Edgar didn’t respond. He probably knew it was just nervous banter from Bosch. It wasn’t anxiety about the door knock—Bosch fully expected Delacroix to be easy. He was anxious because he knew the case was all coming down to the next few hours with Delacroix. They would search the trailer and then have to make a decision, largely communicated in partners’ code, on whether to arrest Delacroix for his son’s murder. Somewhere in that process they would need to find the evidence or elicit the confession that would change a case largely built on theory into one built on lawyer-resistant fact.
So in Bosch’s mind they were quickly approaching the moment of truth, and that always made him nervous.
Earlier, in the case status meeting with Lt. Billets, it had been decided that it was time to talk to Sam Delacroix. He was the victim’s father, he was the chief suspect. What little evidence they had still pointed to him. They spent the next hour typing up a search warrant for Delacroix’s trailer and taking it to the downtown criminal courts building to a judge who was normally a soft touch.
But even this judge took some convincing. The problem was the case was old, the evidence directly linking the suspect was thin and the place Bosch and Edgar wanted to search was not where the homicide could have occurred and was not even occupied by the suspect at the time of the death.
What the detectives had in their favor was the emotional impact that came from the list in the warrant of all the injuries that the boy’s bones indicated he had sustained over his short life. In the end, it was all those fractures that won the judge over and he signed the warrant.
They had gone to the driving range first but were informed that Delacroix was finished driving the tractor for the day.
“Give him another shot,” Bosch told Edgar outside the trailer.
“I think I can hear him coming.”
“I don’t care. I want him rattled.”
Edgar stepped back up onto the stoop and hit the door again. The concrete blocks wobbled and he didn’t plant his feet firmly. The resulting knock didn’t carry the power and terror of the first two assaults on the door.
Edgar stepped back down.
“That wasn’t the police,” Bosch whispered. “That was a neighbor complaining about the dog or something.”
“Sorry, I—”
The door came open and Edgar shut up. Bosch went into high alert. Trailers were tricky. Unlike most structures, their doors opened outward so that the interior space didn’t have to accommodate the swing. Bosch was positioned on the blind side, so that whoever answered was looking at Edgar but couldn’t see Bosch. The problem was Bosch couldn’t see whoever had opened the door either. If there was trouble Edgar’s job was to yell a warning to Bosch and get himself clear. Without hesitation Bosch would empty his gun into the door of the trailer, the bullets tearing through the aluminum and whoever was on the other side like they were paper.
“What?” a man’s voice said.
Edgar held up his badge. Bosch studied his partner for any warning sign of trouble.
“Mr. Delacroix, police.”
Seeing no sign of alarm, Bosch stepped forward and grabbed the knob and pulled the door all the way open. He kept his jacket flipped back and his hand on the grip of his gun.
The man he had seen on the golf range the day before was standing there. He wore an old pair of plaid shorts and a washed-out maroon T-shirt with permanent stains under the arms.
“We have a warrant allowing us to search these premises,” Bosch said. “Can we come in?”
“You guys,” Delacroix said. “You guys were at the range yesterday.”
“Sir,” Bosch said forcefully, “I said that we have a search warrant for this trailer. Can we come in and conduct the search?”
Bosch took the folded warrant out of his pocket and held it up, but not within Delacroix’s reach. That was the trick. To get the warrant they had to show all their cards to a judge. But they didn’t want to show the same cards to Delacroix. Not just yet. So while Delacroix was entitled to read and study the warrant before granting the detectives entrance, Bosch was hoping to get inside the trailer without that happening. Delacroix would soon know the facts of the case, but Bosch wanted to control the delivery of information to him so that he could take readings and make judgments based on the suspect’s reactions.
Bosch started putting the warrant back into his inside coat pocket.
“What’s this about?” Delacroix asked in muted protest. “Can I at least see that thing?”
“Are you Samuel Delacroix?” Bosch replied quickly.
“Yes.”
“This is your trailer, correct, sir?”
“It’s my trailer. I lease the spot. I want to read the—”
“Mr. Delacroix,” Edgar said. “We’d rather not stand out here in the view of your neighbors discussing this. I’m sure you don’t want that either. Are you going to allow us to lawfully execute the search warrant or not?”
Delacroix looked from Bosch to Edgar and then back to Bosch. He nodded his head.
“I guess so.”
Bosch was first onto the stoop. He entered, squeezing by Delacroix on the threshold and picking up the odor of bourbon and bad breath and cat urine.
“Starting early, Mr. Delacroix?”
“Yeah, I’ve had a drink,” Delacroix said with a mixture of so-what and self-loathing in his voice. “I’m done my work. I’m entitled.”
Edgar came in then, a much tighter squeeze past Delacroix, and he and Bosch scanned what they could see of the dimly lit trailer. To the right from the doorway was the living room. It was wood paneled and had a green Naugahyde couch and a coffee table with pieces of the wood veneer scraped off, exposing the particleboard beneath. There was a matching lamp table with no lamp on it and a television stand with a TV awkwardly stacked on top of a videocassette recorder. There were several videotapes stacked on top of the television. Across from the coffee table was an old recliner with its shoulders torn open—probably by a cat—and stuffing leaking out. Under the coffee table was a stack of newspapers, most of them gossip tabloids with blaring headlines.
To the left was a galley-style kitchen with sink, cabinets, stove, oven and refrigerator on one side and a four-person dining booth on the right. There was a bottle of Ancient Age bourbon on the table. On the floor under the table were a few crumbs of cat food on a plate and an old plastic margarine tub half full of water. There was no sign of the cat, other than the smell of its urine.
Beyond the kitchen was a narrow hallway leading back to one or two bedrooms and a bathroom.
“Let’s leave the door open and open up a few windows,” Bosch said. “Mr. Delacroix, why don’t you sit down on the couch there?”
Delacroix moved toward the couch and said, “Look, you don’t have to search the place. I know why you’re here.”
Bosch glanced at Edgar and then at Delacroix.
“Yeah?” Edgar said. “Why are we here?”
Delacroix dropped himself heavily into the middle of the couch. The springs were shot. He sank into the midsection, and the ends of the cushion on either side of him rose into the air like the bows of twin Titanics going down.
“The gas,” Delacroix said. “And I hardly used any of it. I don’t go anywhere but back and forth from the range. I have a restricted license because of my DUI.”
“The gas?” Edgar asked. “What are—”
“Mr. Delacroix, we’re not here about you stealing gas,” Bosch said.
He picked up one of the videotapes off the stack on the television. There was tape on the spine with writing on it. First Infantry, episode 46. He put it back down and glanced at the writing on some of the other tapes. They were all episodes of the television show Delacroix had worked on as an actor more than thirty years before.
“That’s not really our gig,” he added, without looking at Delacroix.
“Then what? What do you want?”
Now Bosch looked at him.
“We’re here about your son.�
�
Delacroix stared at him for a long moment, his mouth slowly coming open and exposing his yellowed teeth.
“Arthur,” he finally said.
“Yeah. We found him.”
Delacroix’s eyes dropped from Bosch’s and seemed to leave the trailer as he studied a far-off memory. In his look was knowledge. Bosch saw it. His instincts told him that what they would tell Delacroix next he would already know. He glanced over at Edgar to see if he had seen it. Edgar gave a single short nod.
Bosch looked back at the man on the couch.
“You don’t seem very excited for a father who hasn’t seen his son in more than twenty years,” he said.
Delacroix looked at him.
“I guess that’s because I know he’s dead.”
Bosch studied him for a long moment, his breath holding in his lungs.
“Why would you say that? What would make you think that?”
“Because I know. I’ve known all along.”
“What have you known?”
“That he wasn’t coming back.”
This wasn’t going the way of any of the scenarios Bosch had imagined. It seemed to him that Delacroix had been waiting for them, expecting them, maybe for years. He decided that they might have to change the strategy and arrest Delacroix and advise him of his rights.
“Am I under arrest?” Delacroix asked, as if he had joined Bosch in his thoughts.
Bosch glanced at Edgar again, wondering if his partner had sensed how their plan was now slipping away from them.
“We thought we might want to talk first. You know, informally.”
“You might as well arrest me,” Delacroix said quietly.
“You think so? Does that mean you don’t want to talk to us?”
Delacroix shook his head slowly and went into the long-distance stare again.
“No, I’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Tell us about what?”
“How it happened.”
“How what happened?”
“My son.”
“You know how it happened?”
“Sure I know. I did it.”
Bosch almost cursed out loud. Their suspect had literally just confessed before they had advised him of his rights, including the right to avoid giving self-incriminating statements.
“Mr. Delacroix, we’re going to cut this off right here. I am going to advise you of your rights now.”
“I just want to—”
“No, please, sir, don’t say anything else. Not yet. Let’s get this rights thing taken care of and then we’ll be more than happy to listen to anything you want to tell us.”
Delacroix waved a hand like it didn’t matter to him, like nothing mattered.
“Jerry, where’s your recorder? I never got mine back from IAD.”
“Uh, in the car. I don’t know about the batteries, though.”
“Go check.”
Edgar left the trailer and Bosch waited in silence. Delacroix put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Bosch studied his posture. It didn’t happen often, but it wouldn’t be the first time he had scored a confession during his first meeting with a suspect.
Edgar came back in with a tape recorder but shook his head.
“Batteries are dead. I thought you had yours.”
“Shit. Then take notes.”
Bosch took out his badge case and took out one of his business cards. He’d had them made with the Miranda rights advisory printed on the back, along with a signature line. He read the advisory statement and asked Delacroix if he understood his rights. Delacroix nodded his head.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes, it’s a yes.”
“Then sign on the line beneath what I just read to you.”
He gave Delacroix the card and a pen. Once it was signed, Bosch returned the card to his badge wallet. He stepped over and sat on the edge of the recliner chair.
“Now, Mr. Delacroix, do you want to repeat what you just said to us a few minutes ago?”
Delacroix shrugged like it was no big deal.
“I killed my son. Arthur. I killed him. I knew you people would show up someday. It took a long time.”
Bosch looked over at Edgar. He was writing in a notebook. They would have some record of Delacroix’s admission. He looked back at the suspect and waited, hoping the silence would be an invitation for Delacroix to say more. But he didn’t. Instead, the suspect buried his face in his hands again. His shoulders soon began shaking as he started to cry.
“God help me . . . I did it.”
Bosch looked back at Edgar and raised his eyebrows. His partner gave a quick thumbs-up sign. They had more than enough to move to the next stage; the controlled and recorded setting of an interview room at the police station.
“Mr. Delacroix, do you have a cat?” Bosch asked. “Where’s your cat?”
Delacroix peeked his wet eyes through his fingers.
“He’s around. Probably sleepin’ in the bed. Why?”
“Well, we’re going to call Animal Control and they’ll come get him to take care of him. You’re going to have to come with us. We’re going to place you under arrest now. And we’ll talk more at the police station.”
Delacroix dropped his hands and seemed upset.
“No. Animal Control won’t take care of him. They’ll gas him the minute they find out I won’t be coming back.”
“Well, we can’t just leave him here.”
“Mrs. Kresky will take care of him. She’s next door. She can come in and feed him.”
Bosch shook his head. The whole thing was foundering because of a cat.
“We can’t do that. We have to seal this place until we can search it.”
“What do you have to search it for?” Delacroix said, real anger in his voice now. “I’m telling you what you need to know. I killed my son. It was an accident. I hit him too hard, I guess. I . . .”
Delacroix put his face back into his hands and tearfully mumbled, “God . . . what did I do?”
Bosch checked Edgar; he was writing. Bosch stood up. He wanted to get Delacroix to the station and into one of the interview rooms. His anxiety was gone now, replaced by a sense of urgency. Attacks of conscience and guilt were ephemeral. He wanted to get Delacroix locked down on tape—video and audio—before he decided to talk to a lawyer and before he realized that he was talking himself into a 9 × 6 room for the rest of his life.
“Okay, we’ll figure out the cat thing later,” he said. “We’ll leave enough food for now. Stand up, Mr. Delacroix, we’re going to go.”
Delacroix stood up.
“Can I change into something nicer? This is just old stuff I was wearing around here.”
“No, don’t worry about that,” Bosch said. “We’ll bring you clothes to wear later on.”
He didn’t bother telling him that those clothes wouldn’t be his. What would happen was that he’d be given a county jail–issued jumpsuit with a number across the back. His jumpsuit would be yellow, the color given to custodies on the high-power floor—the murderers.
“Are you going to handcuff me?” Delacroix asked.
“It’s department policy,” Bosch said. “We have to.”
He came around the coffee table and turned Delacroix so he could cuff his hands behind his back.
“I was an actor, you know. I once played a prisoner in an episode of The Fugitive. The first series, with David Janssen. It was just a small role. I sat on a bench next to Janssen. That’s all I did. I was supposed to be on drugs, I think.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. He gently pushed Delacroix toward the trailer’s narrow door.
“I don’t know why I just remembered that,” Delacroix said.
“It’s all right,” Edgar said. “People remember the strangest things at a time like this.”
“Just be careful on these steps,” Bosch said.
They led him out, Edgar in front and Bosch behind him.
&nbs
p; “Is there a key?” Bosch asked.
“On the kitchen counter there,” Delacroix said.
Bosch went back inside and found the keys. He then started opening cabinets in the kitchenette until he found the box of cat food. He opened it and dumped it out onto the paper plate under the table. There was not very much food. Bosch knew he would have to do something about the animal later.
City Of Bones (2002) Page 26