“What are you talking about? I’m not going to—”
“This house is now a crime scene. We are investigating your client’s death to confirm or deny it was by his own hand. You are no longer welcome here. Jerry?”
Edgar stepped over to the couch and waved Morton up.
“Come on. Time to go out there and get your face on TV. It’ll be good for business, right?”
Morton stood up and left in a huff. Bosch walked over to the front windows and pulled the curtain back a few inches. When Morton came down the side of the house to the driveway, he immediately walked to the center of the knot of reporters and started talking angrily. Bosch couldn’t hear what was said. He didn’t need to.
When Edgar came back into the room, Bosch told him to call the watch office and get a patrol car up to Wonderland for crowd control. He had a feeling that the media mob, like a virus replicating itself, was going to start growing bigger and hungrier by the minute.
19
THEY found Nicholas Trent’s children when they searched his home following the removal of his body. Filling the entire two drawers of a small desk in the living room, a desk Bosch had not searched the night before, were files, photographs and financial records, including several thick bank envelopes containing canceled checks. Trent had been sending small amounts of money on a monthly basis to a number of charitable organizations that fed and clothed children. From Appalachia to the Brazilian rain forest to Kosovo, Trent had been sending checks for years. Bosch found no check for an amount higher than twelve dollars. He found dozens and dozens of photographs of the children he was supposedly helping as well as small handwritten notes from them.
Bosch had seen any number of public-service ads for the charities on late-night television. He had always been suspicious. Not about whether a few dollars could keep a child from going hungry and unclothed, but about whether the few dollars would actually get to them. He wondered if the photos Trent kept in the drawers of his desk were the same stock shots sent to everybody who contributed. He wondered if the thank-you notes in childish printing were fake.
“Man,” Edgar said as he surveyed the contents of the desk. “This guy, it’s like I think he was paying a penance or something, sending all his cash to these outfits.”
“Yeah, a penance for what?”
“We may never know.”
Edgar went back to searching the second bedroom. Bosch studied some of the photos he had spread on the top of the desk. There were boys and girls, none looking older than ten, though this was hard to estimate because they all had the hollow and ancient eyes of children who have been through war and famine and indifference. He picked up one shot of a young white boy and turned it over. The information said the boy had been orphaned during the fighting in Kosovo. He had been injured in the mortar blast that killed his parents. His name was Milos Fidor and he was ten years old.
Bosch had been orphaned at age eleven. He looked into the boy’s eyes and saw his own.
At 4 P.M. they locked Trent’s home and took three boxes of seized materials to the car. A small group of reporters lingered outside during the whole afternoon, despite word from Media Relations that all information on the day’s events would be distributed through Parker Center.
The reporters approached them with questions but Bosch quickly said that he was not allowed to comment on the investigation. They put the boxes in the trunk and drove off, heading downtown, where a meeting had been called by Deputy Chief Irvin Irving.
Bosch was uncomfortable with himself as he drove. He was ill at ease because Trent’s suicide—and he had no doubts now that it was—had served to deflect the forward movement of the investigation of the boy’s death. Bosch had spent half the day going through Trent’s belongings when what he had wanted to be doing was nailing down the ID of the boy, running out the lead he had received in the call-in reports.
“What’s the matter, Harry?” Edgar asked at one point on the drive.
“What?”
“I don’t know. You’re acting all morose. I know that’s probably your natural disposition, but you usually don’t show it so much.”
Edgar smiled but didn’t get one in return from Bosch.
“I’m just thinking about things. This guy might be alive today if we had handled things differently.”
“Come on, Harry. You mean like if we didn’t investigate him? There was no way. We did our job and things ran their course. Nothing we could do. If anybody’s responsible it’s Thornton, and he’s gonna get his due. But if you ask me, the world’s better off without somebody like Trent in it anyway. My conscience is clear, man. Crystal clear.”
“Good for you.”
Bosch thought about his decision to give Edgar the day off on Sunday. If he hadn’t done that, Edgar might have been the one to make the computer runs on the names. Kiz Rider would’ve been out of the loop and the information would have never gotten to Thornton.
He sighed. Everything always seemed to work on a domino theory. If, then, if, then, if, then.
“What’s your gut say on this guy?” he asked Edgar.
“You mean, like did he do the boy on the hill?”
Bosch nodded.
“I don’t know,” Edgar said. “Have to see what the lab says about the dirt and the sister says about the skateboard. If it is the sister and we get an ID.”
Bosch didn’t say anything. But he always felt uncomfortable about relying on lab reports in determining which way to go with an investigation.
“What about you, Har?”
Bosch thought of the photos of all the children Trent thought he was caring for. His act of contrition. His chance at redemption.
“I’m thinking we’re spinning our wheels,” he said. “He isn’t the guy.”
20
DEPUTY Chief Irvin Irving sat behind his desk in his spacious office on the sixth floor of Parker Center. Also seated in the room were Lt. Grace Billets, Bosch and Edgar and an officer from the Media Relations unit named Sergio Medina. Irving’s adjutant, a female lieutenant named Simonton, stood in the open doorway of the office in case she was needed.
Irving had a glass-topped desk. There was nothing on it except for two pieces of paper with printing on them that Bosch could not read from his spot in front of Irving’s desk and to the left.
“Now then,” Irving began. “What do we know as fact about Mr. Trent? We know he was a pedophile with a criminal record of abusing a child. We know that he lived a stone’s throw from the burial site of a murdered child. And we know that he committed suicide on the evening he was questioned by investigators in regard to the first two points just stated.”
Irving picked up one of the pages on his desk and studied it without sharing its contents with the room. Finally, he spoke.
“I have here a press release that states those same three facts and goes on to say, ‘Mr. Trent is the subject of an ongoing investigation. Determination of whether he was responsible for the death of the victim found buried near his home is pending lab work and follow-up investigation.’ ”
He looked at the page silently again and then finally put it down.
“Nice and succinct. But it will do little to quell the thirst of the media for this story. Or to help us avert another troubling situation for this department.”
Bosch cleared his throat. Irving seemed to ignore it at first but then spoke without looking at the detective.
“Yes, Detective Bosch?”
“Well, it sort of seems as though you’re not satisfied with that. The problem is, what is on that press release is exactly where we stand. I’d love to tell you I think the guy did the kid on the hill. I’d love to tell you I know he did it. But we are a long way from that and, if anything, I think we’re going to end up concluding the opposite.”
“Based on what?” Irving snapped.
It was becoming clear to Bosch what the purpose of the meeting was. He guessed that the second page on Irving’s desk was the press release the deputy chief wa
nted to put out. It probably pinned everything on Trent and called his suicide the result of his knowing he would be found out. This would allow the department to handle Thornton, the leaker, quietly outside of the magnifying glass of the press. It would spare the department the humiliation of acknowledging that a leak of confidential information from one of its officers caused a possibly innocent man to kill himself. It would also allow them to close the case of the boy on the hill.
Bosch understood that everyone sitting in the room knew that closing a case of this nature was the longest of long shots. The case had drawn growing media attention, and Trent with his suicide had now presented them with a way out. Suspicions could be cast on the dead pedophile, and the department could call it a day and move on to the next case—hopefully one with a better chance of being solved.
Bosch could understand this but not accept it. He had seen the bones. He had heard Golliher run down the litany of injuries. In that autopsy suite Bosch had resolved to find the killer and close the case. The expediency of department politics and image management would be second to that.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. He opened it to a page with a folded corner and looked at it as if he was studying a page full of notes. But there was only one notation on the page, written on Saturday in the autopsy suite.
44 separate indications of trauma
His eyes held on the number he had written until Irving spoke again.
“Detective Bosch? I asked, ‘Based on what?’ ”
Bosch looked up and closed the notebook.
“Based on the timing—we don’t think Trent moved into that neighborhood until after that boy was in the ground—and on the analysis of the bones. This kid was physically abused over a long period of time—from when he was a small child. It doesn’t add up to Trent.”
“Analysis of both the timing and the bones will not be conclusive,” Irving said. “No matter what they tell us, there is still a possibility—no matter how slim—that Nicholas Trent was the perpetrator of this crime.”
“A very slim possibility.”
“What about the search of Trent’s home today?”
“We took some old work boots with dried mud in the treads. It will be compared to soil samples taken where the bones were found. But they’ll be just as inconclusive. Even if they match up, Trent could have picked up the dirt hiking behind his house. It’s all part of the same sediment, geologically speaking.”
“What else?”
“Not much. We’ve got a skateboard.”
“A skateboard?”
Bosch explained about the call-in tip he had not had time to follow up on because of the suicide. As he told it, he could see Irving warming to the possibility that a skateboard in Trent’s possession could be linked to the bones on the hill.
“I want that to be your priority,” he said. “I want that nailed down and I want to know it the moment you do.”
Bosch only nodded.
“Yes, sir,” Billets threw in.
Irving went silent and studied the two pages on his desk. Finally, he picked up the one he had not read from—the page Bosch guessed was the loaded press release—and turned at his desk. He slid it into a shredder, which whined loudly as it destroyed the document. He then turned back to his desk and picked up the remaining document.
“Officer Medina, you may put this out to the press.”
He handed the document to Medina, who stood up to receive it. Irving checked his watch.
“Just in time for the six o’clock news,” he said.
“Sir?” Medina said.
“Yes?”
“Uh, there have been many inquiries about the erroneous reports on Channel Four. Should we—”
“Say it is against policy to comment on any internal investigation. You may also add that the department will not condone or accept the leaking of confidential information to the media. That is all, Officer Medina.”
Medina looked like he had another question to ask but knew better. He nodded and left the office.
Irving nodded to his adjutant and she closed the office door, remaining in the anteroom outside. The deputy chief then turned his head, looking from Billets to Edgar to Bosch.
“We have a delicate situation here,” he said. “Are we clear on how we are proceeding?”
“Yes,” Billets and Edgar said in unison.
Bosch said nothing. Irving looked at him.
“Detective, do you have something to say?”
Bosch thought a moment before answering.
“I just want to say that I am going to find out who killed that boy and put him up in that hole. If it’s Trent, fine. Good. But if it’s not him, I’m going to keep going.”
Irving saw something on his desk. Something small like a hair or other near-microscopic particle. Something Bosch couldn’t see. Irving picked it up with two fingers and dropped it into the trash can behind him. As he brushed his fingers together over the shredder, Bosch looked on and wondered if the demonstration was some sort of threat directed at him.
“Not every case is solved, Detective, not every case is solvable,” he said. “At some point our duties may require us to move on to more pressing matters.”
“Are you giving me a deadline?”
“No, Detective. I am saying I understand you. And I just hope you understand me.”
“What’s going to happen with Thornton?”
“It’s under internal review. I can’t discuss it with you at this time.”
Bosch shook his head in frustration.
“Watch yourself, Detective Bosch,” Irving said curtly. “I’ve shown a lot of patience with you. On this case and others before it.”
“What Thornton did jammed up this case. He should—”
“If he is responsible he will be dealt with accordingly. But keep in mind he was not operating in a vacuum. He needed to get the information in order to leak it. The investigation is ongoing.”
Bosch stared at Irving. The message was clear. Kiz Rider could go down with Thornton if Bosch didn’t fall into step with Irving’s march.
“You read me, Detective?”
“I read you. Loud and clear.”
21
BEFORE taking Edgar back to Hollywood Division and then heading out to Venice, Bosch got the evidence box containing the skateboard out of the trunk and took it back inside Parker Center to the SID lab. At the counter he asked for Antoine Jesper. While he waited, he studied the skateboard. It appeared to be made out of laminated plywood. It had a lacquered finish to which several decals had been applied, most notably a skull and crossbones located in the middle of the top surface of the board.
When Jesper came to the counter, Bosch presented him with the evidence box.
“I want to know who made this, when it was made and where it was sold,” he said. “It’s priority one. I got the sixth floor riding my back on this case.”
“No problem. I can tell you the make right now. It’s a Boney board. They don’t make ’em anymore. He sold out and moved, I think, to Hawaii.”
“How do you know all of that?”
“’Cause when I was a kid I was a boarder and this was what I wanted but never had the dough for. Pretty ironic, huh?”
“What is?”
“A Boney board and the case. You know, bones.”
Bosch nodded.
“Whatever. I want whatever you can get me by tomorrow.”
“Um, I can try. I can’t prom—”
“Tomorrow, Antoine. The sixth floor, remember? I’ll be talking to you tomorrow.”
Jesper nodded.
“Give me the morning, at least.”
“You got it. Anything happening with documents?”
Jesper shook his head.
“Nothing yet. She tried the dyes and nothing came up. I don’t think you should count on anything there, Harry.”
“All right, Antoine.”
Bosch left him there holding the box.
On the
way back to Hollywood he let Edgar drive while he pulled the tip sheet out of his briefcase and called Sheila Delacroix on his cell phone. She answered promptly and Bosch introduced himself and said her call had been referred to him.
“Was it Arthur?” she asked urgently.
“We don’t know, ma’am. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh.”
“Will it be possible for me and my partner to come see you tomorrow morning to talk about Arthur and get some information? It will help us to be better able to determine if the remains are those of your brother.”