Michael Connelly - The Poet

I noticed his use of the diminutive of her name. There was something intimate about it.

"Why her?" I asked.

" 'Cause she's in Florida."

He looked up from the receipt at me. He was smiling.

"Didn't I tell you?"

"No, you didn't tell me."

"Yeah, Backus sent her out this morning. She went to see Horace the Hypnotist and work with the Florida team. Tell you what, let's stop in the lobby and use the phone, see if I can get somebody to get this account number to her."

Very little was said between us on the way out from downtown to Santa Monica. I was thinking about Rachel in Florida. I couldn't understand why Backus would send her when the front line seemed to be out here. There were two possibilities, I decided. One was that Rachel was being disciplined for some reason, possibly me, and taken off the front line. The other was that there was some new break in the case I didn't know about and was purposely not being told. Either choice was a bad one, but I found myself secretly choosing the first.

Thorson seemed lost in thought during most of the drive, or perhaps just tired of being around me. But when we parked out front of the Santa Monica Police Department, he answered the question I had before I even asked it.

"We just need to pick up the property they took from Gladden when he was arrested. We want to consolidate it all."

"And they're going to let you do that?"

I knew how small departments, in fact, all departments, tended to react to being bigfooted by the Big G.

"We'll see."

At the front counter of the detective bureau, we were told that Constance Delpy was in court but her partner, Ron Sweetzer, would be with us shortly. Shortly to Sweetzer turned out to be ten minutes. A period of time that didn't sit well with Thorson. I got the idea that the FBI, in the embodiment of Gordon Thorson at least, didn't appreciate having to wait for anybody, especially a small-town gold badge.

When Sweetzer finally appeared, he stood behind the counter and asked how he could help us. He gave me a second glance, probably computing how my beard and clothes did not jibe with his image of the FBI. He said nothing and made no movement that could have been translated as an invitation back to his office. Thorson responded in kind with short sentences and his own brand of rudeness. He took a folded white page from his inside pocket and spread it on the counter.

"That's the property inventory from the arrest of William Gladden, AKA Harold Brisbane. I'm here to accept custody of the property."

"What are you talking about?" Sweetzer said.

"I'm talking about what I just said. The FBI has entered the case and is heading the nationwide investigation of William Gladden. We need to have some experts look over what you've got here."

"Wait a minute, Mr. Agent. We've got our own experts and we've got a case against this guy. We're not turning over the evidence to anybody. Not without a court order or the DA's approval."

Thorson took a deep breath but he seemed to me to be going through an act he had performed countless times before. The bully who comes into town and picks on the little guy.

"First of all," he said, "you know and I know your case is for shit. And secondly, we're not talking about evidence, anyway. You've got a camera, a bag of candy. That's not evidence of anything. He's charged with fleeing an officer, vandalism and polluting a waterway. Where's the camera come into it?"

Sweetzer started to say something, then stopped, apparently stymied for a reply.

"Just wait here, please?"

Sweetzer started away from the computer.

"I don't have all day, Detective," Thorson said after him. "I'm trying to catch this guy. Too bad he's still on the loose."

Sweetzer angrily swung around.

"What's that supposed to mean? What the fuck does that mean?"

Thorson held his hands up in a no-harm gesture.

"Means exactly what you think it means. Now go ahead, get your CO. I'll talk to him now."

Sweetzer left and in two minutes returned with a man ten years older, thirty pounds heavier and twice as angry.

"What's the problem here?" he said in a short, clipped voice.

"There's no problem, Captain."

"It's Lieutenant."

"Oh, well, Lieutenant, your man here seems confused. I've explained that the FBI has stepped into the investigation of William Gladden and is working hand in hand with the Los Angeles police and other departments across the country. The bureau also extends that hand to Santa Monica. But Detective Sweetzer seems to think that by holding on to the property seized from Mr. Gladden, he is helping the investigation and eventual capture of Mr. Gladden. In reality, he is impeding our efforts. I'm surprised, frankly, to be treated this way. I've got a member of the national media with me and I didn't expect that he'd see something like this."

Thorson gestured toward me and Sweetzer and his lieutenant studied me. I felt myself getting angry at being used. The lieutenant looked from me back to Thorson.

"What we don't understand is why you need to take this property. I've looked at the inventory. It's a camera, a pair of sunglasses, a duffel bag and a bag of candy, that's it. No film, no pictures. Why does the FBI have to take this from us?"

"Have you submitted candy samples to a chemical analysis lab?"

The lieutenant looked at Sweetzer, who shook his head slightly as if it were some kind of secret signal.

"We will do that, Lieutenant," Thorson said. "To determine if the candy was in any way doctored. And the camera. You are not aware of this but there have been some photos recovered in our investigation. I cannot go into the content of these photos but suffice it to say they are of a highly illegal nature. But the point is, analysis of these photos shows an imperfection in the lens of the camera with which these photos were taken. It's like a fingerprint on every photo. We can match those photos to a camera. But we need the camera to do it. If you allow us to take it and we make a match, we will be able to prove this man took the photos. There will then be additional charges when we catch him. It will also help us determine exactly what this man has been up to. This is why we request that you turn this property over. Really, gentlemen, we want the same thing."

The lieutenant didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he turned and started away from the counter. To Sweetzer, he said, "Make sure you get a chain-of-evidence receipt."

Sweetzer's face fell and he followed the lieutenant away from the counter, not protesting but whispering something about not getting the explanation Thorson had just made before dragging the lieutenant into it. After both of them had turned a corner back into the bureau, I moved up next to Thorson at the counter so I could whisper.

"Next time you're going to use me like that, give me some warning," I said. "I don't appreciate it at all."

Thorson smirked.

"The good investigator uses any and all tools available to him. You were available."

"Is that true about photos being recovered and camera analysis?"

"Sounded good, didn't it?"

The only way Sweetzer could salvage any kind of pride from the transaction was to leave us waiting at the counter for another ten minutes. Finally, he came out with a cardboard box and slid it across the counter. He then told Thorson to sign a property receipt. Thorson started to open the box first. Sweetzer put his hand on the lid to stop him.

"It's all there," Sweetzer said. "Just sign the receipt so I can get back to work. I'm busy."

Thorson, having won the war, gave him the last battle and signed the receipt. "I trust you. It's all in here."

"You know, I used to want to be an FBI agent."

"Well, don't feel bad about it. Lot of people fail the test."