The Drop (8 page)

Bosch scanned the men in the circle, hoping to recognize Clayton Pell, but to no avail. Several men had their backs to the entrance, and others were hunched over and hiding their faces below baseball hats or with hands over their mouths in poses of deep thought. Many of them were checking out Bosch and Chu. They would be easily made as cops by the men in the circle.

A few seconds later they were approached by a woman with a name tag on the breast of her hospital scrubs. It said Dr. Hannah Stone. She was attractive with reddish-blond hair tied back in a no-nonsense manner. She was midforties and Bosch noticed that her watch was on her right wrist and it partially covered a tattoo.

“I’m Dr. Stone. Can I see your identification, gentlemen?”

Bosch and Chu opened their wallets. Their police IDs were checked and then quickly handed back to them.

“Come with me, please. It will be better if the men don’t see you out here.”

“Might be too late for that,” Bosch said.

She didn’t answer. They were led into an apartment on the front of the building that had been converted into offices and private therapy rooms. Dr. Stone told them that she was the rehabilitation program director. Her boss, the facility manager and director, was downtown at a budget meeting all day. She was very curt and to the point.

“What can I do for you, Detectives?”

There was a defensive tone in every word she had spoken so far, even the words about the budget meeting. She knew that cops didn’t appreciate what was done here and she was ready to defend it. She didn’t appear to be a woman who would back down on anything.

“We’re investigating a crime,” Bosch said. “A rape and murder. We have a description of a suspect we think might be in here. White male, twenty-eight to thirty-two years old. He’s got dark hair and his first or last name might begin with the letter C. That letter was tattooed on the suspect’s neck.”

So far, Bosch had not told a lie. The rape and murder actually happened. He just left out the part about its being twenty-two years ago. His description matched Clayton Pell to a T because Bosch had gotten the ex-convict’s descriptors off the state parole board’s computer records. And the DNA hit made Pell a suspect, no matter how unlikely it was that he was involved in the Venice Beach slaying.

“So, anybody here that meets that description?” he asked.

Stone hesitated before speaking. Bosch was hoping she wasn’t going to come to the defense of the men in her program. It didn’t matter how successful programs claimed to be, any recidivism among sexual offenders was too high.

“There is someone here,” she finally said. “But he’s made tremendous progress in the last five months. I find it hard to—”

“What’s his name?” Bosch asked, cutting her off.

“Clayton Pell. He’s out there in the circle right now.”

“How often is he allowed to leave this facility?”

“Four hours a day. He has a job.”

“A job?” Chu asked. “You just let these people loose?”

“Detective, this is not a lockdown facility. Every man here is here voluntarily. They are paroled from prison and have to register with the county and then find a place to live where they are not in violation of rules for sex offenders. We contract with the county to run a living facility that fits within those requirements. But no one has to live here. They do so because they want to assimilate back into society. They want to be productive. They don’t want to hurt anyone. If they come here, we provide counseling and job placement. We feed them and give them a bed. But the only way they can stay is if they follow our rules. We work closely with the Department of Probation and Parole and our recidivism rate is lower than the national average.”

“Which means it’s not perfect,” Bosch said. “For many of them, once a predator always a predator.”

“For some that is true. But what choice do we have but to try? When people have completed their sentences, they must be released into society. This program may be one of the best last chances of preventing future crimes.”

Bosch realized that Stone was insulted by their questions. They had made their first false move. He didn’t want this woman working against them. He wanted her cooperation.

“Sorry,” he said. “I am sure the program is worthwhile. I was just thinking about the details of the crime we’re investigating.”

Bosch stepped over to the front window and looked out into the courtyard.

“Which one is Clayton Pell?”

Stone came up next to him and pointed.

“The man with the shaved head, on the right. That’s him.”

“When did he shave his head?”

“A few weeks ago. When was the attack you’re investigating?”

Bosch turned and looked at her.

“Before that.”

She looked at him and nodded. She got the message. He was here to ask questions, not be asked.

“You said he has a job. Doing what?”

“He works for the Grande Mercado up near Roscoe. He works in the parking lot, collecting the shopping carts and emptying trash cans, that sort of thing. They pay him twenty-five dollars a day. It keeps him in cigarettes and potato chips. He’s addicted to both.”

“What are the hours he works?”

“They vary by the day. His schedule is posted at the market. Today he went to work early and just got back.”

It was good to know about the schedule being available at the market. It would help if they later wanted to pick up Pell away from the Buena Vista facility.

“Dr. Stone, is Pell one of your patients?”

She nodded.

“I have sessions with him four times a week. He works with other therapists here, too.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“I can’t tell you anything about our sessions. The doctor-patient confidentiality bond exists even in this sort of situation.”

“Yeah, I get that but the evidence in our case indicates he abducted, raped and then strangled a nineteen-year-old girl. I need to know what makes the man sitting out there in that circle tick. I need—”

“Wait a minute. Just wait.”

She put up her hand in a
stop
gesture.

“You said a nineteen-year-old
girl?
”

“That’s right and his DNA was found on her.”

Again, not a lie, but not the whole truth.

“That’s impossible.”

“Don’t tell me it’s impossible. The science isn’t wrong. His—”

“Well, it is this time. Clayton Pell didn’t rape a nineteen-year-old girl. First of all, he is a homosexual. And he’s a pedophile. Almost all of the men here are. They are predators convicted of crimes against children. Second, two years ago he was assaulted in prison by a group of men and he was castrated. So there is no way that Clayton Pell is your suspect.”

Bosch heard a sharp intake of breath from his partner. He, like Chu, was shocked by the doctor’s revelation as well as how it echoed the thoughts he’d had as he entered the facility.

“Clayton’s sickness is that he is obsessed with prepubescent boys,” Stone continued. “I would have thought you’d do a little homework before you came here.”

Bosch stared at her for a long moment as the burn of embarrassment colored his face. Not only had the ruse he had planned been disastrously wrong but there was now even further evidence that something was seriously amiss in the Lily Price case.

Struggling to move away from his gaffe, he blurted out a question.

“Prepubescent . . . you’re talking about eight-year-olds? Ten-year-olds? Why that age?”

“I can’t go into it,” Stone said. “You’re crossing into confidential territory.”

Bosch walked back to the window and looked out at Clayton Pell in the circle session. He was sitting up straight in his chair and looked to be closely following the conversation. He wasn’t one of those who hid his face, and there was no outward show of the trauma he had suffered.

“Does everybody in the circle know?”

“Only I know, and I made a serious breach telling you. The group sessions are of great therapeutic value to most of our residents. That’s why they come here. That’s why they stay.”

Bosch could have argued that they stayed because of the shelter and food. But he raised his hands in surrender and apology.

“Doctor, do us a favor,” he said. “Don’t tell Pell that we were here asking about him.”

“I wouldn’t. It would only upset him. If I’m asked, I will simply say you two were here to investigate the latest vandalism.”

“Sounds good. What was the latest vandalism?”

“My car. Someone spray-painted ‘I love baby rapers’ on the side. They’d like to get us out of the neighborhood, if they could. You see the man opposite Clayton in the circle? The one with the patch over his eye?”

Bosch looked and nodded.

“He was caught walking from the bus stop back to the center after coming from his job. Caught by the local gang—the T-Dub Boyz. They put his eye out with a broken bottle.”

Bosch turned back to her. He knew she was referring to a Latino gang from up around the Tujunga Wash. Latin gangbangers were notorious for their intolerance and violence toward sexual deviants.

“Anyone get arrested for it?”

She laughed derisively.

“To make an arrest, there would have to be an investigation. But you see, none of the vandalism or violence around here ever gets investigated by your department or anyone else.”

Bosch nodded without looking at her. He knew the score.

“Now, if there are no other questions, I need to get back to work.”

“No, no more questions,” Bosch said. “Go back to your good work, Doctor, and we’ll go back to ours.”

9

B
osch had just gotten back to the PAB from the Hall of Records with a stack of files under his arm. It was after five, so the squad room was almost deserted. Chu had gone home, which was fine with Bosch. He planned to leave himself and to start reviewing files and the disc from the Chateau Marmont at home. He was loading the files into a briefcase when he saw Kiz Rider enter the squad room and make a beeline in his direction. He quickly snapped the briefcase closed. He didn’t want Rider asking about the files and learning that they were not from the Irving case.

“Harry, I thought we were going to keep in touch,” she said by way of greeting.

“We are going to, when I have something to keep in touch about. Hello to you, too, Kiz.”

“Look, Harry, I don’t really have time for niceties. I’m under pressure from the chief, who is under pressure from Irving and the rest of the city council members he has managed to get behind this.”

“Get behind what?”

“Wanting to know what happened to his son.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re there to shoulder that burden and keep it off the investigators so we can do our work.”

She let out a deep breath in frustration. Bosch could see the jagged edge of a scar on her neck just under the collar of her blouse. It reminded him of the day she got shot. Her last day as his partner.

He stood up and lifted the briefcase off the desk.

“You’re leaving already?” she exclaimed.

Bosch pointed to the clock on the far wall.

“Almost five thirty and I punched in at seven thirty. I ate lunch for ten minutes on the hood of my car. No matter how you cut it, I got in about two hours of overtime that the city doesn’t pay anymore. So, yeah, I’m going home to where I have a sick kid waiting for me to bring her some soup. That is, unless you want to call up the city council and see if they’ll authorize.”

“Harry, it’s me, Kiz. Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what? Like I’m fed up with the political intrusion on my case? Tell you what, I’ve got another one working—a nineteen-year-old girl raped and left dead on the rocks at the Marina. The crabs got to her body. It’s funny but nobody on the city council has called me up about that one.”

Kiz nodded to his point.

“I know, Harry, it’s not fair. With you everybody counts or nobody counts. That doesn’t work with politics.”

Bosch stared at her for a long moment. She quickly grew uncomfortable.

“What?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“It was me what?”

“‘Everybody counts or nobody counts.’ You turned it into a slogan and you told it to Irving. Then he tried to act like he’d known it all along.”

Rider shook her head in frustration.

“Jesus Christ, Harry, what’s the big deal? His front man called up and said, Who is the best investigator in RHD? I said you but then he came back and said Irving didn’t want you because of your shared history. I said you would put the history aside because with you everybody counts or nobody counts. That’s all. If that’s too political for you, then I offer my resignation as your friend.”

Bosch looked at her for a few moments. She was half smiling, not taking his upset seriously.

“I’ll think about it and let you know.”

He stepped out of his pod and headed down the aisle.

“Wait a minute, would you?”

He turned back to her.

“What?”

“If you are not willing to talk to me as a friend, then talk to me as a detective. I am a lieutenant and you are a detective. What is the update on the Irving case?”

Now the humor in her face and words was gone. Now she was annoyed.

“The update is that we’re waiting on the autopsy. There was nothing about the physical scene that leads us to any final conclusion. We have pretty much eliminated accidental death. It’s going to go suicide or murder, and my money at the moment is on suicide.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“How has accidental already been eliminated?”

Bosch’s briefcase was heavy with files. He switched it to his other hand because his shoulder was beginning to ache. Almost twenty years before, he had been hit by a bullet during a shootout in a tunnel and it had taken three surgeries to repair the rotator cuff. He had gone almost fifteen years without its bothering him. But not anymore.

“His son checked in without luggage. He took off his clothes and hung them neatly in the closet. A bathrobe was draped over a chair on the balcony. He went down face-first but didn’t scream because no one in the hotel heard a thing. He did not put his arms out to break his fall. For these and other reasons it doesn’t look like an accident to me. If you are telling me that you need it to be an accident, then come out and say it, Kiz, and then get yourself another boy.”