Michael Connelly - City Of Bones

Bosch knew that with rush hour traffic out of downtown it would still be a minimum of forty-five minutes before the prosecutor got to the station. He told O’Brien the prosecutor was welcome but that he wasn’t going to wait for anyone before taking the suspect’s confession. O’Brien suggested he should.

“Look, this guy wants to talk,” Bosch said. “In forty-five minutes or an hour it could be a different story. We can’t wait. Tell your guy to knock on the door at room three when he gets here. We’ll bring him into it as soon as we can.”

In a perfect world the prosecutor would be there for an interview but Bosch knew from years working cases that a guilty conscience doesn’t always stay guilty. When someone tells you they want to confess to a killing, you don’t wait. You turn on the tape recorder and say, “Tell me all about it.”

O’Brien reluctantly agreed, citing her own experiences, and they hung up. Bosch immediately picked the phone back up and called Internal Affairs and asked for Carol Bradley. He was transferred.

“This is Bosch, Hollywood Division, where’s my damn tape recorder?”

There was silence in response.

“Bradley? Hello? Are you-”

“I’m here. I have your recorder here.”

“Why did you take it? I told you to listen to the tape. I didn’t say take my machine, I don’t need it anymore.”

“I wanted to review it and have the tape checked, to make sure it was continuous.”

“Then open it up and take the tape. Don’t take the machine.”

“Detective, sometimes they need the original recorder to authenticate the tape.”

Bosch shook his head in frustration.

“Jesus, why are you doing this? You know who the leak is, why are you wasting time?”

Again there was a pause before she answered.

“I needed to cover all bases. Detective, I need to run my investigation the way I see fit.”

Now Bosch paused for a moment, wondering if he was missing something, if there was something else going on. He finally decided he couldn’t worry about it. He had to keep his eyes on the prize. His case.

“Cover the bases, that’s great,” he said. “Well, I almost lost a confession today because I didn’t have my machine. I would appreciate it if you would get it back to me.”

“I’m finished with it and am putting it in inter-office dispatch right now.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.”

He hung up, just as Edgar showed up at the table with three cups of coffee. It made Bosch think of something they should do.

“Who’s got the watch down there?” he asked.

“Mankiewicz was in there,” Edgar said. “So was Young.”

Bosch poured the coffee from the Styrofoam container into the mug he got out of his drawer. He then picked up the phone and dialed the watch office. Mankiewicz answered.

“You got anybody in the bat cave?”

“Bosch? I thought you might take some time off.”

“You thought wrong. What about the cave?”

“No, nobody till about eight today. What do you need?”

“I’m about to take a confession and don’t want any lawyer to be able to open the box once I wrap it. My guy smells like Ancient Age but I think he’s straight. I’d like to make a record of it, just the same.”

“This the bones case?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring him down and I’ll do it. I’m certified.”

“Thanks, Mank.”

He hung up and looked at Edgar.

“Let’s take him down to the cave and see what he blows. Just to be safe.”

“Good idea.”

They took their coffees into interview room 3, where they had earlier shackled Delacroix to the table’s center ring. They released him from the cuffs and let him take a few gulps of his coffee before walking him down the back hallway to the station’s small jail facility. The jail essentially consisted of two large holding cells for drunks and prostitutes. Arrestees of a higher order were usually transported to the main city or county jail. There was a small third cell that was known as the bat cave, as in blood alcohol testing.

They met Mankiewicz in the hallway and followed him to the cave, where he turned on the Breathalyzer and instructed Delacroix to blow into a clear plastic tube attached to the machine. Bosch noticed that Mankiewicz had a black mourning ribbon across his badge for Brasher.

In a few minutes they had the result. Delacroix blew a.003, not even close to the legal limit for driving. There was no standard set for giving a confession to murder.

As they took Delacroix out of the tank Bosch felt Mankiewicz tap his arm from behind. He turned to face him while Edgar headed back up the hallway with Delacroix.

Mankiewicz nodded.

“Harry, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You know, about what happened out there.”

Bosch knew he was talking about Brasher. He nodded back.

“Yeah, thanks. It’s a tough one.”

“I had to put her out there, you know. I knew she was green but-”

“Hey, Mank, you did the right thing. Don’t second-guess anything.”

Mankiewicz nodded.

“I gotta go,” Bosch said.

While Edgar returned Delacroix to his spot in the interview room Bosch went into the viewing room, focused the video camera through the one-way glass and put in a new cassette he took from the supply cabinet. He then turned on the camera as well as the backup sound recorder. Everything was set. He went back into the interview room to finish wrapping the package.

BOSCH identified the three occupants of the interview room and announced the date and time, even though both of these would be printed on the lower frame of the video being recorded of the session. He put a rights waiver form on the table and told Delacroix he wanted to advise him one more time of his rights. When he was finished he asked Delacroix to sign the form and then moved it to the side of the table. He took a gulp of coffee and started.

“Mr. Delacroix, earlier today you expressed to me a desire to talk about what happened to your son, Arthur, in nineteen eighty. Do you still wish to speak to us about that?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start with the basic questions and then we can go back and cover everything else. Did you cause the death of your son, Arthur Delacroix?”

“Yes, I did.”

He said it without hesitation or emotion.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Yes.”

“When did this occur?”

“It was in May, I think, of nineteen eighty. I think that’s when it was. You people probably know more about it than me.”

“Please don’t assume that. Please answer each question to the best of your ability and recollection.”

“I’ll try.”

“Where was your son killed?”

“In the house where we lived at the time. In his room.”

“How was he killed? Did you strike him?”

“Uh, yes. I…”

Delacroix’s businesslike approach to the interview suddenly eroded and his face seemed to close in on itself. He used the heels of his palms to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

“You struck him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“All over, I guess.”

“Including the head?”

“Yes.”

“This was in his room, you said?”

“Yes, his room.”

“What did you hit him with?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you use your fists or an object of some kind?”

“Yes, both. My hands and an object.”

“What was the object you struck your son with?”

“I really can’t remember. I’ll have to… it was just something he had there. In his room. I have to think.”

“We can come back to it, Mr. Delacroix. Why on that day did you-first of all, when did it happen? What time of day?”