Michael Connelly - 9 Dragons

“What’s your e-mail? I want to send you a photo.”

“Of what?”

“Chinese symbols that were tattooed on Mr. Li’s ankles. I want to know what they mean.”

“Okay.”

Chu gave him his department e-mail. Bosch checked his camera work and sent the clearest photo to him, then put the phone away.

“Dr. Laksmi, is there anything else I need to know here?”

“I think you got it all, Detective. Except there’s one thing that maybe the family will want to know.”

“What’s that?”

She gestured to one of the organ bowls she had spread across the work counter.

“The bullets only brought about the inevitable. Mr. Li was dying of cancer.”

Bosch stepped over and looked into the tray. The victim’s lungs had been excised from the body for weighing and examination. Laksmi had opened them up to probe the bullet tracks and both lower lobes were dark gray with cancerous cells.

“He was a smoker,” Laksmi said.

“I know,” Bosch said. “How long do you think he had?”

“Maybe a year. Maybe longer.”

“Can you tell whether this had been treated?”

“It doesn’t look like it. Certainly no surgery. And I see no signs of chemotherapy or radiation. It may have been undiagnosed at this point. But he would have known soon enough.”

Bosch thought about his own lungs. He had not smoked in years but they say the damage is done early. Sometimes in the mornings his lungs felt heavy and full in his chest. He’d had a case a few years before that resulted in his being exposed to a high-level dose of radiation. He’d cleared medical on it but always sort of thought or hoped that the blast had knocked down anything that might be growing in his chest.

Bosch took out his cell phone again and once more put it on camera function. He leaned over the bowl and shot a photo of the ravaged organs.

“What are you doing?” Laksmi asked.

“I want to send it to somebody.”

He checked the photo and it was clear enough. He then sent it off in an e-mail.

“Who? Not the family, I hope.”

“No, my daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

There was a tone of outrage in her voice.

“She needs to see what smoking can do.”

“Nice.”

She said nothing else. Bosch put his phone away and checked his watch. It was a double display watch that gave him the time in L.A. and Hong Kong-a present from his daughter after too many miscalculated middle-of-the-night phone calls. It was just past three o’clock in L.A. His daughter was fifteen hours ahead and sleeping. She’d get up for school in about an hour and would get the photo then. He knew it would bring a protest call from her but even a call like that was better than none.

He smiled at the thought of it and then refocused on the work. He was ready to get moving again.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “For your records, I’m taking the ballistic evidence over to forensics.”

“Did you sign for it?”

She pointed to a clipboard on the counter and Bosch found she had already filled out the chain-of-evidence report. Bosch signed the line acknowledging he was now in possession of the evidence listed. He headed toward the autopsy suite’s door.

“Give me a couple days on the hard copy,” Laksmi said.

Meaning the formal autopsy report.

“You got it,” Bosch said as he went through the door.

On the way to forensics Bosch called Chu and asked about the tattoos.

“I haven’t translated them yet,” Chu said.

“What do you mean, did you look at them?”

“Yeah, I looked at them but I can’t translate them. I’m trying to find somebody who can.”

“Chu, I saw you talking to Mrs. Li. You translated for her.”

“Bosch, just because I speak it doesn’t mean I can read it. There are eight thousand Chinese symbols like these. All my schooling was in English. I spoke Chinese at home. Never read it.”

“Okay, then is there somebody there that can get me a translation? It is the Asian Crimes Unit, isn’t it?”

“Asian Gang Unit. And, yes, there are people here who can do it, but they don’t happen to be here right now. As soon as I have it I will call you.”

“Great. Call me.”

Bosch hung up. He was frustrated by the delay. A case had to move like a shark. It could never stop its momentum because that could be fatal. He checked his watch for the time in Hong Kong, then pulled to the curb and sent the photo of the ankle tattoos to his daughter in an e-mail. She would get it on her phone-right after she saw the photo of the lungs he had sent her.

Pleased with himself, Bosch pulled back into traffic. He was becoming more and more adept at digital communication thanks to her. She had insisted that they communicate on all modern levels: e-mail, text, video-she had even tried unsuccessfully to get him onto something called Twitter. He insisted in return that they also communicate the old-fashioned way-verbal conversation. He made sure their phones were covered by international call plans.

He made it back to the PAB a few minutes later and went straight to the Tool Marks and Ballistics unit on the fourth floor. He took his four plastic evidence bags to a technician named Ross Malone. His job was to take bullets and casings and use them to attempt to identify the make and model of the firearm they came from. Later, in the event that a gun was recovered, he would be able to match the bullets to it through ballistic testing and analysis.

Malone began with the casing, using a set of tweezers to take it from its packaging and then hold it under a high-powered magnifying glass with a lighted rim. He studied it for a long moment before speaking.

“Cor Bon nine-millimeter,” he said. “And you’re probably looking for a Glock.”

Bosch was expecting him to confirm the size of the round and identify the brand but not to name the make of weapon that had fired the bullet.

“How do you know that?”

“Take a look.”

Malone was on a stool in front of the magnifying glass, which was attached to an adjustable arm anchored to the worktable. He moved it over slightly so Bosch could look over his shoulder. He was holding the back end of the casing into the light and magnification. Bosch could read the words Cor Bon stamped into the outer edge of the cap. At center was a depression made when the gun’s firing pin had struck the primer, firing the bullet.

“You see how the impression is elongated, almost rectangular?” Malone asked.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“That’s Glock. Only Glocks have the rectangle because the firing pin is rectangular. So you are looking for a nine-millimeter Glock. They have several different models that would apply.”

“Okay, that helps. Anything else?”

Malone pulled the glass back over in front of him and turned the bullet casing underneath it.

“You have clear extractor and ejector marks here. You bring me the gun and I think I’ll be able to match it.”

“As soon as I find it. What about the slugs?”

Malone put the casing back in its plastic bag and one by one took out the slugs and studied them under the glass. He looked at each one quickly before putting it down. He then went back to the second one and took another look. Then he shook his head.

“These aren’t much use. They’re not in good shape. The casing is going to be your best bet for comparison. Like I said, you bring me the weapon, I’ll match it up.”

Bosch realized that John Li’s last act was growing in importance. He wondered if the old man could have known just how important it was turning out to be.

Bosch’s quiet contemplation prompted Malone to speak up.

“Did you touch this casing, Harry?”