Michael Connelly

by Harry Bosch 08 - City Of Bones (v5)

  “Things don’t change that much. This woman—at least we think it was a woman—was murdered nine thousand years ago, her body probably thrown into the tar pit as a means of covering the crime. Human nature, it doesn’t change.”

  Bosch stared at the skull.

  “She’s not the first.”

  Bosch looked up at Golliher.

  “In nineteen fourteen the bones—a more complete skeleton, actually—of another woman were found in the tar. She had the same star fracture in the same spot on her skull. Her bones were carbon-dated as nine thousand years old. Same time frame as her.”

  He nodded to the skull in the box.

  “So, what are you saying, Doc, that there was a serial killer here nine thousand years ago?”

  “It’s impossible to know that, Detective Bosch. All we have are the bones.”

  Bosch looked down at the skull again. He thought about what Julia Brasher had said about his job, about his taking evil out of the world. What she didn’t know was a truth he had known for too long. That true evil could never be taken out of the world. At best he was wading into the dark waters of the abyss with two leaking buckets in his hands.

  “But you have other things on your mind, don’t you?” Golliher said, interrupting Bosch’s thoughts. “Do you have the hospital records?”

  Bosch brought his briefcase up onto the worktable and opened it. He handed Golliher a file. Then, from his pocket he pulled the stack of photos he and Edgar had borrowed from Sheila Delacroix.

  “I don’t know if these help,” he said. “But this is the kid.”

  Golliher picked up the photos. He went through them quickly, stopping at the posed close-up of Arthur Delacroix in a jacket and tie. He went over to a chair where a backpack was slung over the armrest. He pulled out his own file and came back to the worktable. He opened the file and took out an 8 × 10 photo of the skull from Wonderland Avenue. For a long moment he held the photos of Arthur Delacroix and the skull side by side and studied them.

  Finally, he said, “The malar and superciliary ridge formation look similar.”

  “I’m not an anthropologist, Doc.”

  Golliher put the photos down on the table. He then explained by running his finger across the left eyebrow of the boy and then down around the outside of his eye.

  “The brow ridge and the exterior orbit,” he said. “It’s wider than usual on the recovered specimen. Looking at this photo of the boy, we see his facial structure is in line with what we see here.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Let’s look at the X-rays,” Golliher said. “There’s a box back here.”

  Golliher gathered the files and led Bosch to another worktable, where there was a light box built into the surface. He opened the hospital file, picked up the X-rays and began reading the patient history report.

  Bosch had already read the document. The hospital reported that the boy was brought into the emergency room at 5:40 P.M. on February 11, 1980, by his father, who said he was found in a dazed and unresponsive state following a fall from a skateboard in which he struck his head. Neurosurgery was performed in order to relieve pressure inside the skull caused by swelling of the brain. The boy remained in the hospital under observation for ten days and was then released to his father. Two weeks later he was readmitted for follow-up surgery to remove the clips that had been used to hold his skull together following the neurosurgery.

  There was no report anywhere in the file of the boy complaining about being mistreated by his father or anyone else. While recovering from the initial surgery he was routinely interviewed by an on-site social worker. Her report was less than half a page. It reported that the boy said he had hurt himself while skateboarding. There was no follow-up questioning or referral to juvenile authorities or the police.

  Golliher shook his head while he finished his scan of the document.

  “What is it?” Bosch asked.

  “It’s nothing. And that’s the problem. No investigation. They took the boy at his word. His father was probably sitting right there in the room with him when he was interviewed. You know how hard it would have been for him to tell the truth? So they just patched him up and sent him right back to the person who was hurting him.”

  “Hey, Doc, you’re getting a little bit ahead of us. Let’s get the ID, if it’s there, and then we’ll figure out who was hurting the kid.”

  “Fine. It’s your case. It’s just that I’ve seen this a hundred times.”

  Golliher dropped the reports and picked up the X-rays. Bosch watched him with a bemused smile on his face. It seemed that Golliher was annoyed because Bosch had not jumped to the same conclusions he had with the same speed he had.

  Golliher put two X-rays down on the light box. He then went to his own file and brought out X-rays he had taken of the Wonderland skull. He flipped the box’s light on and three X-rays glowed before them. Golliher pointed to the X-ray he had taken from his own file.

  “This is a radiological X-ray I took to look inside the bone of the skull. But we can use it here for comparison purposes. Tomorrow when I get back to the medical examiner’s office I will use the skull itself.”

  Golliher leaned over the light box and reached for a small glass eyepiece that was stored on a nearby shelf. He held one end to his eye and pressed the other against one of the X-rays. After a few moments he moved to one of the hospital X-rays and pressed the eyepiece to the same location on the skull. He went back and forth numerous times, making comparison after comparison.

  When he was finished, Golliher straightened up, leaned back against the next worktable and folded his arms.

  “Queen of Angels was a government-subsidized hospital. Money was always tight. They should have taken more than two pictures of this kid’s head. If they had, they might have seen some of his other injuries.”

  “Okay. But they didn’t.”

  “Yeah, they didn’t. But based on what they did do and what we’ve got here, I was able to make several comparison points on the roundel, the fracture pattern and along the squamous suture. There is no doubt in my mind.”

  He gestured toward the X-rays still glowing on the light box.

  “Meet Arthur Delacroix.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Golliher stepped over to the light box and started collecting the X-rays.

  “How sure are you?”

  “Like I said, there’s no doubt. I’ll look at the skull tomorrow when I’m downtown, but I can tell you now, it’s him. It’s a match.”

  “So, if we get somebody and go into court with it, there aren’t going to be any surprises, right?”

  Golliher looked at Bosch.

  “No surprises. These findings can’t be challenged. As you know, the challenge lies in the interpretation of the injuries. I look at this boy and see something horribly, horribly wrong. And I will testify to that. Gladly. But then you have these official records.”

  He gestured dismissively to the open file of hospital records.

  “They say skateboard. That’s where the fight will be.”

  Bosch nodded. Golliher put the two X-rays back into the file and closed it. Bosch put it back in his briefcase.

  “Well, Doctor, thanks for taking the time to see me here. I think—”

  “Detective Bosch?”

  “Yes?”

  “The other day you seemed very uncomfortable when I mentioned the necessity of faith in what we do. Basically, you changed the subject.”

  “Not really a subject I feel comfortable talking about.”

  “I would think that in your line of work it would be paramount to have a healthy spirituality.”

  “I don’t know. My partner likes blaming aliens from outer space for everything that’s wrong. I guess that’s healthy, too.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  Bosch grew annoyed and the feeling quickly slipped toward anger.

  “What is the question, Doc? Why do you care so much about me
and what I believe or don’t believe?”

  “Because it is important to me. I study bones. The framework of life. And I have come to believe that there is something more than blood and tissue and bone. There is something else that holds us together. I have something inside, that you’ll never see on any X-ray, that holds me together and keeps me going. And so, when I meet someone who carries a void in the place where I carry my faith, I get scared for him.”

  Bosch looked at him for a long moment.

  “You’re wrong about me. I have faith and I have a mission. Call it blue religion, call it whatever you like. It’s the belief that this won’t just go by. That those bones came out of the ground for a reason. That they came out of the ground for me to find, and for me to do something about. And that’s what holds me together and keeps me going. And it won’t show up on any X-ray either. Okay?”

  He stared at Golliher, waiting for a reply. But the anthropologist said nothing.

  “I gotta go, Doctor,” Bosch finally said. “Thanks for your help. You’ve made things very clear for me.”

  He left him there, surrounded by the dark bones the city had been built on.

  26

  EDGAR was not at his spot at the homicide table when Bosch got back to the squad room.

  “Harry?”

  Bosch looked up and saw Lt. Billets standing in the doorway to her office. Through the glass window Bosch could see Edgar in there sitting in front of her desk. Bosch put his briefcase down and headed over.

  “What’s up?” he said as he entered the office.

  “No, that’s my question,” Billets said as she closed the door. “Do we have an ID?”

  She went around behind her desk and sat down as Bosch took the seat next to Edgar.

  “Yes, we have an ID. Arthur Delacroix, disappeared May fourth, nineteen eighty.”

  “The ME is sure of this?”

  “Their bone guy says there is no doubt.”

  “How close are we on time of death?”

  “Pretty close. The bone guy said before we knew anything that the fatal impact to the skull came about three months after the kid had the earlier skull fracture and surgery. We got the records on that surgery today. February eleven, nineteen eighty at Queen of Angels. You add three months and we’re almost right on the button—Arthur Delacroix disappeared May fourth, according to his sister. The point is, Arthur Delacroix was dead four years before Nicholas Trent moved into that neighborhood. I think that puts him in the clear.”

  Billets reluctantly nodded.

  “I’ve had Irving’s office and Media Relations on my ass all day about this,” she said. “They’re not going to like it when I call them back with this.”

  “That’s too bad,” Bosch said. “That’s the way the case shakes out.”

  “Okay, so Trent wasn’t in the neighborhood in nineteen eighty. Do we have anything yet on where he was?”

  Bosch blew out his breath and shook his head.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you? We need to concentrate on the kid.”

  “I’m not letting go because they’re not. Irving called me himself this morning. He was very clear without having to say the words. If it turns out an innocent man killed himself because a cop leaked information to the media that held him up to public ridicule, then it’s one more black eye for the department. Haven’t we had enough humiliation in the last ten years?”

  Bosch smiled without a hint of humor.

  “You sound just like him, Lieutenant. That’s really good.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. He could see that it hurt her.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I sound like him because I agree with him, for once. This department has had nothing but scandal after scandal. Like most of the decent cops around here, I for one am sick of it.”

  “Good. So am I. But the solution is not to bend things to fit our needs. This is a homicide case.”

  “I know that, Harry. I’m not saying bend anything. I’m saying we have to be sure.”

  “We’re sure. I’m sure.”

  They were silent for a long moment, everyone’s eyes avoiding the others’.

  “What about Kiz?” Edgar finally asked.

  Bosch sneered.

  “Irving won’t do a thing to Kiz,” he said. “He knows it will make him look even worse if he touches her. Besides, she’s probably the best cop they got down there on the third floor.”

  “You’re always so sure, Harry,” Billets said. “It must be nice.”

  “Well, I’m sure about this.”

  He stood up.

  “And I’d like to get back to it. We’ve got stuff happening.”

  “I know all about it. Jerry was just telling me. But sit down and let’s get back to this for one minute, okay?”

  Bosch sat back down.

  “I can’t just talk to Irving the way I let you talk to me,” Billets said. “This is what I am going to do. I am going to update him on the ID and everything else. I am going to say you are pursuing the case as is. I will then invite him to assign IAD to the background investigation of Trent. In other words, if he remains unconvinced by the circumstances of the ID, then he can have IAD or whoever he can find run the background on Trent to see where he was in nineteen eighty.”

  Bosch just looked at her, giving no indication of approval or disapproval of her plan.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Yes, you can go.”

  When they got back to the homicide table and sat down Edgar asked Bosch why he hadn’t mentioned the theory that maybe Trent moved into the neighborhood because he knew the bones were up on the hillside.

  “Because your ‘sick fuck’ theory is too farfetched to go beyond this table for the time being. If that gets to Irving, next thing you know it’s in a press release and is the official line. Now, did you get anything on the box or not?”

  “Yeah, I got stuff.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, I confirmed Samuel Delacroix’s address at the Manchester Trailer Park. So he’s there when we want to go see him. In the last ten years he’s had two DUIs. He drives on a restricted license at the moment. I also ran his Social and came up with a hit—he works for the city.”

  Bosch’s face showed his surprise.

  “Doing what?”

  “He works part-time at a driving range at the municipal golf course right next to the trailer park. I made a call to Parks and Recs—discreetly. Delacroix drives the cart that collects all the balls. You know, out on the range. The guy everybody tries to hit when he’s out there. I guess he comes over from the trailer park and does it a couple times a day.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next, Christine Dorsett Delacroix, the name of the mother on Sheila’s birth certificate. I ran her Social and got her now listed as a Christine Dorsett Waters. Address is in Palm Springs. Must’ve gone there to re-invent herself. New name, new life, whatever.”

  Bosch nodded.

  “You pull the divorce?”

  “Got it. She filed on Samuel Delacroix in ’seventy-three. The boy would’ve been about five at the time. Cited mental and physical abuse. Details of what that abuse consisted of were not included. It never went to trial, so the details never came out.”

  “He didn’t contest it?”

  “It looks like a deal was made. He got custody of the two kids and didn’t contest. Nice and clean. The file’s about twelve pages thick. I’ve seen some that are twelve inches. My own, for example.”

  “If Arthur was five . . . some of those injuries predate that, according to the anthropologist.”

  Edgar shook his head.

  “The extract says the marriage had ended three years prior and they were living separately. So it looks like she split when the boy was about two—like Sheila said. Harry, you usually don’t refer to the vic by name.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Just pointing it out.”

  “Thank you. Anything else in the file?”

  “That’s
about it. I got copies if you want it.”

  “Okay, what about the skateboard friend?”

  “Got him, too. Still alive, still local. But there’s a problem. I ran all the usual data banks and came up with three John Stokes in L.A. that fall into the right age range. Two are in the Valley, both clean. The third’s a player. Multiple arrests for petty theft, auto theft, burglary and possession going back to a full juvy jacket. Five years ago he finally ran out of second chances and got sent to Corcoran to iron out a nickel. Did two and a half to parole.”

  “You talk to his agent? Is Stokes still on the line?”

  “Talked to his agent, yes. No, Stokes isn’t on the hook. He cleared parole two months ago. The agent doesn’t know where he is.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, but I got him to pull a look at the client bio. It has Stokes growing up mostly in Mid-Wilshire. In and out of foster homes. In and out of trouble. He’s gotta be our guy.”

  “The agent think he’s still in L.A.?”

  “Yeah, he thinks so. We just gotta find him. I already had patrol go by his last known—he moved out of there as soon as he cleared parole.”

  “So he’s in the wind. Beautiful.”

  Edgar nodded.

  “We have to put him on the box,” Bosch said. “Start with—”

  “Did it,” Edgar said. “I also typed up a roll-call notice and gave it to Mankiewicz a while ago. He promised to get it read at all calls. I’m having a batch of visor photos made, too.”

  “Good.”

  Bosch was impressed. Getting photos of Stokes to clip to the sun visors of every patrol car was the sort of extra step Edgar usually didn’t bother to make.

  “We’ll get him, Harry. I’m not sure what good he’ll do us, but we’ll get him.”

  “He could be a key witness. If Arthur—I mean, the vic—ever told him his father was beating him, then we’ve got something.”

  Bosch looked at his watch. It was almost two. He wanted to keep things moving, keep the investigation focused and urgent. For him the most difficult time was waiting. Whether it was for lab results or other cops to make moves, it was always when he became most agitated.

  “What do you have going tonight?” he asked Edgar.