“I guess so.”
“I thought . . . never mind what I thought.”
“No, it wasn’t because of seeing you, Rachel. Seeing you was—I mean, is—actually very nice.”
She took up her mug and drank from it, then looked down at her work and seemed to steel herself to move on.
“Well, I don’t see how his calling you back then changes my conclusions,” she said. “Yes, it does seem out of character for him to have made contact under any name. But you have to remember the Gesto case took place in the early stages of his formation. There are a number of aspects involving Gesto that don’t fit with the rest. So for it to be the only case where he made contact would not be all that unusual.”
“Okay.”
She referred to her notes again, continuing to avoid his eyes since he had told her of the mistake.
“So where was I before you brought that up?”
“You said that after the first two killings he chose victims he could pull beneath the surface without notice.”
“Exactly. What I’m saying is that he was getting his satisfaction in the work. He didn’t need anybody else to know he was doing it. He wasn’t getting off on the attention. He wanted no attention. His fulfillment was self-contained. It needed no outside or public component.”
“So then, what bothers you?”
She looked up at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. But you look like something about your own profile of the guy bothers you. Something you don’t believe.”
She nodded, acknowledging that he had read her correctly.
“It’s just that his profile doesn’t support someone who would cooperate at this stage of the game, who would tell you about the other crimes. What I see here is someone who would never admit to it. Any of it. He would deny it, or at the very least keep quiet about it, until they put the needle in his arm.”
“All right, so that’s a contradiction. Don’t all of these guys have contradictions? They’re all messed up in some way. No profile is ever a hundred percent, right?”
She nodded.
“That’s true. But it still doesn’t fit and so I guess what I am trying to say is that from his point of view, there is something else. A higher goal, if you will. A plan. This whole confession thing is indicative of manipulation.”
Bosch nodded like what she had said was obvious.
“Of course it is. He’s manipulating O’Shea and the system. He’s using this to avoid the needle.”
“Maybe so, but there may be other motives as well. Be careful.”
She said the last two words sternly, as if she were correcting a subordinate or even a child.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Bosch said.
He decided not to dwell on it.
“What do you think about the dismemberment?” he asked. “What’s it say?”
“I actually spent most of my time studying the autopsies. I have always believed that you learn the most about a killer from his victims. Cause of death in each case was determined to be strangulation. There were no stab wounds on the bodies. There was just the dismemberment. These are two different things. I think the dismemberment was simply part of the cleanup. It was a way for him to easily dispose of the bodies. Again, it shows his skills, planning and organization. The more I read, the more I realized how lucky we were to get him that night.”
She ran a finger down the sheet of notes she had written and then continued.
“I find the bags very intriguing. Three bags for two women. One bag held both heads and all four hands. It was as if he possibly had a separate destination or plan for the bag containing the identifiers; the heads and the hands. Have they been able to determine where he was going when they pulled him over?”
Bosch shrugged.
“Not really. The assumption was that he was going to bury the bags somewhere around the stadium, but that doesn’t really work because they saw him drive off of Stadium Way and into a neighborhood. He was driving away from the stadium and the woods and the places he could bury the bags. There were some open lots down in the neighborhood and access to the hillsides below the stadium, but it seems to me that if he was going to bury them he would not have gone into a neighborhood. He would go deep into the park, where there was less chance of being noticed.”
“Exactly.”
She glanced at some of her other documents.
“What?” Bosch asked.
“Well, this Reynard the Fox thing might have nothing to do with all of this. It may all be coincidence.”
“But in the epic Reynard had a castle that was his secret hideaway.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I didn’t think you had a computer, let alone knew how to research on line.”
“I don’t. My partner did the search. But I gotta tell you, I was over in the neighborhood right before I called you today. I didn’t see any castle.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t take everything so literally,” she said.
“Well, there’s still a big question about the Reynard stuff,” he said.
“Which is?”
“Did you look at the booking sheet in the file? He wouldn’t talk to Olivas and his partner but he did answer the protocol questions at the jail when he was booked. He listed his education level as high school. No higher education. I mean, look, the guy’s a window washer. How would he even know about this medieval fox?”
“I don’t know. But as I said, the character has popped up repeatedly in all cultures. Children’s books, television shows, there are any number of ways the character could have made an impact on this man. And don’t underestimate this man’s intelligence because he washed windows for a living. He owned and operated a business. That is significant in terms of showing some of his capabilities. The fact that he operated as a killer with impunity for so long is another strong indicator of intelligence.”
Bosch wasn’t completely convinced. He fired off another question that would take her in a new direction.
“How do the first two fit in? He went from public spectacle with the riots and then a big media splash with Marie Gesto to, as you say, diving completely beneath the surface.”
“Every serial killer’s MO changes. The simple answer is that he was on a learning curve. I think the first killing—with the male victim—was an opportunity killing. Like a spree killing. He had thought about killing for a long time but wasn’t sure he could do it. He found himself in a situation—the chaos of the riots—where he could test himself. It was an opportunity to see if he could actually kill someone and then get away with it. The sex of the victim was not important. The identity of the victim was not important. At that moment he just wanted to find out if he could do it and almost any victim would do.”
Bosch could see that. He nodded.
“So he did,” he said. “And then we come to Marie Gesto. He picks a victim who draws the police and the media’s attention.”
“He was still learning, forming,” she said. “He knew he could kill and now he wanted to go out and hunt. She was his first victim. She crossed his path, something about her fit his fantasy program and she simply became prey. At that time his focus was on victim acquisition and self-protection. In that case he chose badly. He chose a woman who would be sorely missed and whose disappearance would draw an immediate response. He probably didn’t know this going into it. But he learned from it, from the heat he brought upon himself.”
Bosch nodded.
“Anyway, after Gesto he learned to add a third element to his focus: victim backgrounding. He made sure that he chose victims who not only met the needs of his program but who would also come from a societal fringe, where their comings and goings would not be cause for notice, let alone alarm.”
“And he went beneath the surface.”
“Exactly. He went under and he stayed there. Until we got lucky in Echo Park.”
Bosch nodded. All of this was helpful.
“It makes y
ou wonder, doesn’t it?” he asked. “About how many of these guys are out there. The under-the-surface killers.”
Walling nodded.
“Yes. Sometimes it scares me to death. Makes me wonder how long this guy would have gone on killing if we hadn’t gotten so lucky.”
She checked her notes and said nothing further.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Bosch asked.
Walling looked up at him sharply and he realized he had chosen his words poorly.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “This is all great and it’s going to help me a lot. I just meant is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
She held his eyes for a moment before replying.
“Yes, there is something else. It’s not about this, though.”
“Then, what is it?”
“You’ve got to give yourself a break on that phone call, Harry. You can’t let that bring you down. The work ahead is too important.”
Bosch nodded insincerely. It was easy for her to say that. She wouldn’t have to live with the ghosts of all the women Raynard Waits would begin to tell them about the next morning.
“Don’t just nod it off like that,” Rachel said. “Do you know how many cases I worked in Behavioral where the guy kept killing? How many times we got calls and notes from these creeps but still couldn’t get to them before the next victim was dead?”
“I know, I know.”
“We all have ghosts. It’s part of the job. With some jobs it’s a bigger part than with others. I had a boss once, he used to say, if you can’t stand the ghosts, get out of the haunted house.”
He nodded again, this time while looking directly at her. He meant it this time.
“How many murders have you solved, Harry? How many killers have you put away?”
“I don’t know. I don’t keep track.”
“Maybe you should.”
“What’s the point?”
“The point is, how many of those killers would have done it again if you hadn’t taken them down? More than a few, I bet.”
“Probably.”
“There you go. You’re way ahead in the long run. Think about that.”
“Okay.”
His mind flashed on one of those killers. Bosch had arrested Roger Boylan many years before. He drove a pickup with a camper shell on the back. He had used marijuana to entice a couple young girls into the back while parked up at Hansen Dam. He raped and killed them, injecting them with an overdose of a horse tranquilizer. He then threw their bodies into the dry bed of the nearby slough. When Bosch put the cuffs on him Boylan had only one thing to say.
“Too bad. I was just getting started.”
Bosch wondered how many victims there would have been if he hadn’t stopped him. He wondered if he could trade Roger Boylan for Raynard Waits and call it even. On the one hand, he thought he could. On the other hand, he knew it wasn’t a zero-sum game. The true detective knew that coming out even in homicide work was not good enough. Not by a long shot.
“I hope I’ve helped,” Rachel said.
He looked up from the memory of Boylan to Rachel’s eyes.
“I think you did. I think I’ll know better who and what I am dealing with when I go into the room with him tomorrow.”
She stood up from the table.
“I meant about the other thing.”
Bosch stood.
“That, too. You’ve helped a lot.”
He came around the table so he could walk her to the door.
“Be careful, Harry.”
“I know. You said that. But you don’t have to worry. It will be a full-security situation.”
“I don’t mean the physical danger as much as I mean the psychological. Guard yourself, Harry. Please.”
“I will,” he said.
It was time to go to the door but she was hesitating. She looked down at the contents of the file spread across the table and then at Bosch.
“I was hoping you would call me sometime,” she said. “But not about a case.”
Bosch had to take a few moments before coming back.
“I thought because of what I said—what we said—that . . .”
He wasn’t sure how to finish. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. She reached up and put her hand lightly on his chest. He took a step closer, coming into her space. He then put his arms around her and pulled her close.
9
LATER, AFTER THEY HAD made love, Bosch and Rachel remained in bed, talking about anything they could think of except what they had just done. Eventually they came back around to the case and the next morning’s interview with Raynard Waits.
“I can’t believe that after all this time I’m going to sit down face-to-face with her killer,” Bosch said. “It’s kind of like a dream. I actually have dreamed of catching the guy. I mean, it was never Waits in the dream but I dreamed about closing out the case.”
“Who was it in the dream?” she asked.
Her head was resting on his chest. He couldn’t see her face but he could smell her hair. Under the sheets she had one leg over one of his.
“It was this guy I always thought could be good for it. But I never had anything on him. I guess because he was always an asshole, I wanted it to be him.”
“Well, did he have any connection to Gesto?”
Bosch tried to shrug but it was difficult with their bodies so entwined.
“He knew about the garage where we found the car and had an ex-girlfriend who was a ringer for Gesto. And he had anger-management issues. No real evidence. I just thought it was him. I followed him once way back during the first year of the investigation. He was working as a security guard up in the oil fields behind Baldwin Hills. You know where that is?”
“You mean where you see the oil pumps when you’re coming in on La Cienega from the airport?”
“Yeah, right. That’s the place. Well, this kid’s family owned a chunk of those fields, and his old man was trying to straighten him out, I guess. You know, make him work for a living even though they had all the money in the world. So he was working security up there and I was watching him one day. He came across these kids who were fooling around up in there, just trespassing and messing around. They were just kids, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Two boys from the nearby neighborhood.”
“What did he do to them?”
“He drew down on them, then handcuffed them to one of the pumps. Their backs were to each other and they were cuffed around this pole that was sort of like an anchor for the pump. And then he got back in his pickup and drove away.”
“He just left them there?”
“That’s what I thought he was doing but he was coming back. I was watching with binoculars from a ridge all the way across La Cienega and could see the whole oil field from up there. He had another guy with him and they drove over to this shack where I guess they kept samples of the oil they were pumping out of the ground. They went in there and came out with two buckets of this stuff, put ’em in the back of the pickup and drove back. They then dumped that shit all over the two kids.”
Rachel got up on one elbow and looked at him.
“And you just watched this happen?”
“I told you, I was clear across La Cienega on the next ridge. Before they built houses up there. If he went any further I was going to try to intervene somehow, but then he let them go. Besides, I didn’t want him to know I was watching him. At that point he didn’t know I was thinking of him for Gesto.”
She nodded like she understood and no longer questioned his lack of action.
“He just let them go?” she asked.
“He uncuffed them, kicked one of them in the butt and let them go. I could tell they were crying and scared.”
Rachel shook her head in disgust.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Anthony Garland. His father is Thomas Rex Garland. You might have heard of him.”
Rachel shook her head, not recognizing the n
ame.
“Well, Anthony might not have been Gesto’s killer but he sounds like a complete asshole.”
Bosch nodded.
“He is. You want to see him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a ‘greatest hits’ video. I’ve had him in an interview room three times in thirteen years. Each interview was on tape.”
“You have the tape here?”
Bosch nodded, knowing that she might find it strange or off-putting that he studied interrogation tapes at home.
“I had them copied onto one tape. I brought it home to watch the last time I worked the case.”
Rachel seemed to consider his answer before she responded.
“Then pop it in. Let’s take a look at this guy.”
Bosch got out of bed, slipped on his boxer shorts and turned on the lamp. He went out to the living room and looked in the cabinet beneath the television. He had several crime scene tapes from old cases, as well as various other tapes and DVDs. He finally located a VHS tape marked GARLAND on the box and took it back to the bedroom.
He had a television with a built-in VCR on the bureau. He turned it on, slid in the tape and sat on the edge of the bed with the remote. He kept his boxers on now that he and Rachel were working. Rachel stayed under the covers and as the tape was cuing up she reached a foot toward him and tapped her toes on his back.
“Is this what you do with all the girls you bring here? Show them your interrogation techniques?”
Bosch glanced back at her and was almost serious with his response.
“Rachel, I think you’re the only person in the world I could do this with.”
She smiled.
“I think I get you, Bosch.”
He looked back at the screen. The tape was playing. He hit the mute with the remote.
“This first one is March eleventh of ’ninety-four. It’s about six months after Gesto disappeared and we were grasping for anything. We didn’t have enough to arrest him—it wasn’t even close—but I was able to convince him to come into the station to give a statement. He didn’t know I had the bead on him. He thought he was just going to talk about the apartment where his ex-girlfriend had lived.”
On the screen was a grainy color picture of a small room with a table at which two men sat. One was a much younger-looking Harry Bosch and the other was a man in his early twenties with wavy surfer-white hair. Anthony Garland. He was wearing a T-shirt that said Lakers across the chest. The sleeves were tight on his arms, and tattoo ink was visible on his left biceps. Black barbed wire wrapped the muscles of the arm.
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