You Suck: A Love Story

HIV positive and it looks like the disease had developed into full-blown AIDS.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “See these sarcomas on her feet.”
    Chin had removed one of the hooker’s shoes-she pointed to open sores on the corpse’s foot and ankle.
    Rivera sighed. He didn’t want to ask, but he asked anyway, “What about blood loss?”
    Dorothy Chin had done the autopsies on two of the previous victims and cringed a little. It was a pattern.
    They’d all been terminally ill, they’d all died of a broken neck, and they’d all shown evidence of extreme blood loss, but no external wounds-not even a needle mark.
    “Can’t tell out here.”
    Cavuto had lost his cheery manner now. “So we spend Christmas day canvassing dirtbags to see if anyone saw anything?”
    At the end of the alley, uniforms were still talking to the grimy homeless man who had called in the murder. He was trying to get them to spring for a bottle of whiskey-because it was Christmas. Rivera didn’t want to go home, but he didn’t want to spend a day trying to find out what he already knew. He checked his watch.
    “What time was sunrise this morning?” he asked.
    “Oh, wait,” Cavuto said, patting down his pockets, “I’ll check my almanac.”
    Dorothy Chin snorted again, then started giggling.
    “Dr. Chin,” Rivera said, tightening down now, “could you be more precise about the time of death?”
    Chin picked up on Rivera’s tone and went full professional. “Sure. There’s an algorithm for the cooling time of a body. Get me the weather from last night, let me get her back to the morgue and weigh her, and I’ll get you a time within ten minutes.”
    “What?” Cavuto said to Chin. “What?” This time to Rivera.
    “Winter solstice, Nick,” Rivera said. “Christmas was originally set at the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. It’s eleven-thirty now. I’m betting that four hours ago the sun was just coming up.”
    “Uh-huh,” Cavuto said. “Prostitutes have shitty hours-is that what you’re saying?”
    Rivera raised an eyebrow. “Our guy didn’t travel far after sunrise, is what I’m saying. He’s going to be
    around here.”
    “I was afraid that’s what you were saying,” Cavuto said. “We’re never going to get the bookstore open, are we?”
    “Tell the uniforms to look anywhere it’s dark: under Dumpsters, in crawl spaces, attics-anywhere.”
    “Getting warrants on Christmas day might be a problem.”
    “You won’t need warrants if you get permission from the owners-we’re not looking to bust anyone living here, we’re looking for a murder suspect.”
    Cavuto pointed to the eight-story brick building that composed one wall of the alley. “This building has something like eight hundred ministorage units in it.”
    “Then you guys had better get started.”
    “Where’re you going?”
    “There was a missing person report on an old guy in North Beach a couple of days ago. I’m going to check it out.”
    “Because you don’t want to go Dumpster diving for v-”
    “Because,” Rivera cut him off before he could say the V-word, “he had terminal cancer. His wife assumed he just wandered off and got lost. Now I’m not so sure. Call me if you find anything.”
    “Uh-huh.” Cavuto turned to the three uniforms who were interviewing the bum. “Hey, guys, have I got a merry Christmas detail for you.”
    T he Animals decided to hold a small memorial service for Blue in Chinatown. Troy Lee was already there, as was Lash, who wouldn’t go home to his apartment until Blue’s body was removed, and Barry, who was Jewish, would be coming there for dinner with his family, as was the tradition in his faith. Plus, the liquor stores in Chinatown were open on Christmas, and if you slipped some money under the counter, you could get firecrackers. The Animals were fairly sure that Blue would have wanted firecrackers at her funeral.
    The Animals stood in a semicircle, beers in hand, on a playground off Grant Street. The deceased was being honored in absentia-in her place was a half-eaten pair of edible pan ties. From a distance, they looked like a bunch of wastrels mourning a Fruit Roll-Up.
    “I’d like to start, if I may,” said Drew. He wore a long overcoat and his hair was tied back with a black ribbon, revealing the target-shaped bruise on his forehead where Jody had hit him with the wine bottle.
    Out of his coat he pulled a bong the size of a tenor sax, and using a long lighter designed