He fired off the email with a hard strike on the send button, then swiveled his chair and looked back toward the squad lieutenant’s office. He could see O’Toole in there, still at his desk.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Chu asked. “What did the Tool do now?”
“Nothing,” Bosch said. “Don’t worry about it. But I gotta go.”
“Go where?”
“To see Casey Stengel.”
“Well, you want some backup?”
Bosch stared momentarily at his partner. Chu was Chinese-American, and as far as Bosch could tell, he knew nothing about sports. He had been born long after Casey Stengel was dead. He seemed sincere in not knowing who the Hall of Fame baseball player and manager was.
“No, I don’t think I need backup. I’ll check in with you later.”
“I’ll be here, Harry.”
“I know.”
14
Bosch spent an hour roaming around Forest Lawn while waiting to pick up sandwiches at Giamela’s. Out of respect for his former partner Frankie Sheehan, he started at Casey Stengel’s last resting spot and then took the celebrity tour, passing stones etched with names like Gable and Lombard, Disney, Flynn, Ladd, and Nat King Cole as he made his way to the Good Shepherd section of the vast cemetery. Once there, he paid respects to the father he never knew. The stone said “J. Michael Haller, Father and Husband,” but Bosch knew that he was never accounted for in that family equation.
After a while he walked down the hill a bit to where it was flatter and the graves were closer together. It took him a while because he was working off a twelve-year-old memory, but eventually he found the stone that marked the grave of Arthur Delacroix, a boy whose case Bosch had once worked. A cheap plastic vase containing the dried stems of long-dead flowers sat next to the stone. They seemed to be a reminder of how the boy had been forgotten in life before being forgotten in death. Bosch picked up the vase and found a trash can for it on his way out of the cemetery.
He arrived at the Firearm Analysis Unit at 11 A.M., two still-warm submarine sandwiches from Giamela’s in a bag with sauce on the side. They went into a break room to eat, and Pistol Pete moaned after taking his first bite of meatball sub—so loudly that he drew two other firearm analysts to the room to see what was going on. Sargent and Bosch grudgingly shared their sandwiches with them, Bosch making friends for life.
When they got to Sargent’s worktable, Bosch saw that the Beretta he had brought in was already held in a vise with the left side angled up. The frame had already been polished smooth with steel wool in preparation for Sargent’s effort to raise the serial number.
“We’re ready to go,” Sargent said.
He pulled on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and a plastic eye shield and took his place on the stool in front of the vise. He then pulled the mounted magnifying glass over by its arm and snapped on the light.
Bosch knew that every gun legally manufactured in the world carried a unique serial number through which ownership as well as theft could be traced. People who wanted to hinder the tracing of a gun often filed the serial number off with a variety of tools or attempted to burn it off with acids.
But the manufacturing of the weapon and the stamping procedure involved in placing the serial number on it in the first place gave law enforcement a better-than-good chance of recovering the number. When a serial number is stamped on a gun’s surface during manufacture, the procedure compresses the metal below the letters and numbers. The surface may later be filed or acid burned, but it very often still leaves the compression pattern beneath. Various methods can be used to draw the serial number out. One involves the application of a mixture of acids and copper salts that reacts to the compressed metal, revealing the numbers. Another involves the use of magnets and iron residue.
“I want to start with Magnaflux because if it works it’s quicker and it doesn’t damage the weapon,” Sargent said. “We still have ballistics work to do with this baby and I want to keep it in working order.”
“You’re the boss,” Bosch said. “And as far as I’m concerned, quicker is better.”
“Well, let’s see what we get.”
Sargent attached a large, round magnet on the underside of the gun, directly below the slide.
“First we magnetize . . .”
He then reached up to a shelf over the table and took down a plastic spray bottle. He shook it and then pointed it at the weapon.
“Now we go with Pistol Pete’s patented iron-and-oil recipe . . .”
Bosch leaned in close as Sargent sprayed the gun.
“Iron and oil?”
“The oil is thick enough to keep the magnetized iron suspended. You spray it on and then the magnet will draw the iron to the surface of the gun. Where the serial number was stamped and the metal is denser, the magnetic pull is greater. The iron should eventually line up as the number. In theory, anyway.”
“How long?”
“Not long. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, we go with acid, but that will most likely damage the gun. So we don’t want to do that until the ballistics work is finished. You have somebody lined up for that?”
“Not yet.”
Sargent was talking about the analysis that would confirm that the bullet that killed Anneke Jespersen was fired from the gun in front of them. Bosch was confident that it was, but it was necessary to have forensic confirmation. Bosch was knowingly going about this backwards to maintain his speed. He wanted that serial number so he could trace the gun, but he also knew that if Sargent’s oil-and-iron process didn’t work, he would have to slow things down and proceed in proper order. With O’Toole making his PSB complaint, the delay could effectively kill the forward progression of the case—just what O’Toole was hoping to do so that he could bask in the glow of approval from the chief.
“Well, then, let’s hope this works,” Sargent said, bumping Bosch out of these thoughts.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “So should I wait, or do you want to call me?”
“I like to give it about forty minutes. You can wait if you want.”
“Tell you what, call me as soon as you know.”
“You got it, Harry. Thanks for the sub.”
“Thanks for the work, Pete.”
There had been times in Bosch’s career when he knew the phone number of the Police Protective League’s Defense Assistance Office by heart. But back in his car, Bosch opened his phone to talk with a defense rep in regard to the O’Toole matter and realized that he had forgotten the number. He thought for a moment, hoping it would come to him. Two young criminalists moved through the parking lot, the wind lifting their white lab coats. He guessed that they were crime scene specialists, because he didn’t know them. He rarely worked live crime scenes anymore.
Before the League number came back to him, his phone started to buzz in his hand. The ID showed a procession of numbers following a plus sign. He knew it was an international call.
“Harry Bosch.”
“Yes, Detective, it is Bonn. I have Mr. Jannik on the line. Can you talk with him? I can translate.”
“Yes, hold on for a moment.”
Bosch put the phone down on the seat while he pulled out a notebook and pen.
“Okay, I’m back. Mr. Jannik, are you there?”
There was what he assumed was a repeat of his question in Danish and then a new voice responded.
“Yes, good evening, Inspector.”
There was a heavy accent but Jannik was understandable.
“You must forgive my words. My English is very poor.”
“Better than my Danish. Thank you for talking to me, sir.”
Bonn translated, beginning a halting thirty-minute conversation that provided Bosch with little in the way of information that helped make Anneke Jespersen’s journey to Los Angeles any clearer. Jannik did provide details about the photojournalist’s character and skills, her determination to follow stories, no matter the risk and opposition. But when Bosch tried to key in on the
war crimes she was investigating, Jannik could provide no knowledge of what the crimes were, who committed them, or where the story came from. He reminded Bosch that Anneke was a freelancer, and therefore she would always be on guard against revealing her story to a newspaper editor. She had been burned too often by editors who listened to her story pitches, said no thanks, and then assigned their own salaried reporters and photographers to the story.
Bosch grew increasingly frustrated with the slow-paced translation process as well as with what he was hearing when Jannik’s answers were turned into English. He ran out of questions and realized he had written nothing in his notebook. As he tried to think about what else to ask, the two other men continued talking in their native language.
“What is he saying?” Bosch finally asked. “What are you two talking about?”
“He is frustrated, Detective Bosch,” Bonn said. “He liked Anneke very much and would like to be of great help to you. But he does not have the information you need. He is frustrated because he knows you are frustrated also.”
“Well, tell him not to take it personally.”
Bonn translated and Jannik started giving a long answer in return.
“Let’s work backwards,” Bosch said, cutting them off. “I know a lot of reporters over here. They’re not war correspondents but I’m sure reporters work the same way. Usually one story leads to another. Or, if they find somebody they trust, then they keep going back to the well. That means that they go back to that same person for other stories. So, see if he remembers the last few stories he worked on with Anneke. I know she was in Kuwait the year before but ask him . . . just see if he remembers what stories she worked on.”
Bonn and Jannik then started a long back-and-forth. Bosch could hear one of them typing and guessed it was Bonn. While he waited for the translation into English, he got a call-waiting beep on his phone. He checked the ID and saw the call was coming from the Firearms Analysis Unit. Pistol Pete. Bosch wanted to take the call immediately but decided to finish the interview with Jannik first.
“Okay, I have it,” Bonn said. “I looked it up in our digital archives. In the year previous to her death, as you say, Anneke was reporting and sending photos from Kuwait during Desert Storm. Several stories and photos we bought at the BT.”
“Okay. Anything about war crimes or atrocities, things like that?”
“Uh . . . no, I see nothing that is like that. She wrote stories about the people’s side of it. The people in Kuwait City. She had three photo essays . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘the people’s side’?”
“Life under fire. About the families who lost members. Stories like that.”
Bosch thought for a moment. Families who lost members . . . He knew that war crimes were so often atrocities committed against the innocents caught in the middle.
“I’ll tell you what,” he finally said. “Can you send me the links to the stories you’re looking at there?”
“Yes, I will do that. You will have to translate them.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How far back do you want me to go from her last story?”
“How about a year?”
“A year. Okay. That will be many stories.”
“That’s okay. Does Mr. Jannik have anything else? Can he remember anything else?”
He waited for the final question to be translated. He wanted to go. He wanted to get back to Pistol Pete.
“Mr. Jannik will think more about this,” Bonn said. “He makes a promise to check the website to see if he remembers more.”
“What website?”
“For Anneke.”
“What do you mean? There’s a website?”
“Yes, of course. It was made by her brother. He made this as a memorial for Anneke and he has many of her photographs and stories on there, you see.”
Bosch was silent a moment because he was embarrassed. He could blame it on Anneke’s brother for not telling him about the website but that would be passing the buck. He should have been savvy enough to ask.
“What is the web address?” he asked.
Bonn told him, spelling it out, and now Bosch finally had something to write down.
It was faster calling than going back in and having to get through security. Pistol Pete answered in two rings.
“It’s Bosch. Did you get something?”
“I told you on the message,” Sargent said.
His voice was flat. Bosch took it as bad news.
“I didn’t listen to it. I just called you back. What happened?”
Bosch held his breath.
“It’s pretty good news, actually. Got it all except for one digit. That narrows it down to ten possibilities.”
Bosch had worked previous gun cases where he had a lot less to go with. He still had his notebook out and he told Sargent to give him what he’d come up with off the gun. He wrote it down and read it back to confirm.
BER0060_5Z
“It’s that eighth digit, Harry,” Sargent said. “It wouldn’t come up. I’ve got a slight crescent at the top, so I’m leaning toward it being another zero or a three, eight, or nine. Something with a crescent on top.”
“Got it. I’m on my way back to the office and will run it through the box. Pistol Pete, you came through. Thank you, man.”
“Anytime, Harry. Anytime you bring the Giamela’s!”
Bosch disconnected the call and started the car. He then called his partner, who took the call at his desk. Bosch read him the Beretta serial number and told him to start tracing all ten possibilities for the full number. The place to start was the California DOJ database because Chu could access it and it would track all weapons sold in the state. If there was no hit there, they would have to request the trace through the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. That would slow things down. The feds weren’t the fastest movers and the ATF had been rocked by a series of scandals and blunders that had also served to slow down action on requests from local law enforcement.
But Bosch stayed positive. He’d gotten lucky with Pistol Pete and the serial number. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t hold.
He pulled into heavy traffic on San Fernando Road and started south. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get back to the PAB.
“Hey, Harry?” Chu said, his voice low.
“What?”
“Somebody from IA came around looking to talk to you.”
So much for his luck holding. O’Toole must’ve hand-delivered the complaint to the PSB—still called IA or IAD by most cops, despite the official name change.
“What was his name? Is he still there?”
“It was a she and she said her name was Detective Mendenhall. She went in with O’Toole and closed the door for a little bit and then I think she left.”
“Okay, I’ll deal with it. Run that number.”
“Will do.”
Bosch disconnected. His lane was not moving and he could not see ahead because the Humvee in front of him blocked his view. He blew out his breath and honked the car horn in frustration. He felt that more than his luck was suddenly ebbing away. His momentum and positive attitude were eroding. It suddenly felt like it was getting dark out.
15
Chu was not in the cubicle when Bosch got back to the PAB. He checked the clock on the wall and saw that it was only 3 P.M. If his partner had left for the day early to make up for the long hours the day before and without running the serial numbers through the DOJ computer, Bosch would be livid. He stepped over and hit the space bar on Chu’s keyboard. The screen lit but it was his password gateway. He scanned Chu’s desk for a printout of a DOJ gun registry form but saw nothing. Rick Jackson’s cubicle was on the other side of the four-foot separation wall.
“You seen Chu?” Bosch asked him.
Jackson straightened up in his chair and looked around the squad room as if he would be able to recognize Chu, whereas Bosch could not.
“No . . . he was here. I th
ink he might’ve gone to the head or something.”
Bosch glanced into the lieutenant’s office just to make sure Chu wasn’t closeted with O’Toole. He wasn’t. O’Toole was hunched over his desk, writing something.
Bosch moved over to his own desk. There were no printouts left for him but he did see a card left by Nancy Mendenhall, detective III, of the Professional Standards Bureau.
“So, Harry . . .,” Jackson said in a low voice. “I hear the Tool filed a beef on you.”
“Yeah.”
“Is it bullshit?”
“Yeah.”
Jackson shook his head.
“I figured. What an ass.”
Jackson had been around longer than anybody in the squad except Bosch. He knew that the play by O’Toole would ultimately hurt him more than it would Bosch. Now nobody in the squad would trust him. Nobody would tell him more than the minimum required. Some supervisors inspired their squad’s best work. Now the detectives of the Open-Unsolved Unit would give their best effort in spite of the man in charge.
Bosch pulled his chair out and sat down. He looked at Mendenhall’s card and considered calling her, confronting the bullshit beef head-on and dealing with it. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out the old leather address book he’d had for going on three decades. He found the number he could not remember before and called the League’s Defense Assistance line. He gave his name, rank, and assignment within the department and said he needed to speak to a defense rep. The unit’s supervisor told him there wasn’t a rep available at the moment but that he would get a call back without delay. He almost pointed out that there was already a delay but just thanked the supervisor and disconnected.
Almost immediately a shadow loomed over his desk, and Bosch looked up to see O’Toole hovering. He had his suit jacket on, and that told Bosch he was probably heading up to the tenth floor.
“Where have you been, Detective?”
“At the gun shop running ballistics.”
O’Toole paused as if committing the answer to memory so he could check on Bosch’s veracity later.
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