"The Kleenex thing is a great look for you, Zack," I said sourly.

"Eat me," he snarled back.

I stopped at an all-night Denny's on Colorado Boulevard and got him some hot coffee, then we went Code Two the rest of the way to Forest Lawn Drive.

When we finally arrived at the location there were more satellite news trucks there than at the 0. J. trial. This was the first big serial murder case in Los Angeles since the Night Stalker. The press had dubbed out unsub "The Fingertip Killer," and that catchy title put us in a nightly media windstorm.

Two overmatched uniforms were trying to keep fifteen Newsies bottled up across the street away from the concrete culvert that frames the river. Occasionally, cameraman would flank the cops, break free, and rur across the street to try and get shots of the body.

"Damn," Zack said, looking at the press. "They appear outta nowhere just like fucking cockroaches."

We parked at the curb and ducked under the police barricade. Camera crews started photographing us as Zack and I signed the crime scene attendance log, which was in the hands of a young patrolman. A damp wind was blowing in from the coast, chilling the night, ruffling everybody's hair and vigorously snapping the yellow crime scene tape.

"Detective Scully," a pretty Hispanic reporter named Carmen Rodriguez called out as she and her cameraman broke free and ran across the street, charging me like hungry coyotes after a poodle. They ducked under the tape uninvited.

"Is this another Fingertip murder?" she asked.

"How would I know that yet, Carmen? I just got here. Would you please move behind the tape? We put that up to keep you guys back."

"Come on, Shane. Don't be a hard-ass. I thought we were friends." She was trying to keep me occupied while her cameraman pivoted, subtly maneuvering to get a shot of the body in the culvert forty feet below. I moved up and blocked his lens.