John Li’s final act was to attempt to provide Bosch with an important clue.
“Did you clean the casing, Doctor?” he asked.
“Yes, blood had backed up into the throat and the casing acted like a dam, keeping most of it out of the mouth. I had to clean it to see what it was.”
“Right.”
Bosch knew that the possibility of there being fingerprints on the casing were negligible, anyway. The explosion of gases when a bullet was fired almost always vaporized fingerprints on the casing.
Still the casing could be useful in determining a match to a weapon if the recovered slugs were too damaged. Bosch looked down into the evidence cups containing the slugs. He immediately determined they had been hollow points. They had mushroomed upon impact and were badly deformed. He could not tell if any of them would be useful for comparison purposes. But the casing was most likely a good solid piece of evidence. The marks made by the weapon’s extractor, firing pin and ejector could be useful in identifying and matching the gun if it was ever found. The casing would link the victim to the gun.
“You want to hear my summary and then be on your way?” Laksmi asked.
“Sure, Doctor, run it down.”
While Laksmi gave a preliminary report on her findings, Bosch grabbed clear plastic evidence envelopes off a shelf over the table and bagged the slugs and casing separately. The casing looked like it had come from a 9 millimeter round but he would wait for confirmation from ballistics on that. He marked each envelope with his name as well as Laksmi’s and the case number and then lifted his splatter gown and put them in his coat pocket.
“The first shot was to the upper left chest, the projectile piercing the right ventricle of the heart and impacting the upper vertebrae, severing the spinal cord. The victim would have immediately dropped to the floor. The next two shots were to the right and left lower sternum. It is impossible to place an order on these two shots. Right and left lobes of the lungs were pierced and the projectiles lodged in the back musculature. The result of the three shots was instant loss of cardiopulmonary function and subsequent death. I’d say he lasted no more than thirty seconds.”
The report on the spinal cord damage seemingly put in jeopardy Bosch’s working theory of the victim intentionally swallowing the bullet casing.
“With the spinal cord damage, could he have had any hand and arm movement?”
“Not for very long. Death was almost instantaneous.”
“But he wasn’t paralyzed, right? In those last thirty seconds, could he have picked up the casing and put it in his mouth?”
Laksmi considered the new scenario for a few moments before answering.
“I believe he would have indeed been paralyzed. But the projectile lodged in the fourth thoracic vertebra, cutting the cord there. This would have certainly caused paralysis but it would begin at that point. The arms could still function. It would be a matter of time. As I said, his body would have ceased function inside a minute.”
Bosch nodded. His theory still worked. Li could have quickly grabbed the casing with his last strength and put it in his mouth.
Bosch wondered if the shooter knew this. He most likely had to move around the counter to look for the casings. In that time Li could have grabbed one of them. Blood found underneath Li’s body indicated that it had been moved. Bosch realized that it most likely occurred during the search for the missing shell.
Bosch felt a growing excitement. The casing was a significant evidence find, but the idea that the shooter had made a mistake was even greater. He wanted to get the evidence over to Tool Marks and Ballistics as soon as possible.
“Okay, Doctor, what else is there?”
“There’s something you might want to look at now rather than wait for the photos. Help me turn him.”
They moved to the autopsy table and carefully rolled the body over. Rigor mortis had come and gone and the procedure was easy. Laksmi pointed to the ankles. Bosch moved down and saw that there were small Chinese symbols tattooed at the back of Li’s feet. It looked like either two or three symbols were on each foot, located on either side of the Achilles tendon.
“You photographed these?”
“Yes, they’ll be in the report.”
“Anybody around here who can translate these?”
“I don’t think so. Dr. Ming might be able to but he is on a vacay this week.”
“Okay, can we slide him down a bit so I can hook the feet over the edge and take a picture?”
She helped him move the body down the table. The feet went over the edge and Bosch positioned the ankles right next to each other so the Chinese symbols were in a line across. He reached under his gown and pulled out his cell phone. He switched it to camera mode and took two photos of the tattoos.
“Okay.”
Bosch put the phone down and they turned the body back over and moved it back up into place on the table.
Bosch took off his gloves and threw them into the medical waste receptacle, then picked his phone up and called Chu.
“What’s your e-mail? I want to send you a photo.”
“Of what?”
“Chinese symbols that were tattooed on Mr. Li’s ankles. I want to know what they mean.”
“Okay.”
Chu gave him his department e-mail. Bosch checked his camera work and sent the clearest photo to him, then put the phone away.
“Dr. Laksmi, is there anything else I need to know here?”
“I think you got it all, Detective. Except there’s one thing that maybe the family will want to know.”
“What’s that?”
She gestured to one of the organ bowls she had spread across the work counter.
“The bullets only brought about the inevitable. Mr. Li was dying of cancer.”
Bosch stepped over and looked into the tray. The victim’s lungs had been excised from the body for weighing and examination. Laksmi had opened them up to probe the bullet tracks and both lower lobes were dark gray with cancerous cells.
“He was a smoker,” Laksmi said.
“I know,” Bosch said. “How long do you think he had?”
“Maybe a year. Maybe longer.”
“Can you tell whether this had been treated?”
“It doesn’t look like it. Certainly no surgery. And I see no signs of chemotherapy or radiation. It may have been undiagnosed at this point. But he would have known soon enough.”
Bosch thought about his own lungs. He had not smoked in years but they say the damage is done early. Sometimes in the mornings his lungs felt heavy and full in his chest. He’d had a case a few years before that resulted in his being exposed to a high-level dose of radiation. He’d cleared medical on it but always sort of thought or hoped that the blast had knocked down anything that might be growing in his chest.
Bosch took out his cell phone again and once more put it on camera function. He leaned over the bowl and shot a photo of the ravaged organs.
“What are you doing?” Laksmi asked.
“I want to send it to somebody.”
He checked the photo and it was clear enough. He then sent it off in an e-mail.
“Who? Not the family, I hope.”
“No, my daughter.”
“Your daughter?”
There was a tone of outrage in her voice.
“She needs to see what smoking can do.”
“Nice.”
She said nothing else. Bosch put his phone away and checked his watch. It was a double display watch that gave him the time in L.A. and Hong Kong—a present from his daughter after too many miscalculated middle-of-the-night phone calls. It was just past three o’clock in L.A. His daughter was fifteen hours ahead and sleeping. She’d get up for school in about an hour and would get the photo then. He knew it would bring a protest call from her but even a call like that was better than none.
He smiled at the thought of it and then refocused on the work. He was ready to get moving again.
“Thank you,
Doctor,” he said. “For your records, I’m taking the ballistic evidence over to forensics.”
“Did you sign for it?”
She pointed to a clipboard on the counter and Bosch found she had already filled out the chain-of-evidence report. Bosch signed the line acknowledging he was now in possession of the evidence listed. He headed toward the autopsy suite’s door.
“Give me a couple days on the hard copy,” Laksmi said.
Meaning the formal autopsy report.
“You got it,” Bosch said as he went through the door.
10
On the way to forensics Bosch called Chu and asked about the tattoos.
“I haven’t translated them yet,” Chu said.
“What do you mean, did you look at them?”
“Yeah, I looked at them but I can’t translate them. I’m trying to find somebody who can.”
“Chu, I saw you talking to Mrs. Li. You translated for her.”
“Bosch, just because I speak it doesn’t mean I can read it. There are eight thousand Chinese symbols like these. All my schooling was in English. I spoke Chinese at home. Never read it.”
“Okay, then is there somebody there that can get me a translation? It is the Asian Crimes Unit, isn’t it?”
“Asian Gang Unit. And, yes, there are people here who can do it, but they don’t happen to be here right now. As soon as I have it I will call you.”
“Great. Call me.”
Bosch hung up. He was frustrated by the delay. A case had to move like a shark. It could never stop its momentum because that could be fatal. He checked his watch for the time in Hong Kong, then pulled to the curb and sent the photo of the ankle tattoos to his daughter in an e-mail. She would get it on her phone—right after she saw the photo of the lungs he had sent her.
Pleased with himself, Bosch pulled back into traffic. He was becoming more and more adept at digital communication thanks to her. She had insisted that they communicate on all modern levels: e-mail, text, video—she had even tried unsuccessfully to get him onto something called Twitter. He insisted in return that they also communicate the old-fashioned way—verbal conversation. He made sure their phones were covered by international call plans.
He made it back to the PAB a few minutes later and went straight to the Tool Marks and Ballistics unit on the fourth floor. He took his four plastic evidence bags to a technician named Ross Malone. His job was to take bullets and casings and use them to attempt to identify the make and model of the firearm they came from. Later, in the event that a gun was recovered, he would be able to match the bullets to it through ballistic testing and analysis.
Malone began with the casing, using a set of tweezers to take it from its packaging and then hold it under a high-powered magnifying glass with a lighted rim. He studied it for a long moment before speaking.
“Cor Bon nine-millimeter,” he said. “And you’re probably looking for a Glock.”
Bosch was expecting him to confirm the size of the round and identify the brand but not to name the make of weapon that had fired the bullet.
“How do you know that?”
“Take a look.”
Malone was on a stool in front of the magnifying glass, which was attached to an adjustable arm anchored to the worktable. He moved it over slightly so Bosch could look over his shoulder. He was holding the back end of the casing into the light and magnification. Bosch could read the words Cor Bon stamped into the outer edge of the cap. At center was a depression made when the gun’s firing pin had struck the primer, firing the bullet.
“You see how the impression is elongated, almost rectangular?” Malone asked.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“That’s Glock. Only Glocks have the rectangle because the firing pin is rectangular. So you are looking for a nine-millimeter Glock. They have several different models that would apply.”
“Okay, that helps. Anything else?”
Malone pulled the glass back over in front of him and turned the bullet casing underneath it.
“You have clear extractor and ejector marks here. You bring me the gun and I think I’ll be able to match it.”
“As soon as I find it. What about the slugs?”
Malone put the casing back in its plastic bag and one by one took out the slugs and studied them under the glass. He looked at each one quickly before putting it down. He then went back to the second one and took another look. Then he shook his head.
“These aren’t much use. They’re not in good shape. The casing is going to be your best bet for comparison. Like I said, you bring me the weapon, I’ll match it up.”
Bosch realized that John Li’s last act was growing in importance. He wondered if the old man could have known just how important it was turning out to be.
Bosch’s quiet contemplation prompted Malone to speak up.
“Did you touch this casing, Harry?”
“No, but Dr. Laksmi at the ME’s sprayed blood off it with water. It was found inside the victim.”
“Inside? That’s impossible. There’s no way a casing could—”
“I don’t mean he was shot with it. He tried to swallow it. It was in his throat.”
“Oh. That’s different.”
“Yeah.”
“And Laksmi would have been gloved up when she found it.”
“Right. What’s up, Ross?”
“Well, I was thinking. We got a flyer about a month ago from latents. It said they were getting ready to start using some new state-of-the-art, electro-something-or-other method of raising prints on brass casings, and they were looking for test cases. You know, to get it into court.”
Bosch stared at Malone. In all his years of detective work he had never heard of fingerprints being raised on a casing that had been fired in the chamber of a gun. Fingerprints were made of oils from the skin. They burned up in the millisecond of explosion in the chamber.
“Ross, you sure you’re talking about spent casings?”
“Yeah, that’s what it said. Teri Sopp is the tech over there handling it. Why don’t you go see her?”
“Give me back the casing and I will.”
Fifteen minutes later Bosch was with Teri Sopp in the SID’s latent fingerprints lab. Sopp was a senior examiner and had been around nearly as long as Harry. They had an easy comfort with each other but Bosch still felt he had to finesse the meeting and lead Sopp to the water.
“Harry, what’s the story?”
It was how she always greeted Bosch.
“The story is I caught a case yesterday down south and today we recovered a single bullet casing from the shooter’s gun.”
Bosch raised his hand, holding out the evidence bag with the casing in it. Sopp took it, held it up and squinted as she studied it through the plastic.
“Fired?”
“Yup. I know it’s a long shot but I was hoping maybe there’d be a print on it. I don’t have much else going on the case at the moment.”
“Well, let’s see. Normally, you’d have to wait your turn but seeing how we go back about five police chiefs…”
“That’s why I came to you, Teri.”
Sopp sat down at an examination table and, like Malone, used a pair of tweezers to pull the casing from the evidence bag. She first fumed it with cyanoacrylate and then held it under an ultraviolet light. Bosch was watching over her shoulder and had the answer before Sopp voiced it.
“You have a smear here. Looks like somebody handled it after it was fired. But that’s all.”
“Shit.”
Bosch guessed that the smear had most likely been left on the casing when John Li grabbed it and put it in his mouth.
“Sorry, Harry.”
Bosch’s shoulders sagged. He knew it was a long shot, or maybe a no shot, but he was hoping to convey to Sopp how much he had counted on getting a print.
Sopp started to put the casing back into the evidence envelope.
“Tool Marks look at this yet?”
“Yeah, I just came
from there.”
She nodded. Bosch could tell she was thinking about something.
“Harry, tell me about the case. Give me the parameters.”
Bosch summarized the case but left out the detail about the suspect they had pulled out of the surveillance video. He made it sound like the investigation was almost hopeless. No evidence, no suspect, no motive other than common robbery. Zip, nada, nothing.
“Well, there’s one thing we might be able to do,” Sopp said.
“What’s that?”
“We’ll be putting a bulletin out by the end of the month on this. We’re gearing up for electrostatic enhancement. This might be a good first case for us.”
“What the hell is electrostatic enhancement?”
Sopp smiled like the kid who still had candy after you were all out.
“It’s a process that was developed in England with the Northamptonshire police by which fingerprints can be raised on brass surfaces such as bullet casings by using electricity.”
Bosch looked around, saw an empty stool at one of the other workstations and dragged it over. He sat down.
“How’s it work?”
“Okay, here’s the deal. When you load bullets into a revolver or a magazine for an automatic, it is a precise process. You hold each bullet between your fingers and you push it in. You apply pressure. It would seem like a perfect setup for leaving prints, right?”
“Well, until the gun is fired.”
“Exactly. A latent print is essentially a deposit of the sweat that builds between the grooves of your fingerprint. The problem is, when a gun is fired and the casing is ejected, the latent print usually disappears in the explosion. It’s rare that you pull a print off a spent shell, unless it belongs to the person who picked it up off the ground after.”
“All this I know,” Bosch said. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay, okay. Well, this process works best if the gun is not immediately fired. In other words, for this process to be successful, you need a situation where maybe the bullet was loaded into the gun but then allowed to sit in there for at least a few days. The longer, the better. Because if it’s sitting in there, the sweat that forms the latents is reacting with the brass. You understand?”
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