waves, churning and frothing against the boulders. It wasn't just his instincts, or tide tables, or lateral currents that made this spot feel right to him. The location fit with Amanda's theory that the victim's postmortem abrasions came from being dumped along a rocky shoreline.
Still, it was only his gut feeling. He didn't have any proof that this was actually the place where the woman's body had been tossed into the sea.
He looked back at the parking lot. It was about a hundred yards from the lot to the rocks. Either she had walked out to the rocks and then was killed or she was dragged or carried across the sand. If she was dragged, there was a slim chance that some evidence might have been left behind that hadn't been washed away, particularly higher up the beach away from the surf.
That was when Steve noticed the man moving methodically along the beach, waving a metal detector over the sand in front of him, stopping every so often to dig with his sifter for whatever treasure was registering on his earphones.
Steve looked at Cork, then gestured towards the beach comber. "You know that guy?"
"No, but guys like him always come out after daybreak, particularly after a hot weekend or a major storm," Cork said. "They're looking for things like diamond rings lost by sunbathers or gold doubloons washed up from sunken Spanish galleons."
"Does that happen often?"
"About as often as you find dead mermaids," Cork said. Steve thanked Cork for his help, asked him to stick around for the evidence collection team, and then marched over to the man with the metal detector.
The beachcomber had a deep tan, a scraggly beard, and long, matted hair that looked like a bird's nest. He wore four filthy shirts on top of one another and an oversized peacoat that hung from his wiry shoulders like a cape. His dirt-encrusted Top-Siders were held together with silver duct tape. His socks were mismatched, one black and one brown. He was totally focused on his task, his eyes locked on the dial of his detector, the sounds of the out side world dampened by his headphones. He didn't notice Steve until he swept his detector over the detective's feet.
The beachcomber looked up, startled, as if rudely awakened from a deep sleep.
Steve flashed his badge and motioned for the man to remove his headphones.
"Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD. Have you been out here long?"
"Every morning," the man said in a voice that sounded like it was filtered through broken glass.
"I meant today."
"Since dawn," the man said. "Why?"
"I'm going to need to confiscate whatever you've found."
"It's mine," the man said, straightening up and puffing out his chest. "The Supreme Court ruled in Benjamin v. Spruce that property is deemed lost when it is unintentionally separated from the dominion of its owners. When items are accidentally dropped in any public place or thoroughfare, or anyplace where the inference can be made that such item was left there unknowingly, it is considered lost in a legal sense."
"You're a lawyer?" Steve asked incredulously.
"I spent fourteen years in the Disney legal affairs department before I was disbarred," the man said. He spit on the sand, then continued, "Furthermore title to such items belongs to the finder against all the world except the true owner."
"So in other words," Steve said, "finders keepers, losers weepers."
"In a crude sense, yes," the man said.
"What does the Supreme Court say about taking evidence from the scene of a murder?"
The man frowned, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a crumpled and damp paper bag.
"I want an itemized receipt," he grumbled, shoving the bag into Steve's hands. "And I want everything back that isn't pertinent to your investigation and first dibs on any thing that goes unclaimed after the trial."
"What about the paper bag? Would you like that back, too?"
Steve opened the bag and peered inside. Amidst the sand and loose change, there was a Hot Wheels car, a charm bracelet, a watch, an earring,
Still, it was only his gut feeling. He didn't have any proof that this was actually the place where the woman's body had been tossed into the sea.
He looked back at the parking lot. It was about a hundred yards from the lot to the rocks. Either she had walked out to the rocks and then was killed or she was dragged or carried across the sand. If she was dragged, there was a slim chance that some evidence might have been left behind that hadn't been washed away, particularly higher up the beach away from the surf.
That was when Steve noticed the man moving methodically along the beach, waving a metal detector over the sand in front of him, stopping every so often to dig with his sifter for whatever treasure was registering on his earphones.
Steve looked at Cork, then gestured towards the beach comber. "You know that guy?"
"No, but guys like him always come out after daybreak, particularly after a hot weekend or a major storm," Cork said. "They're looking for things like diamond rings lost by sunbathers or gold doubloons washed up from sunken Spanish galleons."
"Does that happen often?"
"About as often as you find dead mermaids," Cork said. Steve thanked Cork for his help, asked him to stick around for the evidence collection team, and then marched over to the man with the metal detector.
The beachcomber had a deep tan, a scraggly beard, and long, matted hair that looked like a bird's nest. He wore four filthy shirts on top of one another and an oversized peacoat that hung from his wiry shoulders like a cape. His dirt-encrusted Top-Siders were held together with silver duct tape. His socks were mismatched, one black and one brown. He was totally focused on his task, his eyes locked on the dial of his detector, the sounds of the out side world dampened by his headphones. He didn't notice Steve until he swept his detector over the detective's feet.
The beachcomber looked up, startled, as if rudely awakened from a deep sleep.
Steve flashed his badge and motioned for the man to remove his headphones.
"Lieutenant Steve Sloan, LAPD. Have you been out here long?"
"Every morning," the man said in a voice that sounded like it was filtered through broken glass.
"I meant today."
"Since dawn," the man said. "Why?"
"I'm going to need to confiscate whatever you've found."
"It's mine," the man said, straightening up and puffing out his chest. "The Supreme Court ruled in Benjamin v. Spruce that property is deemed lost when it is unintentionally separated from the dominion of its owners. When items are accidentally dropped in any public place or thoroughfare, or anyplace where the inference can be made that such item was left there unknowingly, it is considered lost in a legal sense."
"You're a lawyer?" Steve asked incredulously.
"I spent fourteen years in the Disney legal affairs department before I was disbarred," the man said. He spit on the sand, then continued, "Furthermore title to such items belongs to the finder against all the world except the true owner."
"So in other words," Steve said, "finders keepers, losers weepers."
"In a crude sense, yes," the man said.
"What does the Supreme Court say about taking evidence from the scene of a murder?"
The man frowned, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a crumpled and damp paper bag.
"I want an itemized receipt," he grumbled, shoving the bag into Steve's hands. "And I want everything back that isn't pertinent to your investigation and first dibs on any thing that goes unclaimed after the trial."
"What about the paper bag? Would you like that back, too?"
Steve opened the bag and peered inside. Amidst the sand and loose change, there was a Hot Wheels car, a charm bracelet, a watch, an earring,
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