Michael Connelly - City Of Bones

Bosch started putting the warrant back into his inside coat pocket.

“What’s this about?” Delacroix asked in muted protest. “Can I at least see that thing?”

“Are you Samuel Delacroix?” Bosch replied quickly.

“Yes.”

“This is your trailer, correct, sir?”

“It’s my trailer. I lease the spot. I want to read the-”

“Mr. Delacroix,” Edgar said. “We’d rather not stand out here in the view of your neighbors discussing this. I’m sure you don’t want that either. Are you going to allow us to lawfully execute the search warrant or not?”

Delacroix looked from Bosch to Edgar and then back to Bosch. He nodded his head.

“I guess so.”

Bosch was first onto the stoop. He entered, squeezing by Delacroix on the threshold and picking up the odor of bourbon and bad breath and cat urine.

“Starting early, Mr. Delacroix?”

“Yeah, I’ve had a drink,” Delacroix said with a mixture of so-what and self-loathing in his voice. “I’m done my work. I’m entitled.”

Edgar came in then, a much tighter squeeze past Delacroix, and he and Bosch scanned what they could see of the dimly lit trailer. To the right from the doorway was the living room. It was wood paneled and had a green Naugahyde couch and a coffee table with pieces of the wood veneer scraped off, exposing the particleboard beneath. There was a matching lamp table with no lamp on it and a television stand with a TV awkwardly stacked on top of a videocassette recorder. There were several videotapes stacked on top of the television. Across from the coffee table was an old recliner with its shoulders torn open-probably by a cat-and stuffing leaking out. Under the coffee table was a stack of newspapers, most of them gossip tabloids with blaring headlines.

To the left was a galley-style kitchen with sink, cabinets, stove, oven and refrigerator on one side and a four-person dining booth on the right. There was a bottle of Ancient Age bourbon on the table. On the floor under the table were a few crumbs of cat food on a plate and an old plastic margarine tub half full of water. There was no sign of the cat, other than the smell of its urine.

Beyond the kitchen was a narrow hallway leading back to one or two bedrooms and a bathroom.

“Let’s leave the door open and open up a few windows,” Bosch said. “Mr. Delacroix, why don’t you sit down on the couch there?”

Delacroix moved toward the couch and said, “Look, you don’t have to search the place. I know why you’re here.”

Bosch glanced at Edgar and then at Delacroix.

“Yeah?” Edgar said. “Why are we here?”

Delacroix dropped himself heavily into the middle of the couch. The springs were shot. He sank into the midsection, and the ends of the cushion on either side of him rose into the air like the bows of twin Titanics going down.

“The gas,” Delacroix said. “And I hardly used any of it. I don’t go anywhere but back and forth from the range. I have a restricted license because of my DUI.”

“The gas?” Edgar asked. “What are-”

“Mr. Delacroix, we’re not here about you stealing gas,” Bosch said.

He picked up one of the videotapes off the stack on the television. There was tape on the spine with writing on it. First Infantry, episode 46. He put it back down and glanced at the writing on some of the other tapes. They were all episodes of the television show Delacroix had worked on as an actor more than thirty years before.

“That’s not really our gig,” he added, without looking at Delacroix.

“Then what? What do you want?”

Now Bosch looked at him.

“We’re here about your son.”

Delacroix stared at him for a long moment, his mouth slowly coming open and exposing his yellowed teeth.

“Arthur,” he finally said.

“Yeah. We found him.”

Delacroix’s eyes dropped from Bosch’s and seemed to leave the trailer as he studied a far-off memory. In his look was knowledge. Bosch saw it. His instincts told him that what they would tell Delacroix next he would already know. He glanced over at Edgar to see if he had seen it. Edgar gave a single short nod.

Bosch looked back at the man on the couch.

“You don’t seem very excited for a father who hasn’t seen his son in more than twenty years,” he said.

Delacroix looked at him.

“I guess that’s because I know he’s dead.”

Bosch studied him for a long moment, his breath holding in his lungs.

“Why would you say that? What would make you think that?”

“Because I know. I’ve known all along.”

“What have you known?”

“That he wasn’t coming back.”

This wasn’t going the way of any of the scenarios Bosch had imagined. It seemed to him that Delacroix had been waiting for them, expecting them, maybe for years. He decided that they might have to change the strategy and arrest Delacroix and advise him of his rights.

“Am I under arrest?” Delacroix asked, as if he had joined Bosch in his thoughts.

Bosch glanced at Edgar again, wondering if his partner had sensed how their plan was now slipping away from them.

“We thought we might want to talk first. You know, informally.”

“You might as well arrest me,” Delacroix said quietly.

“You think so? Does that mean you don’t want to talk to us?”

Delacroix shook his head slowly and went into the long-distance stare again.

“No, I’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Tell us about what?”

“How it happened.”

“How what happened?”

“My son.”

“You know how it happened?”

“Sure I know. I did it.”

Bosch almost cursed out loud. Their suspect had literally just confessed before they had advised him of his rights, including the right to avoid giving self-incriminating statements.

“Mr. Delacroix, we’re going to cut this off right here. I am going to advise you of your rights now.”

“I just want to-”

“No, please, sir, don’t say anything else. Not yet. Let’s get this rights thing taken care of and then we’ll be more than happy to listen to anything you want to tell us.”

Delacroix waved a hand like it didn’t matter to him, like nothing mattered.

“Jerry, where’s your recorder? I never got mine back from IAD.”

“Uh, in the car. I don’t know about the batteries, though.”

“Go check.”

Edgar left the trailer and Bosch waited in silence. Delacroix put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Bosch studied his posture. It didn’t happen often, but it wouldn’t be the first time he had scored a confession during his first meeting with a suspect.

Edgar came back in with a tape recorder but shook his head.

“Batteries are dead. I thought you had yours.”

“Shit. Then take notes.”

Bosch took out his badge case and took out one of his business cards. He’d had them made with the Miranda rights advisory printed on the back, along with a signature line. He read the advisory statement and asked Delacroix if he understood his rights. Delacroix nodded his head.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes.”

“Then sign on the line beneath what I just read to you.”

He gave Delacroix the card and a pen. Once it was signed, Bosch returned the card to his badge wallet. He stepped over and sat on the edge of the recliner chair.

“Now, Mr. Delacroix, do you want to repeat what you just said to us a few minutes ago?”

Delacroix shrugged like it was no big deal.

“I killed my son. Arthur. I killed him. I knew you people would show up someday. It took a long time.”

Bosch looked over at Edgar. He was writing in a notebook. They would have some record of Delacroix’s admission. He looked back at the suspect and waited, hoping the silence would be an invitation for Delacroix to say more. But he didn’t. Instead, the suspect buried his face in his hands again. His shoulders soon began shaking as he started to cry.