Michael Connelly (63 page)

R/O #1101 had recently reported code seven and parked behind the location with the intention of entering to eat. Victim was
viewed on the eastern side of the dumpster. Body was laying in a supine position, head to the north and feet to the south.
Extensive injuries were readily noticeable and R/O notified the watch commander that a homicide callout was necessary. R/O
saw no other individuals in the vicinity of the dumpster before or after the body was located.

Bosch looked through the binder for a summary filed by the reporting officer but there was none. He next reviewed the other
photos in the binder. These were of the body in place, before the techs had moved it to the morgue.

Bosch could see the victim’s scalp had been rent open by one vicious blow. There were also wounds on the face and dried black
blood on the neck and all over the once-white T-shirt the man was wearing. The dead man’s hands lay open at his sides. In
close-ups of the hands, Bosch saw two fingers on the right hand bent backward in compound fractures — classic defense wounds.
Aside from the wounds, Bosch noted the rough and scarred hands and the ropey muscles that went up the arms. He had been a
worker of some kind. What had he been doing in the alley behind the diner at one o’clock in the morning?

Next in the binder were witness statements taken from employees at the Egg and I. They were all men, which seemed wrong to
Bosch because he had eaten at the Egg and I on several early mornings and remembered that there were always waitresses working
the tables. Porter had apparently decided they were unimportant and concentrated only on the kitchen help. Each of the men
interviewed said he did not recall seeing the victim in life or death.

Porter had scribbled a star on the top of one of the statements. It was from a fry cook who had reported to work at 1
A.M.
and had walked right past the east side of the Dumpster and through the kitchen door. He had seen no body on the ground and
was sure he would have seen one if there had been one to see when he made his entrance.

That had helped Porter set the timing of the slaying to sometime during the forty-four-minute window between the arrivals
of the fry cook and the police officer who found the body.

Next in the file were printouts from LAPD, National Crime Index, California Department of Justice, and Immigration and Naturalization
Service computer runs on the victim’s fingerprints. All four were negative. No matches. Juan Doe #67 remained unidentified.

At the back of the binder were notes Porter had taken during the autopsy, which had not been conducted until Tuesday, Christmas
Eve, because of the usual backlog of cases at the coroner’s office. Bosch realized that it might have been Porter’s last official
duty to watch one more body be cut up. He didn’t come back to work after the holiday.

Perhaps Porter knew he would not return, for his notes were sparse, just a single page with a few thoughts jotted down. Some
of them Bosch could not read. Other notes he could understand but they were meaningless. But near the bottom of the page Porter
had circled a notation that said, “TOD — 12 to 6
P.M.
”

Bosch knew the notation meant that, based on the rate of decrease in liver temperature and other appearances of the body,
the time of death was likely to have been between noon and 6
P.M.
, but no later than 6
P.M.

This did not make sense, Bosch thought at first. That put the time of death at least seven and a half hours before the discovery
of the body. It also did not jibe with the fry cook not seeing any body by the Dumpster at 1
A.M.

These contradictions were the reason Porter had circled the notation. It meant Juan Doe #67 had not been killed behind the
diner. It meant he was killed somewhere else, nearly half a day earlier, and then dumped behind the diner.

He took a notebook out of his pocket and began to make a list of people he wanted to talk to. First on the list was the doctor
who had performed the autopsy; Harry needed to get the completed autopsy protocol. Then he noted Porter down for a more detailed
interview. After that he wrote the fry cook’s name on the list because Porter’s notes only said the cook did not see a body
on the ground while going to work. There was nothing about whether the cook saw anybody else or anything unusual in the alley.
He also made a note to check with the waitresses who had been on duty that morning.

To complete his list, Bosch had to pick up the phone and call the watch commander’s office.

“I want to talk to eleven-oh-one,” Bosch said. “Can you look it up on the board there and tell me who that is?”

It was Kleinman again. He said, “Very funny, smart guy.”

“What?” Bosch said, but at that moment it struck him. “Is it Cal Moore?”

“Was Cal Moore. Was.”

Harry hung up the phone as several thoughts crowded into his brain at once. Juan Doe #67 had been found on the day before
Moore checked into the Hideaway. He tried to piece out what this could mean. Moore stumbles onto a body in an alley early
one morning. The next day he checks into a motel, turns up the air-conditioner and puts two barrels of double-ought buckshot
into his face. The message he leaves behind is as simple as it is mysterious.

I found out who I was

Bosch lit a cigarette and crossed #1101 off his list, but he continued to center his thoughts on this latest piece of information.
He felt impatient, bothered. He fidgeted in the chair, then stood up and began to walk in a circle around the table. He worked
Porter into the framework this development provided and ran through it several times. Each time it was the same: Porter gets
the call out on the Juan Doe #67 case. He obviously would have had to talk to Moore at the scene. The next day Moore disappears.
The next week Moore is found dead, and then the next day Porter announces he is getting a doctor and is pulling the pin. Too
many coincidences.

He picked up the phone and called the homicide table. Edgar answered and Harry asked him to reach across the table and check
his Rolodex for Porter’s home number. Edgar gave it to him and said, “Harry, where you at?”

“Why, Ninety-eight looking for me?”

“Nah. One of the guys from Moore’s unit called a few minutes ago. Said he was looking for you.”

“Yeah, why?”

“Hey, Harry, I’m only passing on the message, not doing your job for you.”

“Okay, okay. Which one called?”

“Rickard. He just asked me to tell you they had something for you. I gave him your pager number ‘cause I didn’t know if you
were coming back anytime soon. So, where you at?”

“Nowhere.”

He hung up and dialed Porter’s house. The phone rang ten times. Harry hung up and lit another cigarette. He didn’t know what
to think about all of this. Could Moore have simply stumbled onto the body as it said in the report? Could he have dumped
it there? Bosch had no clues.

“Nowhere,” he said aloud to the room full of storage boxes.

He picked up the phone again and dialed the medical examiner’s office. He gave his name and asked to be connected to Dr. Corazón,
the acting chief. Harry refused to say what the call was about to the operator. The phone was dead for nearly a minute before
Corazón picked up.

“I’m in the middle of something here,” she said.

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s the Moore cut?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about it. What do you need, Harry?”

“I just inherited a case and there’s no autopsy in the file. I’m trying to find out who did it so I can get a copy.”

“Harry, you don’t need to ask for the acting chief to track that. You could ask any of the investigators I have sitting around
here on their asses.”

“Yeah, but they aren’t as sweet to me as you.”

“Okay, hurry up, what’s the name?”

“Juan Doe #67. Date of death was the eighteenth. The cut was the twenty-fourth.”

She said nothing and Bosch assumed she was checking a scheduling chart.

“Yeah,” she said after a half minute. “The twenty-fourth. That was Salazar and he’s gone now. Vacation. That was his last
autopsy until next month. He went to Australia. It’s summer there.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t fret, Harry. I have the package right here. Sally expected Lou Porter would be by to pick it up today. But Lou never
came. How’d you inherit it?”

“Lou pulled the pin.”

“Jeez, that was kind of quick. What’s his — hold on —”

She didn’t wait for him to say he would. This time she was gone more than a minute. When she came back, her voice had a higher
pitch to it.

“Harry, I really’ve got to go. Tell you what, wanna meet me after work? By then I’ll’ve had some time to reach through this
and I’ll tell you what we’ve got. I just remembered that there is something kind of interesting here. Salazar came to me for
a referral approval.”

“Referral to what?”

“An entomologist — a bug doctor — over at UCLA. Sally found bugs.”

Bosch already knew that maggots would not have bred in a body dead twelve hours at the most. And Salazar would not have needed
an entomolo-gist to identify them anyway.

“Bugs,” he said.

“Yeah. In the stomach content analysis and nasal swabs. But I don’t have time at the moment to discuss this. I’ve got four
impatient men in the autopsy suite waiting for me. And only one of ’em is dead.”

“I guess that would make the live ones Irving, Sheehan and Chastain, the three musketeers.”

She laughed and said, “You got it.”

“Okay. When and where do you want to meet?”

He looked at his watch. It was almost three.

“Maybe around six?” she said. “That would give me time to finish here and look through this package on your Juan Doe.”

“Should I come there?”

His pager began to chirp. He cut it off with a well-practiced move with his right hand to his belt.

“No, let’s see,” she said. “Can you meet me at the Red Wind? We can wait out the rush hour.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry said.

After hanging up he checked the number on his pager, recognized it as a pay phone exchange and dialed it.

“Bosch?” a voice said.

“Right.”

“Rickard. I worked with Cal Moore. The BANG unit?”

“Right.”

“I got something for you.”

Bosch didn’t say anything. He felt the hairs on the top of his hands and forearms begin to tingle. He tried to place the name
Rickard with a face but couldn’t. The narcs kept such odd hours and were a breed unto themselves. He didn’t know who Rickard
was.

“Or, I should say, Cal left something for you,” Rickard spoke into the silence. “You wanna meet? I don’t want this to go down
in the station.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got my reasons. We can talk about that when I see you.”

“Where’s that gonna be?”

“You know a place on Sunset, the Egg and I? It’s a diner. Decent food. The hypes don’t hang out here.”

“I know it.”

“Good. We’re in the last booth in the back, right before the kitchen door. The table with the only black guy in the place.
That’s me. There’s parking in the back. In the alley.”

“I know. Who’s ‘we’?”

“Cal’s whole crew is here.”

“That where you guys always hang out?”

“Yeah, before we hit the street. See ya soon.”

The restaurant’s sign had been changed since the last time he had been there. It was now the
All-American
Egg and I, which meant it had probably been sold to foreigners. Bosch got out of his Caprice and walked through the back
alley, looking at the spot where Juan Doe #67 had been dumped. Right outside the backdoor of a diner frequented by the local
narc crew. His thoughts on the implications of this were interrupted by the panhandlers in the alley who came up to him shaking
their cups. Bosch ignored them but their presence served to remind him of another shortcoming in Porter’s meager investigation.
There had been nothing in the reports about vagrants in the alley being interviewed as possible witnesses. It would probably
be impossible to track them down now.

Inside the restaurant, he saw four young men, one of them black, in a rear booth. They were sitting silently with their faces
turned down to the empty coffee cups in front of them. Harry noticed a closed manila file on the table as he pulled a chair
away from an empty table and sat at the end of the booth.

“I’m Bosch.”

“Tom Rickard,” the black one said. He put out his hand and then introduced the other three as Finks, Montirez and Fedaredo.

“We got tired of being around the office,” Rickard said. “Cal used to like this place.”

Bosch just nodded and looked down at the file. He saw the name written on the tab was Humberto Zorrillo. It meant nothing
to him. Rickard slid the file across the table to him.

“What is it?” Harry asked, not yet touching it.

“Probably the last thing he worked on,” Rickard said. “We were going to give it over to RHD but thought what the hell, he
was working it up for you. And those boys down there at Parker are just trying to drag him through the shit. Ain’t going to
help with that.”