[Ned, the serial killer] went down like a board, as stiff as a 2-by-10. [Pearl, the homeless lady] landed in the middle of his back.

I glanced at Pearl’s face, which was a mask of bruises. One eye was black, one tooth was missing, and a cut at the corner of her mouth oozed blood. She’d positioned herself in the middle of Ned’s back, and the gravity was sufficient to hinder the rise and fall of his chest.

She said, “Sh–. I think I broke my hip again, but right now I’m numb and it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

She bounced a couple of times and I heard an oof of air escape Ned’s lungs. She bounced again, though she winced as she did so. “What’s this here? What I’m doing. You’re a smart girl. I bet you know.”

“As a matter of fact I do. It’s called ‘compressive asphyxia,’ which is mechanically limiting expansion of the lungs by compressing the torso, hence interfering with breathing.”

“Hence. I like that. I’m setting here bouncing on Ned, hence making it impossible for him to draw breath. That’s what he did to them little girls, isn’t it?”

“That was his method of choice.”

Y is for Yesterday, by Sue Grafton, p. 487