Michael Connelly - Suicide Run - Three Harry Bosch Stories

In the cafeteria, Bosch put the stack of files down on a table Rider had commandeered. She had half of a tuna fish sandwich on a plate and was looking through the last few documents in the Grayson file.

“Are you sure you can do this?” he asked her.

“No problem. What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know yet. But if you read that file, you know there are inconsistencies in the Grayson case. The suicide note was a plant and a piece of jewelry is missing. A silver-chain necklace with a single pearl on it.”

Rider frowned.

“What about the autopsy?”

“That was yesterday. We’re waiting on the tox.”

“Was she raped?”

“No abrasions. No DNA recovered.”

“What do you think happened, Harry?”

“What do I think happened? I think somebody drugged her and had his way with her when she couldn’t resist. And then he let her OD. Now ask me what I can prove.”

“What can you prove?”

“Nothing. That’s why I pulled these files.”

“Looking for what?”

“Sometimes you don’t know what you are looking for until you find it,” he explained. “But I’m convinced Lizbeth Grayson was murdered with such careful planning that it wasn’t the only time this happened.”

“The guy hit before.”

Rider nodded at the stack of thin files.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bosch said. “So I am looking for anything that is a commonality between her and any of these other suicides.”

Rider frowned.

“And we’ll know it when we see it,” she said.

“Hopefully.”

They got to work. Bosch split the stack in two and they both began working through the files. When one of them finished with a file they put it on the stack for the other to read. This way they each looked at every file. Because the cases were suicides the files were thin and filled largely with autopsy and toxicological reports. All contained photos of the victims in death and most contained a photo of the victim in life as well.

Hollywood has always ground up a good share of the young women who come with their hopes and dreams. Ever since actress Peg Entwistle gave up her celluloid dreams and jumped off the H on the Hollywood sign, many others have followed suit-but in less attention-getting ways. It is the dark secret of the industry. It grinds many of the fragile ones to powder. The powder blows away.

The files contained tragically similar stories. Young women whose lives collapsed when they didn’t get the part and realized they never would get the part. Young women taken advantage of by those who could. Men mostly, but not always. Young women who were clearly fragile before even getting to Hollywood, who had come like moths to the flame, seeking to fill the empty spaces inside with long-shot fame and fortune.

But there were also files that contained only questions. Suicides without explanation, involving women who had growing credits and reason to be hopeful about their lives and careers. A few left one- or two-line notes but Bosch could not tell if these were actual suicide notes or possibly lines from auditions or parts they were playing.

Bosch studied the photos, many of which were professional headshots, and the lists of credits. He found nothing in common with Lizbeth Grayson other than that all the women had been young and hopeful. There was no shared acting school or common agent. No showcase play or work as an extra on the same movie. He didn’t see the connections and began to think that maybe Jerry Edgar was right. He was chasing something that wasn’t there.

He was on the second to the last file when Rider spoke up.

“Harry, are you finding anything?”

“No, not yet. And I’m running out of files.”

“What will you do?”

“I have to decide whether to drop it or continue on. If I continue I’ll have to work it on the side. In homicide they call it working a hobby case. You work it when you have the time. The next step is to conduct a field investigation-go out and talk to the people who knew these women, check their apartments, see if anybody has any of their belongings still. I can tell you right now my lieutenant isn’t going to let me go off and do that. I’ll have to work it like a hobby.”

“Who’s the lieutenant in Hollywood? Is that Pounds?”

“Yep. Pounds. He’s not much of an expansive thinker.”

Rider smiled and nodded.

“Look, I’m sorry I wasted your lunch break,” Bosch said.

“Not at all,” she said. “Besides, I’m not finished yet.”

She held up the five remaining files she needed to look through. He smiled and nodded. He liked her confidence. They dropped into silence and dove back into the files.

In ten minutes Bosch was finished with the files and had found nothing that would bump the case up higher than a hobby. He asked Rider if she wanted a cup of coffee but she said no. He got up to get a cup for himself. The cafeteria was thinning out and getting quiet after the lunch rush. When he got back to their table Rider was standing. Bosch thought she had finished and was about to go. But she was standing because she was excited.

“I think I found something,” she said.

Bosch put his coffee down on the table and looked at what she had. She was holding two headshot photographs. They were of two different women.

“This first one is from a case last year,” Rider said. “Her name was Nancy Crowe. Lived on Kester Avenue in Sherman Oaks. This other one is Marcie Conlon. Died five months ago. Also an overdose. Lived up in Whitley Heights.”

“Okay.”

Bosch looked at the headshots. The women had entirely different looks. Crowe had short dark hair and pale white skin. Conlon was blond and tan. Just by looking at the photos Bosch would have guessed that Crowe was a serious actress and Conlon was not. He knew that he was subscribing to a sweeping generalization so it was not something he would say out loud.

“Look,” Rider said.

She put the photos down on the table side by side.

“What’s the same?”

Bosch immediately saw what had been there all along and simply gone unnoticed in his survey of everything contained in the files. In the Crowe photo the subject was posed, looking around the corner of a brick wall. Bosch guessed that she was supposed to look mysterious, the photo showing depth of character and perhaps making up for her not being a knockout beauty. In the Conlon photo the woman was posed with her back leaning against a brick wall. Her pose was meant to be alluring, even sexually intriguing, and it counterposed the soft beauty of her features against the hard brick wall.

“The brick wall,” Bosch said.

Using her finger, Rider pointed out bricks in each photo that were the same. They were either chipped or scuffed in some way that made them unique. It was clear that both actresses had posed at the same brick wall.

“But now look,” she said.

She flipped the photos over, and below the listing of credits was the name of the photographer. The names were different but each name was followed by a matching location. Hollywood & Vine Studios.

“So you have different photographers using the same studio,” Bosch said.

He was thinking out loud, trying to take it to the next step.

“Did you look through the other files where there are headshots?” he asked.

“No, I just discovered this connection.”

“Good work.”

Bosch quickly went back to the stack of files and soon they were pulling the headshot photos out of files where they found them.

“Every actress in the city needs headshots,” Rider said as she worked. “It’s like death and taxes. You walk down Hollywood Boulevard and there are ads for photographers on every light pole.”

In five minutes they had six headshot photos of dead actresses with photo credits from six different photographers but all from Hollywood & Vine Studios. Lizbeth Grayson’s photo-the shot Bosch had borrowed from the acting coach-was one of the six.