Michael Connelly - The Last Coyote

“Gordon Mittel.”

Conklin nodded sadly.

“So what are you saying, Mittel killed her? You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know.”

He looked down at his feeble hands and balled them into tiny fists on the blanket. They looked completely powerless. Bosch only watched.

“I did not realize it for many years. It was beyond the pale to consider that he had done it. And then, of course, I must admit I was thinking of myself at the time. I was a coward, thinking only of my escape.”

Bosch was not tracking what he was saying. But it didn’t seem that Conklin was talking to him, anyway. The old man was really telling himself the story. He suddenly looked up from his reverie at Bosch.

“You know, I knew someday you would come.”

“How?”

“Because I knew you would care. Maybe no one else. But I knew you would. You had to care. You were her son.”

“Tell me about what happened that night. Everything.”

“I need you to get me some water. For my throat. There’s a glass there on the bureau, a fountain in the hallway. Don’t let it run too long. It gets too cold and hurts my teeth.”

Bosch looked at the glass on the bureau and then back at Conklin. He was seized with a fear that if he left the room for even a minute the old man might die and take the story with him. Bosch would never hear it.

“Go. I’ll be fine. I certainly can’t go anywhere.”

Bosch glanced at the call button. Again, Conklin knew his thoughts.

“I am closer to hell than heaven for what I’ve done. For my silence. I need to tell my story. I think you’d be a better confessor than any priest could be.”

As Bosch stepped into the hallway with the glass, he saw a figure of a man turn the corner at the end of the hall and disappear. He thought the man was wearing a suit. It wasn’t the guard. He saw the fountain and filled the glass. Conklin smiled weakly as he took the glass and murmured a thanks before drinking. Bosch then took the glass back and put it on the night table.

“Okay,” Bosch said. “You said she left that night and never came back. How did you find out what happened?”

“By the next day, I was afraid something had happened. I finally called my office and made a routine check to see what had come in on the overnight reports. Among the things they told me was that there had been a homicide in Hollywood. They had the victim’s name. It was her. It was the most horrible day of my life.”

“What happened next?”

Conklin rubbed a hand on his forehead and continued.

“I learned that she had been found that morning. She-I was in shock. I couldn’t believe this could have happened. I had Mittel make some inquiries but there was nothing useful coming out. Then the man who had…introduced me to Marjorie called.”

“Johnny Fox.”

“Yes. He called and he said he had heard the police were looking for him. He said he was innocent. He threatened me. He said if I did not protect him, he would reveal to the police that Marjorie was with me that last night. It would be the end of my career.”

“So you protected him.”

“I turned it over to Gordon. He investigated Fox’s claim and confirmed his alibi. I cannot remember it now but it was confirmed. He had been in a card game or somewhere where there had been many witnesses. Since I was confident that Fox was not involved, I called the detectives assigned to the case and arranged for him to be interviewed. In order to protect Fox and thereby protect myself, Gordon and I concocted a story in which we told the detectives that Fox was a key witness in a grand jury investigation. The plan was successful. The detectives turned their attention elsewhere. At one point I spoke to one of them and he told me he believed that Marjorie was the victim of some sort of a sex killer. You see, they were quite rare back then. The detective said the outlook on the case was not good. I’m afraid that I never suspected…Gordon. Such a horrible thing to do to an innocent person. It was right there in front of my face but I didn’t see it for so long. I was a fool. A puppet.”

“You’re saying that it wasn’t you and that it wasn’t Fox. You’re saying that Mittel killed her to eliminate a threat to your political career. But that he didn’t tell you. It was all his idea and he just went out and did it.”

“Yes, I say that. I told him, I told him that night when I called, I said that she meant more to me than all of the plans he had for me, that I had for myself. He said it would mean the end of my career and I accepted it. I accepted it as long as I started the next part of my life with her. I believe those minutes were the most peaceful of my life. I was in love and I had made a stand.”

He softly pounded a fist onto the bed, an impotent gesture.

“I told Mittel I didn’t care what he thought the damage to my career would be. I told him we were going to move away. I didn’t know where. La Jolla, San Diego, I threw a few places out. I didn’t know where we were going to go but I was defiant. I was mad at him for not sharing the joy of our decision. And in doing so I provoked him, I know now, and I hastened your mother’s death.”

Bosch studied him a long moment. His agony seemed sincere. Conklin’s eyes looked as haunted as the portholes on a sunken ship. There was only blackness behind them.

“Did Mittel ever admit this to you?”

“No, but I knew. I guess it was a subconscious knowledge but then something he said years later brought it out. It confirmed it in my mind. And that was the end of our relationship.”

“What did he say? When?”

“Many years later. It was at the time I was preparing for a run for attorney general. Do you believe such a charade occurred? Me the liar, the coward, the conspirator being groomed for the office of the state’s top law enforcement officer. Mittel came to me one day and said that I needed to take a wife before the election year. He was that blunt about it. He said there were rumors about me that could cost me votes. I said that was preposterous and that I wouldn’t take a wife just to assuage some rednecks out in Palmdale or the desert somewhere. Then he made a comment, just a flippant, offhand comment as he was leaving my office.”

He broke off to reach for the glass of water. Bosch helped him and he slowly drank. Bosch noticed the medicinal smell about him. It was horrible. It reminded him of dead people and the morgue. Bosch took the glass when Conklin was done and put it back.

“What was the comment?”

“As he was leaving my office, he said, and I remember it word for word, he said, ‘Sometimes I wish I hadn’t saved you from that whore scandal. Maybe if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have this problem now. People would know you aren’t queer.’ Those were his words.”

Bosch just stared at him for a moment.

“It might’ve been just a figure of speech. He could have just meant that he had saved you from the scandal of knowing her by taking the steps to keep you out of it. It’s not evidence that he killed her or had her killed. You were a prosecutor, you know that’s not enough. It wasn’t direct evidence of anything. Didn’t you ever directly confront him?”

“No. Never. I was too intimidated by him. Gordon was becoming a powerful man. More powerful than I. So I said nothing to him. I simply dismantled my campaign and folded my tent. I left the public life and haven’t spoken to Gordon Mittel since that time. More than twenty-five years.”

“You went into private practice.”

“Yes. I took up pro bono work as my self-imposed penance for what I was responsible for. I wish I could say it helped suture the wounds of my soul but it did not. I’m a helpless man, Hieronymus. So tell me, did you come here to kill me? Don’t let my story dissuade you from believing I deserve it.”