Bosch wrote down a few more notes. Pell’s information that Chill was apparently a pansexual predator was a key part of the emerging profile. He then asked if Pell could remember where they lived when he and his mother were with the man called Chill. He could only remember that they were close to Travel Town at Griffith Park, because his mother used to take him there to ride on the trains.
“Could you walk there or did you drive?”
“We took a taxi and I remember it was close. We went there a lot. I liked being on those little trains.”
It was a good note. Bosch knew Travel Town was on the north side of the park and it probably meant Pell had lived with Chill in North Hollywood or Burbank. It would help narrow things.
He then asked for a description of Chill, and Pell only described him as being white, tall and muscular.
“Did he have a job?”
“Not really. I think he was like a handyman or something. He had a lot of tools he kept in his truck.”
“What kind of truck?”
“Van, actually. Ford Econoline. That was where he made me do things to him.”
And a van would be the kind of vehicle Pell would use later to commit the same sort of crime. Bosch didn’t mention this, of course.
“How old would you say Chill was back then?” he asked.
“No idea. You’re probably right about what you said before. About five years older than my mother.”
“You don’t happen to have a photo of him with your things or in storage or something?”
Pell laughed and looked at Bosch like he thought he was an imbecile.
“You think I’d keep his picture around? I don’t even have a picture of my mother, man.”
“Sorry, had to ask. Did you ever see this guy with any women other than your mother?”
“You mean like to have sex with?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Clayton, what else do you remember about him?”
“I just remember I tried to stay away from him.”
“Do you think you could identify him?”
“What, now? After all these years?”
Bosch nodded.
“I don’t know. But I won’t ever forget the way he looked back then.”
“Do you remember anything else about the place where you lived with him? Anything that might help me find him?”
Pell thought about it and then shook his head.
“No, man, just what I said.”
“Did he have pets?”
“No, but he beat me like a dog. I guess I was his pet.”
Bosch glanced over at Stone to see if she had anything.
“What about hobbies?” she asked.
“I think his hobby was filling up that shoebox,” Pell said.
“But you never saw any of the other women from the pictures, right?” Bosch asked.
“But that didn’t mean anything. You could tell most of the pictures were taken in the van. He had an old mattress back there. He wasn’t bringing any of them home, you know?”
It was good information. Bosch wrote it all down.
“You said you saw one photo of a boy. Was that taken in the van, too?”
Pell didn’t respond at first. He had committed his own evil acts in a van and the connection was obvious.
“I don’t remember,” he finally said.
Bosch moved on.
“Tell me something, Clayton. If I catch this guy and he goes on trial, would you be willing to testify to the things you’ve told me today?”
Pell considered the question.
“What would I get?” he asked.
“I told you,” Bosch said. “You’d get satisfaction. You’d help put this guy away for the rest of his life.”
“That’s nothing.”
“Well, I can’t prom—”
“Look what he did to me! Everything is because of him!”
He pointed to his chest as he yelled it. The raw emotion in his outburst was full of an animal ferocity that belied his diminutive frame. And it got through to Bosch. He realized how powerful it might be if it was put on exhibit in a trial. If he yelled out the same way and the same thing in front of a jury, it would be devastating for the defense.
“Clayton, I’m going to find this guy,” he said. “And you’ll get the chance to tell him that to his face. It may help you with the rest of your life.”
“The rest of my life? Well, that’s great. Thanks for that.”
The sarcasm was unmistakable. Bosch was about to offer a comeback when there was a sharp knock on the interview room door. Stone got up to open it, and another therapist stood there. She whispered to Stone and then Stone turned to Bosch.
“There are two police officers at the front gate, asking for you.”
Bosch thanked Pell for his time and said he would be in touch about the investigation. He headed out to the gate, pulling his phone as he went. He saw that he had ignored four calls, one from his partner, two from a 213 number he didn’t recognize and the last from Kiz Rider.
The two uniformed cops were from Van Nuys Division. They said they had been sent by the OCP.
“You’re not answering your phone or the radio in your car,” the older one said. “You’re supposed to contact a Lieutenant Rider in the chief’s office. She says it’s urgent.”
Bosch thanked them and explained that he was in an important interview with his phone turned off. As soon as they walked away he called Rider and she answered right away.
“Harry, why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“Because I was in the middle of an interview. I usually don’t stop to take calls. How’d you find me?”
“Through your partner, who is answering his phone. What does that halfway house have to do with the Irving case?”
There was no getting around the answer.
“Nothing. It’s another case.”
There was silence while she worked to contain her frustration and fury with him.
“Harry, the chief of police told you to work the Irving matter as a priority. Why would you—”
“Look, I’m waiting on the autopsy. There’s nothing I can do about Irving until I get the autopsy and get going from there.”
“Well, guess what?”
Bosch now understood where those two 213 calls he missed had come from.
“What?”
“The autopsy started a half hour ago. If you leave now, you might catch the end of it.”
“Is Chu there?”
“As far as I know he is. He’s supposed to be.”
“I’m on my way.”
Embarrassed, he disconnected with no further discussion.
14
By the time Bosch was gowned and gloved and had entered the autopsy suite, George Irving’s body was already being sewn closed with thick waxed twine.
“Sorry I’m late,” he announced.
Dr. Borja Toron Antons pointed to the microphone hanging from the ceiling over the autopsy table, and Bosch realized his mistake. The details of the autopsy were being recorded and now it would be formally noted that Bosch had all but missed the postmortem medical examination. If the case ever came to a point that there was a trial, a defense attorney would be able to insinuate much from that to the jury. It didn’t matter that Chu was in attendance. The fact that the lead investigator was not where he was supposed to be could take on a sinister, even corrupt, connotation in the hands of the right attorney.
Bosch took a position next to Chu, who had his arms folded and was leaning against a worktable across from the foot of the autopsy table. It was about as far from the autopsy as you could get and still say you were there. Even through the plastic germ guard Bosch could tell Chu was not happy. He had once confided to Bosch that he wanted to be in the Open-Unsolved Unit because he wanted to investigate murders but had trouble viewing autopsies. He couldn’t stand the sight of the human body being mutilated. That made working cold cases a perfect assignment. He reviewed autopsy r
eports but didn’t actually attend them, and he still got to work murders.
Harry wanted to ask him if anything of interest had come up during the cut but decided to wait to ask Antons directly, and off the tape. Instead, he checked the worktable at the pathologist’s back and counted the vials in the tox rack. He saw that Antons had filled five tubes with Irving’s blood, meaning he was requesting a full toxicological screening. On a routine autopsy, blood is screened for twelve baseline drug groups. When the county is sparing no expense or there is suspicion of a drug involvement that is off the usual trail, then a full screen widens the net to twenty-six groups. And that takes five vials of blood.
Antons ended the autopsy by describing his closing of the Y incision and then took one of his gloves off to turn off the microphone.
“Glad you could make it, Detective,” he said. “How were you hitting ’em?”
Off the tape his Spanish accent seemed to grow thicker with his sarcasm.
“I was two under at the turn,” Bosch said, rolling with it. “But hey, I knew my partner could handle things here. Right, partner?”
He gave Chu a rough clap on the shoulder. By referring to him directly as partner, Bosch was sending a coded message to Chu. They had agreed when they first became a team that if ever a play was on or one of them was running a bluff, the tip-off would be to call the other one partner. The code word meant that the receiver should play along.
But this time Chu ignored the routine.
“Yeah, right,” he said. “I tried calling you, man. You didn’t answer.”
“I guess you didn’t try hard enough.”
Bosch gave Chu a look that almost melted his plastic face guard. He then turned his attention back to Antons.
“I see you’re doing the full scan, Doc. Good call. Anything else I should know about?”
“It wasn’t my call. I was told to run a full scan by the powers that be. I did, however, point out to your partner an issue that bears further scrutiny.”
Bosch looked at Chu and then at the body on the table.
“An issue? Further scrutiny? Is he talking about detective work?”
“The body’s got like a scratch or a bruise or something on the back of the right shoulder,” Chu said. “It didn’t come from the fall because he landed facedown.”
“Antemortem injury,” Antons added.
Bosch stepped closer to the table. He realized that because he had arrived late to the death scene, he had never seen the victim’s back. Irving had already been turned over by Van Atta and the crime scene team by the time Bosch had arrived. No one from Van Atta to Crate and Barrel had mentioned anything about an antemortem injury on the shoulder.
“Can I see it?” he asked.
“If you must,” Antons said grumpily. “If you had been here on time you would have already seen it.”
He reached over a worktable to a shelf and pulled a new set of gloves out of a box.
Bosch helped turn the body over on the table. The back was coated in bloody fluid that had accumulated on the table, which had raised sides like a tray. Antons pulled down an overhead nozzle and sprayed the fluid off the body. Bosch saw the injury immediately. It was about five inches long and included minor surface scratching and slight bruising. There was a discernible pattern that was almost circular. It looked like a series of four crescent moons, repeating about an inch apart, scratched onto the shoulder above the scapula line. Each crescent was about two inches high.
The dread of recognition came over Bosch. He knew Chu was too young and new to the job to be familiar with the pattern. And Antons wouldn’t recognize it either. He had only been around a decade or so after coming from Madrid to attend UCLA’s med school and never going back.
“Did you check for petechial hemorrhaging?” Bosch asked.
“Of course,” Antons said. “There was none.”
Petechial hemorrhaging occurred in the blood vessels around the eyes during suffocation.
“Why do you ask about petechial hemorrhaging after seeing this abrasion on the back of the shoulder?” Antons asked.
Bosch shrugged.
“Just covering all the bases.”
Antons and Chu were both staring at him, expecting more. But he didn’t give it. They stood there silently for a long moment before Bosch moved on. He pointed to the abrasion on the body’s back.
“You said antemortem. How close to death are we talking about?”
“You see that the skin is broken. I took a culture. The histamine levels in the wounds indicate the injury occurred very close to death. I was telling Detective Chu, you need to go back to the hotel. He may have scratched his back on something while climbing over the balcony. You can see there is a pattern to the wound.”
Bosch knew the pattern already but wasn’t going to say anything yet.
“Climbing over the balcony? So you’re calling this a suicide?”
“Of course not. Not yet. It could be suicide. It could be accidental. There is follow-up needed. We’ll do the full toxicological scan, and this injury needs to be explained. You see the pattern. That should help you narrow it down at the hotel.”
“Did you check the hyoid?” Bosch asked.
Antons put his hands on his hips.
“Why would I check the hyoid on a jumper?”
“I thought you just said you weren’t ready to call him a jumper.”
Antons didn’t answer. He grabbed a scalpel from a rack.
“Help me turn him back over.”
“Wait,” Bosch said. “Can I get a picture of this first?”
“I took photos. They should be in the printer by now. You can pick them up on the way out.”
Bosch helped him turn the body back over. Antons used the scalpel to open the neck and remove the small U-shaped bone that guarded the windpipe. He carefully cleaned it in a sink and then studied it for fractures under a lighted magnifying lens on the counter.
“Hyoid’s intact,” he said.
Bosch nodded. It didn’t prove anything one way or the other. An expert could have choked Irving out without cracking the bone or causing bleeding in the eyes. It didn’t prove anything at all.
But the marks on the back of the shoulder were something. Bosch felt things changing about the case. Changing rapidly. And it was bringing new meaning to high jingo.
15
Chu waited until they were halfway through the parking lot before erupting.
“Okay, Harry, what’s going on? What was that all about in there?”
Bosch pulled his phone. He had to make a call.
“I’ll tell you when I can tell you. I want you to go back to—”
“That’s not good enough, Harry! We’re partners, man, and you’re constantly doing the lone wolf number on me. You can’t do that anymore.”
Chu had stopped and turned to him, his arms spread. Bosch stopped as well.
“Look, I’m trying to protect you. I need to talk to somebody first. Let me do that and then we’ll talk.”
Unsatisfied, Chu shook his head.
“You’re killing me with this shit, man. What do you want me to do, go back to the office and just sit on my thumbs?”
“No, there’s a lot I want you to do. I want you to go to Property and pull out Irving’s shirt. Have somebody in SID check the inside shoulder for blood. It’s a dark shirt and nobody noticed anything on it yesterday.”
“So if there’s blood, we’ll know he got those marks while wearing the shirt.”
“That’s right.”
“And what will that tell us?”
Bosch didn’t answer. He was thinking about the shirt button found on the floor in the hotel suite. There could have been a struggle with Irving being choked out and the button being pulled loose.
“When you’re finished with the shirt, get the search warrant going.”
“The search warrant for what?”
“Irving’s office. I want to have a warrant before we go in and start looking at files.”
“Because the guy was a lawyer and I don’t want to trip over any attorney-client privilege bullshit when we go in there. I want everything clean on this.”
“You know, it’s going to be hard for me to write up a warrant with you keeping me in the dark about shit.”
“No, it’s going to be easy. You say you are conducting an open-ended investigation into this man’s death. You say that there were signs of a possible struggle—the button torn from the shirt, the antemortem wound on the back—and you want access to his business papers and product so you can determine if there was any bad blood involving clients or adversaries. Simple. If you can’t do it, I’ll write it up when I get back.”
“No, I can do it. I’m the writer.”
It was true. In their usual division of labor and responsibilities, Chu always did the warrant work.
“Okay, then go do it and stop moping about it.”
“Hey, Harry, fuck you. I’m not moping. You wouldn’t like it if this was how I was treating you.”
“I’ll tell you what, Chu. If I had a partner who had a lot more years and experience than me and who said trust me on this until the time is right, then I think I would. And I would thank him for watching out for me.”
Bosch let that sink in for a moment before dismissing Chu.
“I’ll see you back there. I gotta go.”
They started walking to their separate cars. Bosch glanced back at his partner and saw him walking with his head down, a hangdog expression on his face. Chu didn’t understand the complexities of high jingo. But Bosch did.
By the time he was behind the wheel, Harry had Kiz Rider on the phone.
“Meet me at the academy in fifteen minutes. In the video room.”
“Harry, there’s no way. I’m about to go into a budget meeting.”
“Then don’t complain to me about not knowing what’s going on with the Irving case.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“No, you have to be shown. When can you meet?”
There was a long pause before she responded.
“Not before one. Go get yourself something to eat and I’ll meet you then.”
The Drop Page 10