The Concrete Blonde

5

In the morning, Bosch sat on the rear deck of his house and watched the sun come up over the Cahuenga Pass. It burned away the morning fog and bathed the wildflowers on the hillside that had burned the winter before. He watched and smoked and drank coffee until the sound of traffic on the Hollywood Freeway became one uninterrupted hiss from the pass below.

He dressed in his dark blue suit with a white shirt that had a button-down collar. As he put on a maroon tie dotted with gold gladiator helmets in front of the bedroom mirror, he wondered about how he must appear to the jurors. He had noticed the day before that when he made eye contact with any of the twelve, they were always the first to look away. What did that mean? He would have liked to ask Belk what it meant but he did not like Belk and knew he would feel uncomfortable asking his opinion on anything.

Using the same hole poked through it before, he secured the tie in place with his silver tie tack that said “187”-the California penal code for murder. He used a plastic comb to put his brown-and-gray hair, still wet from the shower, in place and then combed his mustache. He put Visine drops in his eyes and then leaned close to the glass to study them. Red-rimmed from little sleep, the irises as dark as ice on asphalt. Why do they look away from me, he wondered again. He thought about how Chandler had described him the day before. And he knew why.

He was heading to the door, briefcase in hand, when it opened before he got there. Sylvia stepped in while pulling her key out of the lock.

“Hi,” she said when she saw him. “I hoped I’d catch you.”

She smiled. She was wearing khaki pants and a pink shirt with a button-down collar. He knew she did not wear dresses on Tuesday and Thursday because those were her assigned days as a schoolyard rover. Sometimes she had to run after students. Sometimes she had to break up fights. The sun coming through the porch door turned her dark blonde hair gold.

“Catch me at what?”

She came to him smiling still and they kissed.

“I know I’m making you late. I’m late, too. But I just wanted to come and say good luck today. Not that you need it.”

He held on to her, smelling her hair. It had been nearly a year since they met, but Bosch still held to her sometimes with the fear that she might abruptly turn and leave, declare her attraction to him a mistake. Perhaps he was still a substitute for the husband she’d lost, a cop like Harry, a narcotics detective whose apparent suicide Bosch had investigated.

Their relationship had progressed to a point of complete comfortableness but in recent weeks he had felt a sense of inertia begin to set in. She had, too, and had even talked about it. She said the problem was he could not drop his guard completely and he knew this was true. Bosch had spent a lifetime alone, but not necessarily lonely. He had secrets, many of them buried too deep to give up to her. Not so soon.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, pulling back and looking down into her face to see the light still there. She had gotten a fleck of lipstick on one of her front teeth. “You be careful in the yard today, huh?”

“Yes.” Then she frowned. “I know what you said, but I want to come and watch court-at least one day. I want to be there for you, Harry.”

“You don’t have to be there to be there. Know what I mean?”

She nodded but he knew his answer didn’t satisfy her. They dropped it and small-talked for a few minutes more, making plans to get together that night for dinner. Bosch said he would come to her place in Bouquet Canyon. They kissed again and headed out, he to court and she to the high school, both places fraught with danger.

There was always an adrenaline rush at the start of each day as the courtroom fell silent and they waited for the judge to open his door and step up to the bench. It was 9:10 and still no sign of the judge, which was unusual because he had been a stickler for promptness during the week of jury selection. Bosch looked around and saw several reporters, maybe more than the day before. He found this curious since opening arguments were always such a draw.

Belk leaned toward Bosch and whispered, “Keyes is probably in there reading theTimes story. Did you see it?”

Running late because of Sylvia, Bosch had had no time to read the paper. He’d left it on the mat at the front door.

“What’d it say?”

The paneled door opened and the judge came out before Belk could answer.

“Hold the jury, Miss Rivera,” the judge said to his clerk. He dropped his girth into his padded chair, surveyed the courtroom and said, “Counsel, any matters for discussion before we bring the jury in? Ms. Chandler?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Chandler said as she walked to the lectern.

Today she had on the gray suit. She had been alternating among three suits since jury selection began. Belk had told Bosch that this was because she didn’t want to give the jurors the idea that she was wealthy. He said women lawyers could lose women jurors over something like that.

“Your Honor, the plaintiff asks for sanctions against Detective Bosch and Mr. Belk.”

She held up the folded Metro section of theTimes. Bosch could see the story had caught the bottom right corner, same as the story the day before. The headline said CONCRETE BLONDE TIED TO DOLLMAKER. Belk stood but did not say anything, for once observing the judge’s strict decorum of noninterruption.

“Sanctions for what, Ms. Chandler?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, the discovery of this body yesterday has a tremendous evidentiary impact on this case. As an officer of the court, it was incumbent upon Mr. Belk to bring this information forward. Under Rule 11 of discovery, defendant’s attorney must-”

“Your Honor,” Belk interrupted, “I was not informed of this development until last night. My intention was to bring the matter forward this morning. She is-”

“Hold it right there, Mr. Belk. One at a time in my courtroom. Seems you need a daily reminder of that. Ms. Chandler, I read that story you are referring to and though Detective Bosch was mentioned because of this case, he was not quoted. And Mr. Belk has rather rudely pointed out that he knew nothing about this until after court yesterday. Frankly, I don’t see a sanctionable offense here. Unless you’ve got a card you haven’t played.”

She did.

“Your Honor, Detective Bosch was well aware of this development, whether quoted or not. He was at the scene during yesterday’s lunch break.”

“Your Honor?” Belk tried timidly.

Judge Keyes turned but looked at Bosch, not Belk.

“That right, Detective Bosch, what she says?”

Bosch looked at Belk for a moment and then up at the judge. Fucking Belk, he thought. His lie had left Bosch holding the bag.

“I was there, Your Honor. When I got back here for the afternoon session, there was no time to tell Mr. Belk about the discovery. I told him after court last night. I didn’t see the paper yet this morning and I don’t know what it says, but nothing has been confirmed about this body in regard to the Dollmaker or anyone else. There isn’t even an ID yet.”

“Your Honor,” Chandler said, “Detective Bosch has conveniently forgotten that we had a fifteen-minute break during the afternoon session. I should think that was ample time for the detective to fill in his attorney on such important information.”

The judge looked at Bosch.

“I wanted to tell him during the break but Mr. Belk said he needed the time to prepare his opening statement.”

The judge eyed him closely for several seconds without saying anything. Bosch could tell the judge knew he was pushing the edge of the envelope of truth. Judge Keyes seemed to be making some kind of decision.

“Well, Ms. Chandler,” he finally said. “I don’t rightly see the conspiracy that you do here. I’m going to let this go with a warning to all parties; withholding evidence is the most heinous crime you can commit in my courtroom. If you do it and I catch ya, you’re gonna wish you never took the LSAT. Now, do we want to talk about this new development?”

“Your Honor,” Belk said quickly. He moved to the lectern. “In light of this discovery less than twenty-four hours ago, I move for a continuance so that this situation can be thoroughly investigated so that it can be determined exactly what it means to this case.”

Now he finally asks, Bosch thought. He knew there was no way he’d get a delay now.

“Uh, huh,” Judge Keyes said. “What do you think about that, Ms. Chandler?”

“No delay, Your Honor. This family has waited four years for this trial. I think any further delay would be perpetuating the crime. Besides, who does Mr. Belk propose investigate this matter, Detective Bosch?”

“I am sure the defense counselor would be satisfied with the LAPD handling the investigation,” the judge said.

“But I wouldn’t.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Ms. Chandler, but that’s not your concern. You said yourself yesterday that the wide majority of police in this city are good, competent people. You’ll just have to live by your own words… But I am going to deny the request for a continuation. We’ve started a trial and we’re not going to stop. The police can and should investigate this matter and keep the court informed but I’m not going to stand by. This case will continue until such time that these events need to be addressed again. Anything else? I’ve got a jury waiting.”

“What about the story in the newspaper?” Belk asked.

“What about it?”

“Your Honor, I’d like the jury to be polled to see if anyone read it. Also, they should be warned again not to read the papers or watch the TV news tonight. All of the channels will likely follow theTimes.”

“I instructed jurors yesterday not to read the paper or watch the news but I plan to poll them anyway about this very story. Let’s see what they say and then, depending on what we hear, we can clear ’em out again if you want to talk about a mistrial.”

“I don’t want a mistrial,” Chandler said. “That’s what the defendant wants. That’ll just delay this another two months. This family has already waited four years for justice. They-”

“Well, let’s just see what the jury says. Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Chandler.”

“Your Honor, may I be heard on sanctions?” Belk said.

“I don’t think you need to be, Mr. Belk. I denied her motion for sanctions. What more’s to be said?”

“I know that, Your Honor. I would like to ask for sanctions against Miss Chandler. She has defamed me by alleging this cover-up of the evidence and I-”

“Mr. Belk, sit down. I’ll tell you both right now; quit with the extracurricular sparring because it doesn’t get you anywhere with me. No sanctions either way. One last time, any other matters?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Chandler said.

She had one more card. From beneath her legal pad she pulled out a document and walked it up to the clerk, who handed it to the judge. Chandler then returned to the lectern.

“Your Honor, that is a subpoena I have prepared for the police department that I would like reflected in the record. I am asking that a copy of the note referred to in theTimes article, the note written by the Dollmaker and received yesterday, be released to me as part of discovery.”

Belk jumped to his feet.

“Hold on, Mr. Belk,” the judge admonished. “Let her finish.”

“Your Honor, it is evidence in this case. It should be turned over immediately.”

Judge Keyes gave Belk the nod and the deputy city attorney lumbered to the lectern, Chandler having to back up to give him room.

“Your Honor, this note is in no way evidence in this case. It has not been verified as having come from anybody. However, it is evidence in a murder case unattached to this proceeding. And it is not the LAPD’s practice to parade its evidence out in an open court while there is a suspect still at large. I ask that you deny her request.”

Judge Keyes clasped his hands together and thought a moment.

“Tell you what, Mr. Belk. You get a copy of the note and bring it in here. I’ll take a look and then decide if it will be entered in evidence. That’s all. Ms. Rivera, call in the jury please, we’re losing the morning.”

After the jury was in the box and everybody in court sat down, Judge Keyes asked who had seen any news stories relating to the case. No one in the box raised a hand. Bosch knew that if any one of them had seen the story, they wouldn’t admit to it anyway. To do so would be to invite certain dismissal from the jury-a ticket straight back to the jury assembly room where the minutes tick by like hours.

“Very well,” the judge said. “Call your first witness, Ms. Chandler.”

Terry Lloyd took the witness stand like a man who was as familiar with it as the recliner chair he got drunk in every night in front of the TV set. He even adjusted the microphone in front of him without any help from the clerk. Lloyd had a drinker’s badge of a nose and unusually dark brown hair for a man of his age, which was pushing sixty. That was because it was obvious to everyone who looked at him, except maybe himself, that he wore a rug. Chandler went through some preliminary questions, establishing that he was a lieutenant in the LA PD ’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division.

“During a period beginning four and a half years ago were you placed in charge of a task force of detectives attempting to identify a serial killer?”

“Yes I was.”

“Can you tell the jury how that came about and functioned?”

“It was put together after the same killer was identified as the perpetrator in five killings. We were unofficially known in the department as the Westside Strangler Task Force. After the media got wind of it, the killer became known as the Dollmaker-because he used the victims’ own makeup to paint their faces like dolls. I had eighteen detectives assigned to the task force. We broke them up into two squads, A and B. Squad A worked a day shift, B took the nights. We investigated the killings as they occurred and followed the call-in leads. After it hit the media, we were getting maybe a hundred calls a week-people saying this guy or that guy was the Dollmaker. We had to check them all out.”

“The task force, no matter what it was called, was not successful, is that correct?”

“No, ma’am, that is wrong. We were successful. We got the killer.”

“And who was that?”

“Norman Church was the killer.”

“Was he identified as such before or after he was killed?”

“After. He was good for all of them.”

“And good for the department, too?”

“I don’t follow.”

“It was good for the department that you were able to connect him to the murders. Otherwise you’d-”

“Ask questions, Ms. Chandler,” the judge interrupted.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Lieutenant Lloyd, the man you say was the killer, Norman Church, was not killed himself until there were at least six more murders following the establishment of the task force, is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“Allowing at least six more women to be strangled. How is that considered successful by the department?”

“We didn’t allow anything. We did the best we could to track down this perpetrator. We eventually did. That made us successful. Very successful, in my book.”

“In your book. Tell me, Lieutenant Lloyd, had the name Norman Church come up at any time in the investigation before the night he was shot to death while unarmed by Detective Bosch? Any reference at all?”

“No, it hadn’t. But we connected-”

“Just answer the question I ask, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Chandler referred to her yellow pad on the lectern. Bosch noticed that Belk was alternately taking notes on one pad in front of him and writing down questions on another.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Chandler said, “your task force did not catch up with a supposed perpetrator, as you call it, until six deaths after you started. Would it be fair to say you and your detectives were under severe pressure to catch him, to close this case?”

“We were under pressure, yes.”

“From who? Who was pressuring you, Lieutenant Lloyd?”

“Well, we had the papers, TV. The department was on me.”

“How so? The department, I mean. Did you have meetings with your supervisors?”

“I had daily meetings with the RHD captain and weeklies-every Monday-with the police chief.”

“What did they tell you about solving the case?”

“They said get the thing solved. People were dying. I didn’t need to be told that but they did anyway.”

“And did you communicate that to the task force detectives?”

“Of course. But they didn’t need to be told it either. These guys were looking at the bodies every time one showed up. It was hard. They wanted this guy bad. They didn’t need to read it in the papers or hear it from the chief or even me, for that matter.”

Lloyd seemed to be getting off on his cop-as-a-lonely-hunter tangent. Bosch could see that he didn’t realize he had walked into Chandler’s trap. She was going to argue at the end of the trial that Bosch and the cops were under such pressure to find a killer that Bosch killed Church and then they fabricated his ties to the killings. The fall-guy theory. Harry wished he could call time out and tell Lloyd to shut the hell up.

“So everyone on the task force knew there was pressure to find a killer?”

“Not a killer.The killer. Yes, there was pressure. It’s part of the job.”

“What was Detective Bosch’s role on the task force?”

“He was my B squad supervisor. He worked the night shift. He was a detective third grade so he kind of ran things when I wasn’t there, which was often. Primarily, I was a floater but I usually worked the day shift with squad A.”

“Do you recall saying to Detective Bosch, ‘We’ve gotta get this guy,’ words to that effect?”

“Not specifically. But I said words to that effect at squad meetings. He was there. But that was our goal, nothing wrong with that. We had to get this guy. Same situation, I’d say it again.”

Bosch began to feel that Lloyd was paying him back for having stolen the show, closing the case without him. His answers no longer appeared to be grounded in congenial stupidity but in malice. Bosch bent close to Belk and whispered, “He’s fucking me because he didn’t get to shoot Church himself.”

Belk put his finger to his lips, signaling Harry to be quiet. He then went back to writing on one of his two pads.

“Have you ever heard of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division?” Chandler asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“What do they do?”

“They study serial killers among other things. Come up with psychological profiles, victim profiles, give advice, things like that.”

“You had eleven murders, what advice did the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division give you?”

“None.”

“Why was that? Were they stumped?”

“No, we didn’t call on them.”

“Ah, and why didn’t you call them?”

“Well, ma’am, we believed we had a handle on it. We had worked up profiles ourselves and we didn’t think the FBI could help us much. The forensic psychologist helping us, Dr. Locke from USC, had once been an adviser to the FBI on sex crimes. We had his experience and the department’s staff psychiatrist helping out. We believed we were in good shape in that department.”

“Did the FBI offer their help?”

Lloyd hesitated here. It seemed he was finally understanding where she was headed.

“Uh, yes, somebody called after the case was making a lot of press. They wanted to get in on it. I told them we were fine, that no help was needed.”

“Do you regret that decision now?”

“No. I don’t think the FBI could’ve done any better than us. They usually come in on cases being handled by smaller departments or cases making a big media splash.”

“And you don’t think that’s fair, correct?”

“What?”

“Bigfooting, I think it’s called. You didn’t want the FBI coming in and taking over, right?”

“No. It was like I said, we were okay without them.”

“Isn’t it true that the LAPD and the FBI have a long-standing history of jealousies and competitiveness that has resulted in the two agencies rarely communicating or working together?”

“No, I don’t buy that.”

It didn’t matter if he bought it. Bosch knew she was making her points with the jury. Whetherthey bought it was the only thing that mattered.

“Your task force came up with a suspect profile, correct?”

“Yes. I believe I just mentioned that.”

She asked Judge Keyes if she could approach the witness with a document she said was plaintiff’s exhibit 1A. She handed it to the clerk, who handed it to Lloyd.

“What is that, Lieutenant?”

“This is a composite drawing and the psychological profile we came up with after, I think, the seventh killing.”

“How did you come up with the drawing of the suspect?”

“Between the seventh and eighth victims, we had an intended victim who managed to survive. She was able to get away from the man and call the police. Working with this survivor, we came up with the drawing.”

“Okay, are you familiar with the facial appearance of Norman Church?”

“Not to a great extent. I saw him after he was dead.”

Chandler asked to approach again and submitted plaintiff’s 2A, a collage of several photographs of Church taped to a piece of cardboard. She gave Lloyd a few moments to study them.

“Do you see any resemblance between the composite drawing and the photographs of Mr. Church?”

Lloyd hesitated and then said, “Our killer was known to wear disguises and our witness-the victim who got away-was a drug user. She was a porno actress. She wasn’t reliable.”

“Your Honor, can you instruct the witness to answer the questions that are asked?”

The judge did so.

“No,” Lloyd said, his head bowed after being chastised. “No resemblance.”

“Okay,” Chandler said, “going back to the profile you have there. Where did that come from?”

“Primarily from Dr. Locke at USC and Dr. Shafer, an LAPD staff psychiatrist. I think they consulted with some others before writing it up.”

“Can you read that first paragraph?”

“Yes. It says, ‘Subject is believed to be a white male, twenty-five to thirty-five years old with minimal college education. He is a physically strong man though may not be large in appearance. He lives alone, alienated from family and friends. He is reacting to a deep-rooted hatred of women suggesting an abusive mother or female guardian. His painting of the faces of his victims with makeup is his attempt to remake women into an image that pleases him, that smiles at him. They become dolls, not threats.’ Do you want me to read the part that outlines the repetitive traits of the killings?”

“No, that is not necessary. You were involved in the investigation of Mr. Church after he was killed by Bosch, correct?”

“Correct.”

“List for the jury all of the traits in the suspect profile that your task force found that matched Mr. Church.”

Lloyd looked down at the paper in his hands for a long time without speaking.

“I’ll help you get started, Lieutenant,” Chandler said. “He was a white male, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What else is similar? Did he live alone?”

“No.”

“He actually had a wife and two daughters, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Was he between twenty-five and thirty-five years old?”

“No.”

“Actually, he was thirty-nine years old, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have a minimal education?”

“No.”

“Actually, he had a master’s degree in mechanical engineering, didn’t he?”

“Then what was he doing there in that room?” Lloyd said angrily. “Why was the makeup from the victims there? Why-”

“Answer the question asked of you, Lieutenant,” Judge Keyes interjected. “Don’t go asking questions. That isn’t your job here.”

“Sorry, Your Honor,” Lloyd said. “Yes, he had a master’s degree. I’m not sure exactly what it was for.”

“You mentioned the makeup in your nonresponsive answer a moment ago,” Chandler said. “What did you mean?”

“In the garage apartment where Church was killed. Makeup that belonged to nine of the victims was found in a cabinet in the bathroom. It tied him directly to those cases. Nine of eleven-it was convincing.”

“Who found the makeup in there?”

“Harry Bosch did.”

“When he went there alone and killed him.”

“Is that a question?”

“No, Lieutenant. I withdraw it.”

She paused to let the jury think about that while she flipped through her yellow pages.

“Lieutenant Lloyd, tell us about that night. What happened?”

Lloyd told the story as it had been described dozens of times before. On TV, in newspapers, in Bremmer’s book. It was midnight, squad B was going off shift when the task force hot line rang and Bosch took the call, the last of the night. A street prostitute named Dixie McQueen said she had just escaped from the Dollmaker. Bosch went alone because the others on squad B had gone home and he figured it might be another dead end. He picked the woman up at Hollywood and Western and followed her directions into Silverlake. On Hyperion she convinced Bosch she had escaped from the Dollmaker and pointed to the lighted windows of an apartment over a garage. Bosch went up alone. A few moments later Norman Church was dead.

“He kicked open the door?” Chandler asked.

“Yes. There was the thought that maybe he had gone and gotten somebody to take the prostitute’s place.”

“Did he shout that he was police?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so.”

“Any witnesses hear it?”

“No.”

“What about Miss McQueen, the prostitute?”

“No. Bosch had kept her in the car parked on the street in case there was trouble.”

“So what you’re saying is we have Detective Bosch’s word that he feared there might be another victim, that he identified himself and that Mr. Church made a threatening move toward the pillow.”

“Yes,” Lloyd said reluctantly.

“I notice, Lieutenant Lloyd, that you wear a toupee yourself.”

There was some muffled laughter from the back. Bosch turned and saw that the media contingent was steadily growing. He saw Bremmer sitting in the gallery now.

“Yes,” Lloyd said. His face had turned red to match his nose.

“Have you ever put your toupee under your pillow? Is that the proper care for it?”

“No.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Judge Keyes looked at the clock at the wall and then at Belk.

“What do you think, Mr. Belk? Break for lunch now so you won’t be interrupted?”

“I only have one question.”

“Oh, then by all means, ask it.”

Belk took his pad to the lectern and leaned to the microphone.

“Lieutenant Lloyd, from all of your knowledge about this case, do you have any doubt whatsoever that Norman Church was the Dollmaker?”

“None at all. None… at… all.”

After the jury filed out, Bosch leaned to Belk’s ear and urgently whispered, “What was that? She tore him up and you asked only one question. What about all the other things that tied Church to the case?”

Belk held up his hand to calm Bosch and then spoke calmly.

“Because you are going to testify about all of that. This case is about you, Harry. We either win it or lose it with you.”