“Goddammit, Larry,” Sgt. Wilkes said, stepping back and leaning down. “Did you have to throw up on me?”
Larry now had his head down to the ground, vomiting the last chunks of bile onto pavement. Shards of glass dotted the pavement. Larry saw a smashed rear-view mirror off to the side. Right next to it was a severed foot. He threw up some more. Yes, he’d had blueberries for breakfast.
He stood up and gazed at Sgt. Wilkes, pink-faced and staring at him like he’d just thrown up on his … oh, wait a second, that’s just what he’d done. Wilkes turned around and went into the ambulance for a towel and wiped himself off.
“Let’s get the body out, Larry, you okay for that?” the sergeant said, and when they got the equipment out, their surgical masks, protective gloves, and gear, it took a while – but they got him on the stretcher. Before they covered him up, Larry took a good look.
A handsome man, Larry thought – just the kind of guy who’d probably spend the weekend surfing at the beach. Lanky torso, blond hair, good musculature, nice chin, nose, and mouth. But the blue eyes, they had a frozen expression of surprise. And something like guilt in them.
“Marlon Vanderhofen,” Detective Smith announced, shuffling through the registration papers and his wallet. “Pasadena. Looks like he’s married. Jennifer’s her name. Got to go to the house, I suppose. She’ll have to identify the body.”
“I’ll do it, Jack,” Larry said. “I saw the body first, and I live over in Pasadena. And I’ve done this a thousand times. Know all the reactions, know how to handle every last one of them.”
The morgue was right on the way to Pasadena. He’d head straight out there.
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