results and get the labs back. We know she probably didn’t die from the stab wounds. She was still alive—technically, at least—when her killer poured acid on her face.”
“Charming.” Tippen perched a hip on the tabletop, settling in. “So Tinks is right? She could have been alive when she came out of that trunk?”
“Not likely. If the knife didn’t kill her, she could have died from inhaling the acid. There was lung damage. Can’t breathe if your lungs have melted.”
“Can’t live if half your brain is knocked out of your skull by a Hummer either.”
“True enough,” Kovac said. “Or she could have died of shock. Or she could have died from ingesting the acid—it burned the hell out of her esophagus. Or maybe she had her head bashed in with a hammer like Doc Holiday did to how many of his victims? And we’ll never know for sure because she was then run over by a Hummer, which busted her skull like a rotten melon.
“At this point, I don’t even
Their interest in the case would run equal to the life of the shock factor. For that reason he supposed he should have been grateful his victim had been disfigured by having some sick fuck pour acid in her face while she was still breathing. That would hold the public’s interest longer than a mere stabbing or shooting.
“Aloha! Welcome to paradise!”
Tippen had dressed in baggy khaki shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, black socks, and sandals. His bony knees looked as big as doorknobs on his skinny, hairy white legs. He sauntered toward the cubicle wearing Ray-Bans, an umbrella drink in hand.
“You look like a fucking cartoon,” Kovac said.
“Absurdity is the humor of the superior mind,” Tippen returned without rancor.
“Yeah, well, you’ve got that covered. The socks are an especially nice touch. What are you doing here?” Kovac asked. “Are the strip clubs closed for the holiday?”
Tippen leaned a shoulder against the cubicle wall and shoved the sunglasses on top of his head. “You’re not the only one without a life, you know. I came in and commandeered a conference room. I thought maybe if we pretend we have a task force on this, the boss will just go along. We’ll act like it’s been going on for weeks. He’ll be too embarrassed to call us on it.”
“A pretend task force,” Kovac said. “I like it. Do we get to spend pretend money on it?”
“And get imaginary overtime pay too.”
“Is there another kind?”
“Not in this economy.”
“Ah, well, what the hell would we do with money anyway?” Kovac asked. “Buy shit we don’t have time to use ’cause we’re always on the job on account of the city can’t afford to hire enough cops?”
He poured more Scotch into his coffee mug and cast the pink umbrella in Tippen’s drink a dubious look as they walked toward the conference room. “What the hell are you drinking?”
“A mai tai. In keeping with our tropical surroundings.”
“That’s a chick’s drink.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“If I’m gonna get fired for drinking on the job, I’m going down drinking a man’s drink,” Kovac said, raising his mug.
“Belching and farting all the way.”
“Damn straight.”
“You’re a man’s man, my friend. A credit to our gender. I’m proud to know you. How did the autopsy go?”
Kovac took another sip of the Scotch as he took a seat at the table where Tippen had deposited several cardboard file boxes full of paperwork generated by the Doc Holiday murders. The room was small and windowless and as hot as a freaking sauna.
“Not so well for the victim,” he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Turns out, she’s dead.”
“Of what?”
“Undecided. Möller wants more time to go over the results and get the labs back. We know she probably didn’t die from the stab wounds. She was still alive—technically, at least—when her killer poured acid on her face.”
“Charming.” Tippen perched a hip on the tabletop, settling in. “So Tinks is right? She could have been alive when she came out of that trunk?”
“Not likely. If the knife didn’t kill her, she could have died from inhaling the acid. There was lung damage. Can’t breathe if your lungs have melted.”
“Can’t live if half your brain is knocked out of your skull by a Hummer either.”
“True enough,” Kovac said. “Or she could have died of shock. Or she could have died from ingesting the acid—it burned the hell out of her esophagus. Or maybe she had her head bashed in with a hammer like Doc Holiday did to how many of his victims? And we’ll never know for sure because she was then run over by a Hummer, which busted her skull like a rotten melon.
“At this point, I don’t even
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