Lewis is in love with Emma Zoole. Let me clue you in on something, pal. Cous-cous is not gonna make a difference. I've gone the health food route. Stir-fry this, low-fat that; what this is really about is control. If you allow her to control what it is you eat, it's curtains. How much more primary, how much more basic can you get than what a man puts into his stomach? Munch and crunch all the veggies you want, but in the end, new girl or not, you're out. Because you did not take a stand and that's what this is about. Not health, not love, not living fat-free. This is about women trying to dominate men.
Finding love is like solving the perfect crime: you look at every shred of evidence, you talk to every witness, follow up every lead, but more often than not, what wins in the end is just pure, dumb luck. And you my friend, are just not lucky.
I didn't know Crosetti at all. I didn't want to. What ticks me off that I'm beginning to realize how little I know about myself. I don't know enough about who I am or how I do the job that I do to ask the right questions from my fraternal brothers to figure out what one of us is about. I keep trying to remember Crosetti. His desk was 3 feet away from mine and I can't even remember if we said any more than "hi ya" to each other for a whole entire year.
I watched them slice up my partner in the morgue. Scheiner took the electric saw; sliced off the top of his head, took his heart, weighed it, and tossed it into a steel container like the kind you find in a restaurant kitchen. How many times I been to the M.E.? How many times I've seen him slice the top of somebody's head off? Couple hundred times maybe, maybe more. But I never really noticed, I never really watched. Till I saw Steve.
That what you're asking, Lieutenant? To make it a murder? A murder with no murderers? A murder that can't be solved? If you want me to do it; I'll do it. Hell, my clearance rate is so low these days, one more open case isn't gonna make any difference. Everybody says 'do it for Steve'. And I keep thinking, I mean, if he chose to commit suicide, what right do I have, what right does any of us have, to make that go away? I don't agree with what he did, but if that's his final statement, should I wipe that clear, just for our peace of mind? I mean, nobody wants to admit it, but everybody knows what really happened.
What happened to the good old bar where you just go in and talk to the bartender, you think, you get depressed, and you drink, and you go home and puke?
I believe that one day I'll be sitting at a bar in Hong Kong and this incredibly attractive and submissive woman with an abiding interest in art and existential philosophy will come up to me and say, "Take me home and ravish me."
