Cry Havoc

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If the devil rode a Harley it would sound like the Santa Ana winds bellowing through the Cahuenga Pass at seventy miles an hour. The dead air gusted into the City of Angels, bent on trailing havoc in its wake. Jails filled, hospitals ran out of beds, doors slammed and dishes were hurled. The desiccating heat was relentless.

Lieutenant L.A. Franco glanced at her Timex. Eight fifteen and it had to be at least ninety already. She watched her rookie detective prowl the scene. The kid's first homicide, and wouldn't it have to be a dead man sitting naked in an '88 Caddy with a headless chicken in his lap.

Dark faces peered from porches and doorways, but the body wasn't drawing the usual onlookers. The lieutenant passed that off to the heat. The last two days had set record highs for October. Still, it was odd that there wasn't a drunk or some cluckhead hanging around the scene hoping to peddle useless information for a pint or a hit off a crack pipe.

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