Michael Connelly - The Concrete Blonde

“What?”

“Bigfooting, I think it’s called. You didn’t want the FBI coming in and taking over, right?”

“No. It was like I said, we were okay without them.”

“Isn’t it true that the LAPD and the FBI have a long-standing history of jealousies and competitiveness that has resulted in the two agencies rarely communicating or working together?”

“No, I don’t buy that.”

It didn’t matter if he bought it. Bosch knew she was making her points with the jury. Whether they bought it was the only thing that mattered.

“Your task force came up with a suspect profile, correct?”

“Yes. I believe I just mentioned that.”

She asked Judge Keyes if she could approach the witness with a document she said was plaintiff’s exhibit 1A. She handed it to the clerk, who handed it to Lloyd.

“What is that, Lieutenant?”

“This is a composite drawing and the psychological profile we came up with after, I think, the seventh killing.”

“How did you come up with the drawing of the suspect?”

“Between the seventh and eighth victims, we had an intended victim who managed to survive. She was able to get away from the man and call the police. Working with this survivor, we came up with the drawing.”

“Okay, are you familiar with the facial appearance of Norman Church?”

“Not to a great extent. I saw him after he was dead.”

Chandler asked to approach again and submitted plaintiff’s 2A, a collage of several photographs of Church taped to a piece of cardboard. She gave Lloyd a few moments to study them.

“Do you see any resemblance between the composite drawing and the photographs of Mr. Church?”

Lloyd hesitated and then said, “Our killer was known to wear disguises and our witness-the victim who got away-was a drug user. She was a porno actress. She wasn’t reliable.”

“Your Honor, can you instruct the witness to answer the questions that are asked?”

The judge did so.

“No,” Lloyd said, his head bowed after being chastised. “No resemblance.”

“Okay,” Chandler said, “going back to the profile you have there. Where did that come from?”

“Primarily from Dr. Locke at USC and Dr. Shafer, an LAPD staff psychiatrist. I think they consulted with some others before writing it up.”

“Can you read that first paragraph?”

“Yes. It says, ‘Subject is believed to be a white male, twenty-five to thirty-five years old with minimal college education. He is a physically strong man though may not be large in appearance. He lives alone, alienated from family and friends. He is reacting to a deep-rooted hatred of women suggesting an abusive mother or female guardian. His painting of the faces of his victims with makeup is his attempt to remake women into an image that pleases him, that smiles at him. They become dolls, not threats.’ Do you want me to read the part that outlines the repetitive traits of the killings?”

“No, that is not necessary. You were involved in the investigation of Mr. Church after he was killed by Bosch, correct?”

“Correct.”

“List for the jury all of the traits in the suspect profile that your task force found that matched Mr. Church.”

Lloyd looked down at the paper in his hands for a long time without speaking.

“I’ll help you get started, Lieutenant,” Chandler said. “He was a white male, correct?”

“Yes.”

“What else is similar? Did he live alone?”

“No.”

“He actually had a wife and two daughters, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Was he between twenty-five and thirty-five years old?”

“No.”

“Actually, he was thirty-nine years old, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have a minimal education?”

“No.”

“Actually, he had a master’s degree in mechanical engineering, didn’t he?”

“Then what was he doing there in that room?” Lloyd said angrily. “Why was the makeup from the victims there? Why-”

“Answer the question asked of you, Lieutenant,” Judge Keyes interjected. “Don’t go asking questions. That isn’t your job here.”

“Sorry, Your Honor,” Lloyd said. “Yes, he had a master’s degree. I’m not sure exactly what it was for.”

“You mentioned the makeup in your nonresponsive answer a moment ago,” Chandler said. “What did you mean?”

“In the garage apartment where Church was killed. Makeup that belonged to nine of the victims was found in a cabinet in the bathroom. It tied him directly to those cases. Nine of eleven-it was convincing.”

“Who found the makeup in there?”

“Harry Bosch did.”

“When he went there alone and killed him.”

“Is that a question?”

“No, Lieutenant. I withdraw it.”

She paused to let the jury think about that while she flipped through her yellow pages.

“Lieutenant Lloyd, tell us about that night. What happened?”

Lloyd told the story as it had been described dozens of times before. On TV, in newspapers, in Bremmer’s book. It was midnight, squad B was going off shift when the task force hot line rang and Bosch took the call, the last of the night. A street prostitute named Dixie McQueen said she had just escaped from the Dollmaker. Bosch went alone because the others on squad B had gone home and he figured it might be another dead end. He picked the woman up at Hollywood and Western and followed her directions into Silverlake. On Hyperion she convinced Bosch she had escaped from the Dollmaker and pointed to the lighted windows of an apartment over a garage. Bosch went up alone. A few moments later Norman Church was dead.

“He kicked open the door?” Chandler asked.

“Yes. There was the thought that maybe he had gone and gotten somebody to take the prostitute’s place.”

“Did he shout that he was police?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so.”

“Any witnesses hear it?”

“No.”

“What about Miss McQueen, the prostitute?”

“No. Bosch had kept her in the car parked on the street in case there was trouble.”

“So what you’re saying is we have Detective Bosch’s word that he feared there might be another victim, that he identified himself and that Mr. Church made a threatening move toward the pillow.”

“Yes,” Lloyd said reluctantly.

“I notice, Lieutenant Lloyd, that you wear a toupee yourself.”

There was some muffled laughter from the back. Bosch turned and saw that the media contingent was steadily growing. He saw Bremmer sitting in the gallery now.

“Yes,” Lloyd said. His face had turned red to match his nose.

“Have you ever put your toupee under your pillow? Is that the proper care for it?”

“No.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Judge Keyes looked at the clock at the wall and then at Belk.

“What do you think, Mr. Belk? Break for lunch now so you won’t be interrupted?”

“I only have one question.”

“Oh, then by all means, ask it.”

Belk took his pad to the lectern and leaned to the microphone.

“Lieutenant Lloyd, from all of your knowledge about this case, do you have any doubt whatsoever that Norman Church was the Dollmaker?”

“None at all. None… at… all.”

After the jury filed out, Bosch leaned to Belk’s ear and urgently whispered, “What was that? She tore him up and you asked only one question. What about all the other things that tied Church to the case?”

Belk held up his hand to calm Bosch and then spoke calmly.

“Because you are going to testify about all of that. This case is about you, Harry. We either win it or lose it with you.”

The Code Seven had closed its dining room during the recession and somebody put a salad and pizza bar in the space to serve the office workers from the civic center. The Seven’s barroom was still open but the dining room had been the last place within walking distance of Parker Center that Bosch had liked to eat at. So during the lunch break he got his car out of the lot at Parker and drove over to the garment district to eat at Gorky’s. The Russian restaurant served breakfast all day and he ordered the eggs, bacon and potatoes special and took it to a table where someone had left behind a copy of the Times .