Michael Connelly - Blood Work

He waited a beat.

“Turn the TV on, James. Is it on now?”

“Yes,” Noone said, his first words in a half hour.

“Okay, good. Now we’re going to go back to that night, James. Now tell us what you saw.”

JAMES NOONE TOLD his story as if McCaleb and Winston were there riding with him in his car, if not his head.

“I have the blinker on and I’m turning in. Here he comes! Brakes! He’s going to-he almost hit me, the asshole! I could’ve-”

Noone raised his left arm, made a fist and shot his middle finger up, an impotent gesture at the driver of the car that had blasted by him. As he did this, McCaleb looked closely at his face, noting the rapid eye movement behind his closed lids. It was one of the indicators he always looked for, a sign that the subject was deeply into the trance.

“He’s gone and I’m pulling in now. I see, I see the man. There is a man on the ground under the light. By the ATM. He’s down-I’m getting out and check to see… there’s blood. He’s shot-somebody shot him. Uh, uh, I’ve got to get somebody-I’m going back to my car for the phone. I can call and get him help. He’s shot. There’s blood on the… it’s everywhere.”

“Okay, James, okay,” McCaleb said, interrupting him for the first time. “That’s good. Now what I want you to do is take your special remote and back up the picture on the TV until the point that you first see the car coming out of the bank’s parking lot. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now start it again, only this time run it in slow motion. Very slow, so you can see everything. Are you running it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I want you to freeze it when you get the best view of the car coming at you.”

McCaleb waited.

“Okay, I got it.”

“Okay, good. Can you tell us what kind of car it is?”

“Yes. Black Cherokee. It’s pretty dusty.”

“Can you tell what year?”

“No, it’s the newer kind. The Grand Cherokee.”

“Can you see the side of the Cherokee?”

“Yes.”

“How many doors?”

It was a small test to make sure Noone was reporting what he had seen, not what he had been told. McCaleb remembered from the crime scene tape that the deputy who had first interviewed Noone had told him the newer styling on the Cherokee indicated it was the Grand Cherokee model. McCaleb had to confirm the identification of the vehicle and he knew the Grand Cherokee came only in a four-door model.

“Um, two on the side,” Noone said. “It’s a four-door.”

“Good. Now come around to the front. Do you see any damage to the car. Any dents or noticeable scratches?”

“No.”

“Is there any striping on the car?”

“Mmm, no.”

“How about the bumper? Can you see the front bumper?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I want you to take your remote and zoom in on that bumper. Can you see the license plate?”

“No.”

“Why not, James?”

“It’s covered.”

“What’s covering it?”

“Uh, there’s a T-shirt on it. It’s wrapped around the bumper so it covers the plate. Looks like a T-shirt.”

McCaleb glanced over at Winston and could see the disappointment on her face. He pressed on.

“Okay, James, take your remote and zoom up into the car, can you do that?”

“Okay.”

“How many people are in that Cherokee?”

“One. The driver.”

“All right, zoom in on him. Tell me what you see.”

“Can’t really.”

“Why not? What’s wrong?”

“The lights. He’s got the brights on. The glare is too much, I can’t-”

“Okay, James, what I want you to do is take the remote and move the picture. Go back and forth until you have the best view of the driver. Tell me when you have that.”

McCaleb looked back at Winston and she looked back with raised eyebrows. They both knew that they would soon find out if this had been worth it or not.

“Okay,” James said.

“Okay, you’re seeing the driver.”

“Yes.”

“Tell us what he looks like. What color is his skin?”

“He’s white but he has a hat and the brim is down. He’s looking downward and the brim covers his face.”

“All of his face?”

“No. I see his mouth.”

“Does he have a beard or mustache?”

“No.”

“Can you see his teeth?”

“No, his mouth is closed.”

“Can you see his eyes?”

“No. That hat is in the way.”

McCaleb sat back and released his breath in frustration. He couldn’t believe this. Noone was a perfect subject. He was in a deep trance and yet they couldn’t get from him what they needed, a direct look at the shooter.

“Okay, are you sure this is the best view of him?”

“I’m sure.”

“Can you see any of his hair?”

“Yes.”

“What color is it?”

“Dark, like a dark brown or maybe black.”

“What length, can you tell?”

“It looks short.”

“What about the hat? Describe the hat.”

“It’s a baseball hat, and it’s gray. Washed-out gray.”

“Okay, is there any writing on the hat or a team logo?”

“There’s a design, like a symbol.”

“Can you describe it?”

“It’s like letters overlapping each other.”

“What letters?”

“It looks like a C with a line cut through. A one or a capital I or a small L. And then there’s a circle-I mean an oval-around the whole thing.”

McCaleb was silent for a moment thinking about this.

“James,” he then said, “if I give you something to draw on, do you think you could open your eyes and draw this design for us?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I want you to open your eyes.”

McCaleb stood up. Winston had already turned the pad she had on a clipboard to a fresh page. McCaleb took it and her pen and handed both to Noone.

Noone’s eyes were open and staring blankly at the pad as he drew. He then handed it back. The drawing was as he had described it, a vertical line slashing down through a large C. This design was then captured in an oval, McCaleb handed the pad back to Winston, who briefly held it up to the mirrored window so those watching on video could see.

“Okay, James, that was good. Now close your eyes and look at the picture of the driver again. You got it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see either of his ears?”

“One. His right.”

“Is there anything unusual?”

“No.”

“No earring?”

“No.”

“What about below the ear? His neck, can you see his neck?”

“Yes.”

“Anything unusual there? What do you see?”

“Uh, nothing. Uh, his neck. Just his neck.”

“This is his right side?”

“Yes, right.”

“No tattoo on his neck?”

“No. No tattoo.”

McCaleb blew out his breath again. He had just effectively eliminated Bolotov as a suspect after spending the day building him as one.

“Okay,” he said in a resigned voice, “what about his hands, can you see his hands?”

“On the steering wheel. They’re holding the wheel.”

“See anything unusual? Anything on his fingers?”

“No.”

“No rings?”

“No.”

“Is he wearing a watch?”

“A watch, yes.”

“What kind?”

“I can’t see. I see the band.”

“What kind of band? What color?”

“It’s black.”

“Which wrist is it on, his left or right?”

“His… right. His right.”

“Okay, can you see and describe any of his clothing?”

“Just his shirt. It’s dark. A dark blue sweatshirt.”

McCaleb tried to think of what else to ask. His disappointment in not being able to come up with a substantial lead so far was crowding his focus. Finally, he thought of something he had passed over.