“Harry Bosch?”
I turned from the window where I had been looking down at the white stones of the veterans cemetery across Wilshire. A man in a white shirt and maroon tie stood holding open the door to the FBI offices. He looked like he was in his mid-thirties with a lean build and healthy look about him. He was smiling.
“Terry McCaleb?”
“That’s me.”
We shook hands and he invited me back, leading me through a warren of wood-paneled hallways and offices until we came to his. It looked like it might have been a janitor’s closet at one time. It was smaller than a solitary confinement cell and had just enough room for a desk and two chairs.
“Guess it’s a good thing my partner didn’t want to come,” I said, squeezing into the room.
Frankie Sheehan alternately referred to criminal profiling as “bur-oh bullshit” and “Quantico quackery.” When I had chosen a week earlier to contact McCaleb, the resident profiler in the bureau’s L.A. office, there had been an argument about it. But I was lead on the case; I made the call.
“Yeah, things are kind of tight here,” McCaleb said. “But at least I get a private space.”
“Most cops I know like being in a squad room. They like the camaraderie, I guess.”
McCaleb just nodded and said, “I like being alone.”
He pointed to the guest chair and I sat down. I noticed a photo of a teenaged girl taped to the wall above his desk. She looked to be just a few years younger than my victim. I thought that if maybe it were McCaleb’s daughter it would be a little plus for me. Something that would make him put a little extra drive into my case.
“She’s not my daughter,” McCaleb said. “She’s from an old case. A Florida case.”
I just looked at him. It wouldn’t be the last time he seemed to know my thoughts like I was saying them out loud.
“So, still no ID on yours, right?”
“No, nothing yet.”
“That always makes it tough.”
“So on your message you said you’d reviewed the file?”
“Yes, I did.”
I had sent copies of the murder book and all crime scene photographs the week before. We had not videotaped the crime scene and this distressed McCaleb. But I had been able to get tape of the scene from a television reporter. His station’s chopper had been in the air over the crime scene but had not aired any footage because of the graphic nature of its contents.
McCaleb opened a file on his desk and referred to it before speaking. “First of all, are you familiar with our VICAP program-Violent Criminal Apprehension?”
“I know what it is. This is the first time I ever submitted a case.”
“Yes, you’re a rarity in the LAPD. Most of you guys don’t want or trust the help. But a few more guys like you and maybe I can get a bigger office.”
I nodded. I wasn’t going to tell him that it was institutional distrust and suspicion that stopped most LAPD detectives from seeking the help of the bureau. It was an unspoken dictate that came from the police chief himself. It was said that the chief could be heard cursing loudly in his office every time news of an FBI arrest within city limits was reported. It was well known in the department that the bank robbery squad routinely monitored the radio transmissions of the bureau’s bank squad and often moved in on suspects before the feds got the chance.
“Yeah, well, I just want to clear the case,” I said. “I don’t really care if you’re a psychic or Santa Claus; if you’ve got something that will help me I’ll listen.”
“Well, I think maybe I do.”
He turned the page in the file and picked up a stack of crime scene photographs. These were not the photos I had sent him. These were 8x10 blowups of the original crime scene photos. He had made these on his own. It told me that McCaleb had certainly spent some time with the case. It made me think that maybe it had hooked him the way it had hooked me. A woman with no name left dead on the hillside. A woman no one had come forward to claim. A woman no one cared about. The dangerous kind. In my secret heart I cared and I had claimed her. And now maybe McCaleb had, too.
“Let me just start with my overview of what I think you’ve got here,” McCaleb said.
He shuffled through the photos for a moment, ending with a still that had been made off of the news video. It showed an aerial shot of the naked body, arms and legs stretched wide on the hillside. I took out my cigarettes and shook one out of the pack.
“You may have already arrived at these same conclusions. If so, I apologize. I don’t want to waste your time. By the way, you can’t smoke in here.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, putting the smokes away. “What have you got?”
“The crime scene is very important in that it gives us an avenue to the killer’s thinking. What I see here suggests the work of what we call an exhibition killer. In other words, this is a killer who wanted his crime to be seen-to be very public-and by virtue of this to instill horror and fear in the general population. From this reaction by the public he draws his gratification. He is somebody who reads the newspapers and watches the news for any information or update on the investigation. It is a way of keeping score. So when we find him, I think we will find newspaper clippings and maybe even videos containing television reports on the case. These will probably be in his bedroom because they would be useful to him in carrying out masturbatory fantasies.”
I noticed he had said “we” in reference to the case investigators but I didn’t react. McCaleb went on as if he was talking to himself and there was no one else in the office.
“A component of the exhibition killer’s fantasy is the duel. Exhibiting his crime to the public includes exhibiting it to the police. In effect, he is throwing down a challenge. He is saying, ‘I am better than you, smarter and more clever. Prove me wrong, if you can. Catch me, if you can.’ You see? He is dueling with you in the public media arena.”
“With me?”
“Yes, you. In this case in particular you appear to be the media front man. It is your name in the newspaper stories included in the file.”
“I’m lead on the case. I’ve been the one talking to the reporters.”
McCaleb nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “All this is good in terms of understanding what a nut job this guy is. But what do you have that will help point us to the right guy?”
McCaleb nodded.
“You know how the Realtors say, location, location, location? It’s the same with me. The place he chose to leave her is significant in that it plays into his exhibitionistic tendencies. You have the Hollywood Hills here. You have Mulholland Drive and the view of the city. This victim was not dropped here randomly. This place was chosen, perhaps just as carefully as she was chosen as a victim. The conclusion is that the drop site is a place our killer may be familiar with because of the routines of his life, but nonetheless was not chosen because of reasons of convenience. He chose this spot, he wanted this spot, because it was the best spot to announce his work to the world. It was part of the canvas. It means he could have come from a long distance to leave her there. He could have come a few blocks.”
I noticed the use of “our” as in our killer. I knew if Frankie had come with me he would’ve blown a gasket by now. I let it go.
“Did you look at the list I gave you of the names?”
“Yes, I looked at everything. And I think your instincts are good. The two potential suspects you highlighted both fit into the profile I constructed for this killing. Late twenties with a history of crimes of escalating nature.”
“The Woodland Hills janitor has routine access to industrial cleaners-we could match something to the cleaning agent used on the body. He’s the one we like best.”
McCaleb nodded but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be studying the photographs, which were now spread across the desk.
“You like the other guy, don’t you? The stage builder from Burbank.”
McCaleb looked up at me.
“Yes, I like him better. His crimes, though minor, fall more into line with the sexual predator maturation models we have seen. I think when we talk to him we have to make sure we do it in his home. We’ll get a better feel for him. We’ll know.”
“We?”
“Yes. And we need to do it soon.”
He nodded to the photos covering his desk.
“This wasn’t a one shot deal. Whoever he is, he’s going to do it again… if he hasn’t already.”
I had been responsible for many men going to San Quentin but I had never been there myself before. At the gate I showed ID and was given a printout with instructions that directed me to a fenced lot for law enforcement vehicles. At a nearby door marked law enforcement personnel only I was ushered through the great wall of the prison and my weapon was taken and locked in a gun vault. I was given a red plastic chit with the number 7 printed on it.
After my name was put into the computer and the prearranged clearances were noted, a guard who didn’t bother introducing himself walked me through an empty recreation yard to a brick building that had darkened over time to a fireplace black. It was the death house, the place where Seguin would get the juice in one week’s time.
We moved through a man trap and a metal detector and I was passed off to a new guard. He opened a solid steel door and pointed me down a hall.
“Last one on the right,” he said. “When you want out wave at one of the cameras. We’ll be watching.”
He left me there, closing the steel door with a thunderous bang that seemed to reverberate through my marrow.
Frankie Sheehan wasn’t happy about it but I was the lead and I made the call. I allowed McCaleb to come with us on the interviews. We started with Victor Seguin. He was first on McCaleb’s list, second on mine. But there was something about the intensity in McCaleb’s eyes and words that made me defer and go with Seguin first.
Seguin was a stage builder who lived on Screenland Drive in Burbank. It was a small house with a lot of woodwork you might expect to find in a carpenter’s house. It looked as though when Seguin wasn’t finding movie work he was home building handsome window boxes and planters for the house.
The Ford Taurus with the license plate containing 1JK on it was parked in the driveway. I put my hand on the hood as we walked up the driveway to the door. It was cold.
At 8:00 p.m., just as the light was leaving the sky, I knocked on the front door. Seguin answered in blue jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes. I saw his eyes go wide when he looked at me. He knew who I was before I held up the badge and said my name. I felt the cold finger of adrenaline slide down my back. I remembered what McCaleb had said about the killer tracking the police while they tracked him. I had been on TV talking about the case. I had been in the papers.
Giving nothing away, I calmly said, “Mr. Seguin, I am Detective Harry Bosch with the LAPD. Is that your car in the driveway?”
“Yeah, it’s mine. What about it? What’s going on?”
“We need to ask you about it, if you don’t mind. Can we come in for a few minutes?”
“Well, no, I’d first like to know what-”
“Thank you.”
I moved through the threshold, forcing him to step back. The others followed me in.
“Hey, wait a minute, what is this?”
We had worked it out before we’d arrived. The interview was mine to conduct. Sheehan was second seat. McCaleb said he just wanted to observe.
The living room was carpenter overkill. Built-in bookshelves on three walls. A wooden mantel that was too big for the room had been built around the small, brick fireplace. A floor to ceiling television cabinet was built in place as a divider between the sitting area and what looked like a little office space.
I nodded approvingly.
“Nice work. You get a lot of downtime with your work?”
Seguin reluctantly nodded.
“Did most of this when we had a strike a couple years ago.”
“What do you do?”
“Stage builder. Look, what is this about my car? You can’t just push your way in here like this. I have rights.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Seguin, and I’ll explain. We believe your car was possibly used in the commission of a serious crime.”
Seguin dropped into a soft chair positioned for best viewing of the television. I noticed that McCaleb was moving about the outer edges of the room, studying the books on the shelves and the various knickknacks displayed on the mantel and other surfaces. Sheehan sat down on the couch to Seguin’s left. He stared at him coldly, wordlessly.
“What crime?”
“A murder.”
I let that sink in. But it appeared to me that Seguin had recovered from his initial shock and was hardening. I had seen this before. He was going to try to ride it out.
“Does anyone drive your car besides you, Mr. Seguin?”
“Sometimes. If I loan it to somebody.”
“What about three weeks ago, August fifteenth, did you lend it to anybody?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to check. I don’t think I want to answer any more questions and I think I want you people to leave now.”
McCaleb slid into the seat to Seguin’s right. I remained standing. I looked at McCaleb and he nodded slightly and only once. But I knew what he was telling me; he’s the guy.
I looked at my partner. Sheehan had missed the sign from McCaleb because he had not taken his eyes off Seguin. I had to make a call. Go with McCaleb’s signal or back out. I looked back at McCaleb. He looked up at me, his eyes as intense as any I had ever seen.
I signaled Seguin to stand up.
“Mr. Seguin, I need you to stand up for me. I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.”
Seguin slowly came to his feet and then made a sudden move toward the door. But Sheehan was ready for it and was all over him and had his face down in the carpet before he had gotten three feet. Frankie pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed them. I then helped him pull Seguin to his feet and we walked him out to the car, leaving McCaleb behind.
Frankie stayed with the suspect. As soon as I could I came back inside. I found McCaleb still sitting in the chair.
“What was it?”
McCaleb reached out his arm to the nearest bookshelf.
“This is his reading chair,” he said.
He pulled a book off the shelf.
“And this is his favorite book.”
The book was badly worn, its spine cracked and its pages weathered by repeated readings. As McCaleb thumbed the pages I could see paragraphs and sentences had been underlined by hand. I reached over and closed the book so I could read the cover. It was called The Collector.
“Ever read it?” McCaleb asked.
“No. What is it?”
“It’s about a guy who abducts women. He collects them. Keeps them in his house, in the basement.”
I nodded.
“Terry, we need to back out of here and get a search warrant. I want to do this right.”
“So do I.”
Seguin was sitting on the bed in his cell looking at a chessboard set up on the toilet. He didn’t look up when I came to the bars, though I could tell my shadow had fallen across the game board.
“Who are you playing?” I asked.
“Somebody who died sixty-five years ago. They put his best moment-this game-in a book. And he lives on. He’s eternal.”
He looked up at me then, his eyes still the same-cold, green killer’s eyes-in a body turned pasty and weak from twelve years in small, windowless rooms.
“Detective Bosch. I wasn’t expecting you until next week.”
I shook my head. “I’m not coming next week.”
“You don’t want to see the show? To see the glory of the righteous?”
“Doesn’t do it for me. Back when they used the gas, maybe that’d be worth seeing. But watching some asshole on a massage table get the needle and then drift off to Never-Never Land? Nah, I’m going to go
see the Dodgers play the Giants that day. Already got my ticket.”
Seguin stood up and approached the bars. I remembered the hours we had spent in the interrogation room, close like this. The body was worn but not the eyes. They were unchanged. Those eyes were the signature of all the evil I had ever known.
“Then what is it that brings you to me here today, Detective?”
He smiled at me, his teeth yellowed, his gums as gray as the walls. I knew then that the trip had been a mistake. I knew then that he would not give me what I wanted and release me.
Two hours after we put Seguin in the car two other detectives from RHD arrived with a signed search warrant for the house and car. Because we were in the city of Burbank, I had routinely notified the local authorities of our presence and a Burbank detective team and two patrol officers arrived on scene. While the patrol officers kept a vigil on Seguin, the rest of us began the search.
We spread out. The house had no basement. McCaleb and I took the master bedroom and Terry immediately noticed wheels had been attached to the legs of the bed. He dropped to his knees, pushed the bed aside and there was a trapdoor in the wood floor. There was a padlock on it.
While McCaleb went off into the house to find the key I took my picks out of my wallet and worked the lock. I was alone in the room. As I fumbled with the lock I banged it against the metal hasp and I thought I heard a noise from beyond the door in response. It was far away and muffled but to me it was the sound of terror in someone’s voice. My insides seized with my own terror and hope.
I worked the lock with all my skill and in another thirty seconds it came open.
“Got it! McCaleb, I got it!”
McCaleb came rushing back into the room and we pulled open the door revealing a sheet of plywood below with finger latches at the four corners. We raised this next and there beneath the floor was a young girl. She was blindfolded, gagged and her hands were shackled behind her back. She was naked beneath a dirty pink blanket.
Dangerous Women Page 4
