Michael Connelly - City Of Bones

“What’s it have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you tell me.”

Bosch didn’t answer. He worked hard not to show the fury building inside.

“Well, first off, this relationship of yours was a violation of department policy,” Gilmore said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“She’s in patrol. I’m in detective services.”

“You think that matters? That doesn’t matter. You’re a D-three. That’s supervisor level. She’s a grunt and a rookie no less. If this was the military you’d get a dishonorable just for starters. Maybe even some custody time.”

“But this is the LAPD. So what’s it get me, a promotion?”

That was the first offensive move Bosch had made. It was a warning to Gilmore to go another way. It was a veiled reference to several well-known and not so well-known dalliances between high-ranking officers and members of the rank and file. It was known that the police union, which represented the rank and file to the level of sergeant, was waiting with the goods ready to challenge any disciplinary action taken under the department’s so-called sexual harassment policy.

“I don’t need any smart remarks from you,” Gilmore said. “I’m trying to conduct an investigation here.”

He followed this with an extended drum roll while he looked at the few notes he had written on his pad. What he was doing, Bosch knew, was conducting a reverse investigation. Start with a conclusion and then gather only the facts that support it.

“How are your eyes?” Gilmore finally asked without looking up.

“One of them still stings like a son of a bitch. They feel like poached eggs.”

“Now, you say that Stokes hit you in the face with a shot from his bottle of cleaner.”

“Correct.”

“And it momentarily blinded you.”

“Correct.”

Now Gilmore stood up and started pacing in the small space behind his chair.

“How long between the moment you were blinded and when you were down in that dark garage and supposedly saw her shoot herself?”

Bosch thought for a moment.

“Well, I used a hose to wash my eyes, then I followed the pursuit. I would say not more than five minutes. But not too much less.”

“So you went from blind man to eagle scout-able to see everything-inside of five minutes.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it like that but you have the time right.”

“Well, at least I got something right. Thank you.”

“No problem, Lieutenant.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t see the struggle for control of Officer Brasher’s gun before the shot occurred. Is that correct?”

He had his hands clasped behind his back, the pencil between two fingers like a cigarette. Bosch leaned across the table. He understood the game of semantics Gilmore was playing.

“Don’t play with the words, Lieutenant. There was no struggle. I saw no struggle because there was no struggle. If there had been a struggle I would have seen it. Is that clear enough for you?”

Gilmore didn’t respond. He kept pacing.

“Look,” Bosch said, “why don’t you just go do a GSR test on Stokes? His hands, his jumpsuit. You won’t find anything. That should end this pretty quick.”

Gilmore came back to his chair and leaned down on it. He looked at Bosch and shook his head.

“You know, Detective, I would love to do that. Normally in a situation like this, first thing we’d do is look for gunshot residue. The problem is, you broke the box. You took it upon yourself to take Stokes out of the crime scene and bring him back here. The chain of evidence was broken, you understand that? He could’ve washed himself, changed his clothes, I don’t know what else, because you took it upon yourself to take him from the crime scene.”

Bosch was ready for that.

“I felt there was a safety issue there. My partner will back me on that. So will Stokes. And he was never out of my custody and control until you came busting in here.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you thought your case was more important than us getting the facts about a shooting of an officer of this department, does it?”

Bosch had no answer for that. But he was now coming to a full understanding of what Gilmore was doing. It was important for him and the department to conclude and be able to announce that Brasher was shot during a struggle for control of her gun. It was heroic that way. And it was something the department public relations machine could take advantage of and run with. There was nothing like the shooting of a good cop-a female rookie, no less-in the line of duty to help remind the public of all that was good and noble about their police department and all that was dangerous about the police officer’s duty.

The alternative, to announce that Brasher had shot herself accidentally-or even something worse-would be an embarrassment for the department. One more in a long line of public relations fiascos.

Standing in the way of the conclusion Gilmore-and therefore Irving and the department brass-wanted was Stokes, of course, and then Bosch. Stokes was no problem. A convicted felon facing prison time for shooting a cop, whatever he said would be self-serving and unimportant. But Bosch was an eyewitness with a badge. Gilmore had to change his account or failing that, taint it. The first soft spot to attack was Bosch’s physical condition-considering what had been thrown in his eyes, could he actually have seen what he claimed to have seen? The second move was to go after Bosch the detective. In order to preserve Stokes as a witness in his murder case, would Bosch go so far as to lie about seeing Stokes shoot a cop?

To Bosch, it was so outlandish as to be bizarre. But over the years he had seen even worse things happen to cops who had stepped in front of the machinery that produced the image of the department that was delivered to the public.

“Wait a minute, you-” Bosch said, able to hold himself from calling a superior officer an expletive. “If you’re trying to say I would lie about Stokes shooting Julia-uh, Officer Brasher-so he would stay in the clear for my case, then you-with all due respect-are out of your fucking mind.”

“Detective Bosch, I am exploring all possibilities here. It is my job to do so.”

“Well, you can explore them without me.”

Bosch stood up and went to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m done with this.”

He glanced at the mirror and opened the door, then looked back at Gilmore.

“I got news for you, Lieutenant. Your theory is for shit. Stokes is nothing to my case. A zero. Julia getting shot, it was for nothing.”

“But you didn’t know that until you got him in here, did you?”

Bosch looked at him and then slowly shook his head.

“Have a good day, Lieutenant.”

He turned to go through the door and almost stepped into Irving. The deputy chief stood ramrod straight in the hallway outside the room.

“Step back inside for a moment, Detective,” he said calmly. “Please.”

Bosch backed into the room. Irving followed him in.

“Lieutenant, give us some space here,” the deputy chief said. “And I want everyone out of the viewing room as well.”

He pointed at the mirror as he said this.

“Yes, sir,” Gilmore said and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Take your seat again,” Irving said.

Bosch moved back to the seat facing the mirror. Irving remained standing. After a moment he also started pacing, moving back and forth in front of the mirror, a double image for Bosch to track.

“We are going to call the shooting accidental,” Irving said, not looking at Bosch. “Officer Brasher apprehended the suspect and while reholstering her weapon inadvertently fired the shot.”