He rubbed his red eyes. “I frickin’ hate the archives.”
“What’s the problem, buddy?” his deskmate, Kell Danziger said. Kell was as genuine as a plastic flamingo.
“You know that murder I covered the other day. I swear I heard one of the dicks say that it was potentially a serial.”
“Yeah, so? What did you find?” Kell gestured toward the monitor.
“Nada. Or, at least that I can tell. Young female. Bound. Found on a balcony. Maybe sexual assault.”
“Doesn’t sound promising.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Rod Garrin took a swig of his black coffee.
“You should call this guy I know. One of those conspiracy nuts who tracks the police logs. He might help you—I’ll give you the number.”
Rod Garrin parked his worn Lexus in front of the apartment complex. He approached apartment 3G and knocked.
“Come in, come in. Finally, someone’s come to investigate what I knew was happening all along.”
Charlie Scorza was rail thin with a manic air about him. Piles of newspaper and radio equipment rimmed the perimeter of the room.