Echo Park

by Michael Connelly

  He turned and walked away, barking an order to his men. He wanted a telephone with a secured line. Bosch wondered who the first call would go to, T. Rex Garland or the chief of police.

  Bosch made a snap decision. He would call Keisha Russell and turn her loose. He would tell her she was clear to look into those campaign contributions Garland had funneled to O’Shea. He put his hand into his pocket and then remembered that his phone was still somewhere in the garage. He walked that way and stopped at the yellow tape that was strung across the now fully opened door behind the white van.

  Cal Cafarelli was in the garage, directing the forensic analysis of the scene. She had a breathing-filter mask down around her neck. Bosch could tell by her face that she had been to the macabre scene at the end of the tunnel. And she would never be the same again. He waved her over.

  “How’s it going, Cal?”

  “It’s going about as well as you’d expect after seeing something like that.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “We’re going to be here long into the night. What can I do for you, Harry?”

  “Have you found a cell phone somewhere in here? I lost my phone when things started happening.”

  She pointed to the floor near the front tire of the van.

  “Is that it over there?”

  Bosch looked over and saw his phone lying on the concrete. The red message light was blinking. He noticed that someone had circled it on the concrete with chalk. That was not good. Bosch didn’t want his phone inventoried as evidence. He might never get it back.

  “Can I get it back? I need it.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry. Not yet. This place hasn’t been photographed. We’re starting with the tunnel and moving out from there. It will be a while.”

  “Then how about if you give it to me and I use it right here and then I give it back when it’s time to take photos. It looks like I’ve got messages waiting.”

  “Harry, come on.”

  He knew that his suggestion would break about four rules of evidence.

  “Okay, just let me know when I can get it back. Hopefully before the battery’s dead.”

  “You got it, Harry.”

  He turned away from the garage and saw Rachel Walling walking toward the yellow tape that delineated the outside perimeter of the crime scene. There was a federal cruiser there and a man in a suit and sunglasses was waiting for her. She had apparently called for a ride.

  Bosch trotted toward the tape, calling her name. She stopped and waited for him.

  “Harry,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “I am now. How about you, Rachel?”

  “I’m fine. What happened to you?”

  She indicated his wet clothes with her hand.

  “I had to hose off. It was bad. I need about a two-hour shower. Are you leaving?”

  “Yes. They’re done with me for the time being.”

  Bosch nodded toward the man in the sunglasses ten feet behind her.

  “Are you in trouble?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know yet. I should be all right. You got the bad guy and saved the girl. How can that be a bad thing?”

  “We got the bad guy and saved the girl,” Bosch corrected. “But there are people in every institution and bureaucracy who can find a way to turn something good into shit.”

  She looked him in the eyes and nodded.

  “I know,” she said.

  Her look froze him and he knew they were now different.

  “Are you mad at me, Rachel?”

  “Mad? No.”

  “Then, what?”

  “Then, nothing. I have to go.”

  “Will you call me, then?”

  “When I can. Good-bye, Harry.”

  She took two steps toward the waiting car but then stopped and turned back to him.

  “That was O’Shea you were talking to out by the car, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Be careful, Harry. If you let your emotions run you the way they did out here today, O’Shea could put you in a world of pain.”

  Bosch smiled slightly.

  “You know what they say about pain, don’t you?”

  “No, what?”

  “They say pain is weakness leaving the body.”

  She shook her head.

  “Well ‘they’ are full of shit. Don’t put it to the test unless you have to. Good-bye, Harry.”

  “I’ll see you, Rachel.”

  He watched as the man in sunglasses held the tape up for her to duck under. She got into the front passenger seat and Sunglasses drove them off. Bosch knew that something had changed in the way she saw him. His actions in the garage and going into the tunnel had made her change her mind about him. He accepted it and guessed that he might never see her again. He decided that it would be one more thing that he would blame on Rick O’Shea.

  He turned back to the scene, where Randolph and Osani were standing waiting for him. Randolph was putting away his cell phone.

  “You two again,” Bosch said.

  “Gettin’ to be like déjà vu all over again, isn’t it?” Randolph said.

  “Something like that.”

  “Detective, we are going to need to take you over to Parker Center and conduct a more formal interview this time around.”

  Bosch nodded. He knew the drill. This time it wasn’t about shooting into the trees or the woods. He had killed somebody, so this time it would be different. They would need to nail down every detail.

  “I’m ready to go,” he said.

  31

  BOSCH WAS SEATED in an interview room in the Officer Involved Shooting Unit at Parker Center. Randolph had allowed him to shower in the basement locker room and he’d changed into blue jeans and a black West Coast Choppers sweatshirt, clothing he kept in a locker for the times he was downtown and unexpectedly needed to fly below the radar that a suit would bring. On the way out of the locker room he had dumped his contaminated suit into a trash can. He would now be down to two.

  The tape recorder on the table was turned on, and from separate sheets of paper, Osani read to him his constitutional rights as well as the police officer’s bill of rights. The double insulation of protections was designed to safeguard the individual and police office from the unfair assault of the government, but Bosch knew that when push came to shove, in one of these little rooms neither piece of paper would do much to protect him. He had to fend for himself. He said he understood his rights and agreed to be interviewed.

  Randolph took over from there. At his request Bosch once more told the story of the shooting of Robert Foxworth, aka Raynard Waits, beginning with the discovery made during the review of records from the Fitzpatrick case and ending with the two bullets he fired into Foxworth’s chest. Randolph asked few questions until Bosch was finished going through the story. Then he asked many detailed questions about the moves Bosch had made in the garage and then the tunnel. More than once he asked Bosch why he didn’t listen to the cautioning words of FBI agent Rachel Walling.

  This question told Bosch not only that Rachel had been interviewed by the OIS but also that she had not said things particularly favorable to his case. This disappointed Bosch greatly but he tried to keep his thoughts and feelings about Rachel out of the interview room. To Randolph he repeated as a mantra a sentence that he believed would ultimately win the day for him, no matter what Randolph or Rachel or anyone else thought of his actions and procedures.

  “It was a life-or-death situation. A woman was in jeopardy and we had been fired upon. I felt that I could not wait around for backup or anybody else. I did what I had to do. I used as much caution as I could and used deadly force only when necessary.”

  Randolph moved on and focused many of the next questions on the actual shooting of Robert Foxworth. He asked Bosch what he was thinking when Foxworth revealed that Bosch had been set up to believe that the Gesto case was solved. He asked Bosch what he was thinking when he saw the remains of Foxworth’s victims po
sitioned in the chamber at the end of the tunnel. He asked Bosch what he was thinking when he pulled the trigger and killed the defiler and murderer of those victims.

  Bosch patiently answered each question but finally hit his limit. Something was off-kilter about the interview. It was almost as if Randolph were working from a script.

  “What’s going on here?” Bosch asked. “I’m sitting here telling you people everything. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Randolph looked at Osani and then back at Bosch. He leaned forward, arms on the table. He had a habit of turning a gold ring on his left hand. Bosch had noticed him doing it last time. He knew it was a USC ring. Big deal. A lot of the department’s ruling class had gone through night school at USC.

  Randolph looked back at Osani and reached over to turn the tape recorder off but held his fingers on the buttons.

  “Detective Osani, could you go get us a couple bottles of water? All this talking and my voice is about to go. Probably the same with Detective Bosch, too. We’ll hold up until you get back.”

  Osani got up to leave and Randolph turned off the recorder. He didn’t speak until the interview room door was closed.

  “The thing is, Detective Bosch, we only have your word on what happened in that tunnel. The female was unconscious. There were only you and Foxworth, and he didn’t make it out alive.”

  “That’s right. Are you saying my word is not acceptable?”

  “I’m saying that your description of events might be perfectly acceptable. But the forensics might come in with an interpretation that varies from your statement. You see? It can get messy very quickly. Things can be left open to interpretation and misinterpretation. Public and political interpretation as well.”

  Bosch shook his head. He didn’t understand what was happening.

  “So what?” he said. “I don’t care what the public or politicians think. Waits pushed the action in that tunnel. It was clearly a kill-or-be-killed situation and I did what I had to do.”

  “But there is no witness to your description of events.”

  “What about Agent Walling?”

  “She didn’t go into the tunnel. She warned you not to go in.”

  “You know, there’s a woman over at County-USC who probably wouldn’t be alive right now if I hadn’t gone in. What is going on here, Lieutenant?”

  Randolph started playing with his ring again. He looked like a man with a distaste for what his duty called on him to do.

  “That’s probably enough for today. You’ve been through a lot. What we’re going to do is keep things open for a few days while we wait for the forensics to come in. You’ll continue on home duty. Once we have everything in order I’ll bring you in to read and sign your statement.”

  “I asked what’s going on, Lieutenant.”

  “And I told you what’s going on.”

  “You didn’t tell me enough.”

  Randolph took his hand away from his ring. It had the effect of underlining with importance what he would say next.

  “You rescued the hostage and brought a resolution to the case. That’s good. But you were reckless in your actions and got lucky. If we believe your story, then you shot a man who was threatening the lives of you and others. The facts and forensics, however, might just as easily lead to another interpretation, perhaps one that indicates the man you shot was attempting to surrender. So what we’re going to do is take our time with it. In a few days we’ll get it right. And then we’ll let you know.”

  Bosch studied him, knowing that he was delivering a message that was not so hidden in his words.

  “This is about Olivas, isn’t it? The funeral’s set for tomorrow, the chief is going to be there and you want to keep Olivas a hero killed in the line of duty.”

  Randolph went back to turning his ring.

  “No, Detective Bosch, you have that wrong. If Olivas was dirty, then nobody is going to bend over backwards to worry about his reputation.”

  Bosch nodded. He now had it.

  “Then it’s about O’Shea. He reached out to a higher authority. He told me he would. That authority then reached out to you.”

  Randolph leaned back in his chair and seemed to search the ceiling for a proper reply.

  “There are a great number of people in this department as well as the community who believe Rick O’Shea would make a fine district attorney,” he said. “They also believe he would be a good friend to have on the side of the LAPD.”

  Bosch closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Randolph continued.

  “His opponent, Gabriel Williams, has allied himself with an anti-law enforcement constituency. It would not be a good day for the LAPD if he were to be elected.”

  Bosch opened his eyes and stared at Randolph.

  “You’re actually going to do this?” he asked. “You’re going to let this guy skate because you think he could be a friend to the department?”

  Randolph shook his head sadly.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Detective. I’m simply making a political observation. But I do know this. There is no evidence real or imagined of this conspiracy you speak of. If you think that Robert Foxworth’s attorney will do anything other than deny the conversation you have outlined here, then you would be a fool. So don’t be a fool. Be wise. Keep it to yourself.”

  Bosch took a moment to compose himself.

  “Who made the call on this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How high up did O’Shea reach? It couldn’t have been directly to you. He would have gone higher. Who told you to knock me down?”

  Randolph spread his hands and shook his head.

  “Detective, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Right. Of course not.”

  Bosch stood up.

  “Then, I guess you’ll write it up the way you’ve been told and I’ll either sign it or I won’t. Simple as that.”

  Randolph nodded but said nothing. Bosch leaned down and put both hands on the table so he could get close to his face.

  “You going to Deputy Doolan’s funeral, Lieutenant? It’s right after they put Olivas in the ground. Remember him, the one Waits shot in the face out there? I thought maybe you’d be going to the funeral to explain to his family about how choices had to be made and how the man directly behind that bullet could be a friend to the department and therefore doesn’t need to face the consequences of his actions.”

  Randolph stared straight ahead at the wall across the table. He said nothing. Bosch straightened up and pulled open the door, startling Osani, who had been standing just outside. He wasn’t holding any water bottles. Bosch pushed past him and left the squad room.

  At the elevator Bosch pushed the up button. He waited and paced and thought about taking his grievance up to the sixth floor. He envisioned himself charging into the chief of police’s suite and demanding to know if he was aware of what was being done in his name and under his command.

  But as the elevator opened he dismissed the idea and pushed the 5 button. He knew that the Byzantine levels of bureaucracy and politics in the department were impossible to fully understand. If he didn’t watch himself he could end up complaining about all the bullshit to the very person who created it.

  The Open-Unsolved Unit was deserted when he got there. It was just after four and most detectives worked seven-to-four shifts that put them on the road home before rush hour. If something wasn’t breaking, they left at four on the dot. Even a fifteen-minute delay could cost them an hour on the freeways. The only one still around was Abel Pratt, and that was because as a supervisor he had to work eight to five. Company rules. Bosch waved as he walked by the open door of Pratt’s office on the way to his desk.

  Bosch dropped into his chair, exhausted by the day’s events and the weight of the departmental fix. He looked down and saw that his desk was littered with pink phone message slips. He started looking through them. Most were from colleagues in d
ifferent divisions and stations. They were all call-backs. Bosch knew they wanted to say nice shooting or words to that effect. Anytime anybody got a clean kill the phones lit up.

  There were several messages from reporters, including Keisha Russell. Bosch knew he owed her a call but would wait until he got home. There was also a message from Irene Gesto, and Bosch guessed that she and her husband wanted to know if there was any update on the investigation. He had called them the night before to tell them that their daughter had been found and the ID confirmed. He put that slip in his pocket. Home duty or not, he would make the call back to them. With the autopsy completed the body would be released and at the very least they could finally, after thirteen years, claim their daughter and take her home. He could not tell them that their daughter’s killer had been brought to justice, but at least he could help them get her home.

  There was also a message from Jerry Edgar, and Bosch remembered that his old partner had called his cell right before the shooting had gone down in Echo Park. Whoever had taken the message had written Says it’s important on the slip and underlined it. Bosch checked the time on the slip and noted that this call had come in before the shooting as well. Edgar had not been calling to congratulate him on taking out a bad guy. He assumed that Edgar had heard that Harry had met his cousin and that he wanted to chew the fat about it. At the moment Bosch didn’t feel up for that.

  Bosch wasn’t interested in any of the other messages, so he stacked them and put them in a desk drawer. Nothing else to do, he then started straightening the papers and files on his desk. He thought about whether he should call Forensics and see about getting his phone and car back from the Echo Park crime scene.

  “I just got the word.”

  Bosch looked up. Pratt was standing in the doorway of his office. He was in shirtsleeves, his tie loose at his neck.

  “What word?”

  “From OIS. You haven’t cleared home duty, Harry. I gotta send you home.”

  Bosch looked back down at his desk.

  “So what’s new? I’m leaving.”