The Last Coyote (1995)

by Michael Connelly

  With a finger Hirsch punched his glasses back up his nose as if punctuating his resolve not to break the rules.

  “Well, Brad,” Bosch said, “the problem is I don’t know how much time I’ve got on this. Certainly not twelve days. No way. I’m working on it now because I have the time, but the next time I get a fresh call that will be it, I’ll be off it. That’s the nature of homicide, you know? So, are you sure there isn’t something we can do right now?”

  Hirsch didn’t move. He just stared at the blue screen. It reminded Bosch of the youth hall, when kids would literally shut down like a computer on standby when the bullies taunted them.

  “What are you doing now, Hirsch? We could do it right now.”

  Hirsch looked at him for a long moment before talking.

  “I’m busy. And look, Bosch, I know who you are, okay? That’s an interesting story about pulling old cases but I know it’s a lie. I know you’re on a stress leave. The story’s getting around. And you shouldn’t even be here and I shouldn’t be talking to you. So, could you please leave me alone? I don’t want to get into trouble. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea, you know?”

  Bosch looked at him but Hirsch’s eyes had moved back onto the computer screen.

  “Okay, Hirsch, let me tell you a real story. One—”

  “I really don’t want any more stories, Bosch. Why don’t you just—”

  “I’m going to tell you this story, then I’m leaving, okay? Just this one story.”

  “Okay, Bosch, okay. You tell the story.”

  Bosch looked at him silently and waited for Hirsch to make eye contact but the latent print technician’s eyes remained on the computer screen as if it were his security blanket. Bosch told the story anyway.

  “One time, a long time ago, I was almost twelve and I’m swimming in this pool, you see, and I’m under the water but I’ve got my eyes open. And I look up and I see up through the water up to the edge of the pool. I see this dark figure. You know, it was hard to figure out what it was, all wavy and all. But I could tell it was a man and there wasn’t supposed to be a man up there. So I came up for air at the side of the pool and I was right. It was a man. He was wearing this dark suit. And he reached down and grabbed me by the wrist. I was just a scrawny little runt. It was easy for him to do. He pulled me out and he gave me this towel to put on my shoulders and he led me over to a chair and he told me…he told me that my mother was dead. Murdered. He said they didn’t know who did it, but whoever he was, he left his fingerprints. He said, ‘Don’t worry, son, we got the fingerprints and they’re as good as gold. We’ll get him.’ I remember those words exactly. ‘We’ll get him.’ Only they never did. And now I’m going to. That’s my story, Hirsch.”

  Hirsch’s eyes dropped down to the yellowed print card on the keyboard.

  “Look, man, it’s a bad story, but I can’t be doing this. I’m sorry.”

  Bosch stared at him a moment and then slowly stood up.

  “Don’t forget the card,” Hirsch said.

  He picked it up and held it up to Bosch.

  “I’ll leave it here. You’re going to do the right thing, Hirsch. I can tell.”

  “No, don’t. I can’t do—”

  “I’m leaving it here!”

  The power of his voice shocked even Bosch and it seemed to have scared Hirsch. The print tech replaced the card on the keyboard. After a few seconds of silence Bosch leaned down and spoke quietly.

  “Everybody wants the chance to do the right thing, Hirsch. It makes them feel good inside. Even if doing it doesn’t exactly fit inside the rules, sometimes you have to rely on the voice inside that tells you what to do.”

  Bosch stood back up and took out his wallet and a pen. He pulled out a business card and wrote some numbers on it. He put it down on the keyboard next to the print card.

  “That’s got my portable and my home on it. Don’t bother calling the office, you know I won’t be there. I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Hirsch.”

  He walked slowly out of the lab.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WAITING FOR THE elevator, Bosch guessed that his effort to persuade Hirsch had fallen on deaf ears. Hirsch was the type of guy whose exterior scars masked deeper interior wounds. There were a lot in the department like him. Hirsch had grown up intimidated by his own face. He’d probably be the last person to dare go outside the bounds of his job or the rules. Another department automaton. For him, doing the right thing was ignoring Bosch. Or turning him in.

  He punched at the elevator button with his finger again and contemplated what else he could do. The AFIS search was a long shot but he still wanted it done. It was a loose end and any thorough investigation took care of loose ends. He decided he would give Hirsch a day and then he’d make another run at him. If that didn’t work, he’d try another tech. He’d try them all until he got the killer’s prints into that machine.

  The elevator finally opened and he squeezed on. That was one of the only things you could rely on inside Parker Center. Cops would come and go, chiefs, even political power structures, but the elevators would always move slowly and always be crowded when they got to you. Bosch pushed the unlighted button marked B as the doors slowly closed and the square room started to descend. While everyone stood and stared blankly at the lighted numbers over the door, Bosch looked down at his briefcase. No one in the small space spoke. Until, as the car slowed to its next stop, Bosch heard his first name spoken from behind. He turned his head slightly, not sure if it had been someone speaking to him or the name had been directed toward someone else.

  His eyes fell on Assistant Chief Irvin S. Irving standing in the rear of the elevator. They exchanged nods just as the doors opened on the first floor. Bosch wondered if Irving had seen him push the button for the basement. There was no reason for a man on involuntary stress leave to be going to the basement.

  Bosch decided the car was too crowded for Irving to have seen what button he had pushed. He stepped off the elevator into the alcove off the main lobby and Irving followed him out and caught up with him.

  “Chief.”

  “What brings you all the way in, Harry?”

  It was said casually but the question signaled that there was more than passing interest from Irving. They started walking toward the exit, Bosch quickly putting a story together.

  “I have to go over to Chinatown anyway, so I dropped by to go to payroll. I wanted to see about them sending my check to my house instead of out to Hollywood, since I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  Irving nodded and Bosch was pretty sure he had bought it. He was about Bosch’s size but had the stand-out feature of a completely shaved head. That feature and his reputation for intolerance for corrupt cops got him the nickname within the department of Mr. Clean.

  “You’re in Chinatown today? I thought you were Monday, Wednesday, Friday. That was the schedule I approved.”

  “Yes, that’s the schedule. But she had an opening come up today and wanted me to come in.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you being so cooperative. What happened to your hand?”

  “Oh, this?” Bosch held up his hand as if it were someone else’s that he had just noticed at the end of his arm. “I’ve been using some of my free time to do some work around the house and I cut it on a piece of broken glass. I’m still doing clean-up from the quake.”

  “I see.”

  Bosch guessed that he didn’t buy that one. But he didn’t really care.

  “I’m getting a quick lunch in the Federal Plaza,” Irving said. “You want to come along?”

  “Thanks just the same, Chief. I already ate.”

  “Okay, well, take care of yourself. I mean that.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Irving started off and then stopped.

  “You know, we’re handling this situation with you a little differently because I hope to get you back in there at Hollywood homicide without any change in grade or position. I’m waiting to hear
from Dr. Hinojos but I understand it will be a few more weeks, at least.”

  “That’s what she tells me.”

  “You know, if you’re willing to do it, an apology in the form of a letter to Lieutenant Pounds could be beneficial. When push comes to shove, I’m going to have to sell him on letting you back in there. That will be the hard part. I think getting you a clean bill from the doctor won’t be a problem. I can simply issue the order and Lieutenant Pounds will have to accept it, but that won’t ease the pressure there. I would rather work it that he accepts your return and everybody’s happy.”

  “Well, I heard he already’s got a replacement for me.”

  “Pounds?”

  “He paired my partner with somebody off autos. Doesn’t sound to me like he’s expecting or planning on me coming back, Chief.”

  “Well, that’s news to me. I’ll talk to him about that. What do you think about this letter? It could go a long way toward helping your situation.”

  Bosch hesitated before answering. He knew Irving wanted to help him. The two of them shared an unspoken bond. Once they had been complete enemies in the department. But contempt had eroded into a truce which now was more a line of wary mutual respect.

  “I’ll think about the letter, Chief,” Bosch finally said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Very well. You know, Harry, pride gets in the way of a lot of the right decisions. Don’t let that happen to you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Bosch watched him bound off around the fountain memorial to officers killed in the line of duty. He watched until Irving got to Temple and started to cross Los Angeles Street to the Federal Plaza, where there was an array of fast-food emporiums. Then Bosch figured it was safe and turned to go back inside.

  He skipped waiting for the elevator again and went down the stairs to the basement.

  Most of the underground floor of Parker Center was taken up by the Evidence Storage Division. There were a few other offices, like the Fugitives Division, but it was generally a quiet floor. Bosch found no pedestrian traffic on the long yellow linoleum hallway and was able to get to the steel double doors of ESD without running into anyone else he knew.

  The police department held physical evidence on investigations that had not yet gone to the district attorney or city attorney for filing. Once that happened, the evidence usually stayed with the prosecutor’s office.

  Essentially, that made ESD the city’s temple of failure. What was behind the steel doors Bosch opened was the physical evidence from thousands of unsolved crimes. Crimes that had never resulted in prosecution. It even smelled of failure. Because it was in the basement of the building, there was a damp odor here that Bosch always believed was the rank stink of neglect and decay. Of hopelessness.

  Bosch stepped into a small room that was essentially a wire-mesh cage. There was another door on the other side but there was a sign on it that said ESD STAFF ONLY. There were two windows cut in the mesh. One was closed and a uniform officer sat behind the other working on a crossword puzzle. Between the two windows was another sign that said DO NOT STORE LOADED FIREARMS. Bosch walked up to the open window and leaned on the counter. The officer looked up after filling in a word on the puzzle. Bosch saw the name tag on his uniform said Nelson. Nelson read Bosch’s ID card so Bosch didn’t have to bother to introduce himself, either. It worked out nicely.

  “Her…on—how you say that?”

  “Hieronymus. Rhymes with anonymous.”

  “Hieronymus. Isn’t there a rock and roll band named that?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What can I do for you, Hieronymus from Hollywood?”

  “I got a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  Bosch put the pink evidence check slip on the counter.

  “I want to pull the box on this case. It’s pretty old. Would it still be around anywhere?”

  The cop took the slip, looked at it and whistled when he saw the year. While writing the case number down on a request log, he said, “Should be here. Don’t see why not. Nothing gets tossed, you know. You want to look at the Black Dahlia case, we got that. That’s what, fifty-something years old. We got ’em going back even further. If it ain’t solved, it’s here.”

  He looked up at Bosch and winked.

  “Be right back. Why don’t you fill out the form.”

  Nelson pointed with his pen out the window to a counter on the back wall where the standard request forms were. He got up and disappeared from the window. Bosch heard him yell to someone else in the back.

  “Charlie! Hey, Char-LEE!”

  A voice from somewhere in the back yelled a response that was unintelligible.

  “Take the window,” Nelson called back. “I’m taking the time machine.”

  Bosch had heard about the time machine. It was a golf cart they used to get back to the deep recesses of the storage facility. The older the case, the farther back in time it went, the farther away it was from the front windows. The time machine got the window cops back there.

  Bosch walked over to the counter and filled out a request form, then reached in the window and put it on the crossword puzzle. While he was waiting, he looked around and noticed another sign on the back wall. NARCOTICS EVIDENCE NOT RELEASED WITHOUT 492 FORM. Bosch had no idea what that form was. Somebody came through the steel doors then carrying a murder book. A detective, but Bosch didn’t recognize him. He opened it on the counter, got a case number and then filled out a form. He then went to the window. There was no sign of Charlie. After a few minutes, the detective turned to Bosch.

  “Anybody working back there?”

  “Yeah, one guy went to get me a box. He told another guy to watch. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Shit.”

  He rapped sharply with his knuckles on the counter. In a few minutes another uniform cop came to the window. He was an old horse, with white hair and a pear shape. Bosch guessed he’d been working in the basement for years. His skin was as white as a vampire’s. He took the other detective’s evidence request slip and was gone. Then both Bosch and the other detective were left waiting. Bosch could tell the other man had started looking at him but was acting like he wasn’t.

  “You’re Bosch, right?” he finally asked. “From Hollywood?”

  Bosch nodded. The other man put out his hand and smiled.

  “Tom North, Pacific. We’ve never met.”

  “No.”

  Bosch shook his hand but didn’t act enthusiastic about the introduction.

  “We never met but listen, I worked Devonshire burglary for six years before I got my homicide gig in Pacific. Know who my CO was up there back then?”

  Bosch shook his head. He didn’t know and he didn’t care but North didn’t seem to realize that.

  “Pounds. Lieutenant Harvey ‘Ninety-eight’ Pounds. The fuck. He was my CO. So, anyway, I heard through the network, you know, what you did to his ass. Put his face right through the fuckin’ window. That’s great, man, fuckin’ great. More power to you. I laughed my ass off when I heard that.”

  “Well, I’m glad it entertained you.”

  “No, really, I know you’re getting piped for it. I heard about that, too. But I just wanted to let you know you made my day and a lot of people are with you, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what are you doing down here? I heard they had you on the Fifty-One-Fifty list.”

  It annoyed Bosch to realize that there were those in the department whom he didn’t even know who knew what had happened to him and what his situation was. He tried to keep calm.

  “Listen, I—”

  “Bosch! You gotta box!”

  It was the time traveler, Nelson. He was at the window, pushing a light blue box through the opening. It was about the size of a boot box and was held closed with red tape that was cracking with age. It looked like the box was powdered with dust. Bosch didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He waved off North and went to the box.

 
“Sign here,” Nelson said.

  He put a yellow slip down on top of the box. It kicked up a small dust cloud, which he waved away with his hand. Bosch signed the paper and took the box in two hands. He turned and saw North looking at him. North just nodded once. He seemed to know it wasn’t the right time to ask questions. Bosch nodded back and headed to the door.

  “Uh, Bosch?” North said. “I didn’t mean anything about what I said. About the list. No offense, okay?”

  Bosch stared at him as he pushed through the door with his back. But he didn’t say anything. He then proceeded down the hall carrying the box with two hands, as if it contained something precious.