Young Lennie Briscoe hasn’t mastered the trick of looming yet: he gangles, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his nose.
He’s back from Vietnam (his first tour–he’ll get another) and parking cars at the Atwater for half-dollar tips. Then one Sunday nobody comes in to pick up this ’57 El Dorado, a beauty with a bit of a smell about her. Nothing in the glove; they pop the trunk to check for ID, and–
“Oh my God!” gasps Lennie’s boss, dropping the keys. “A body!”
“Like I never heard that one before,” Young Lennie Briscoe quips.