But sometimes it was more complicated.
One of the first moves Bosch made upon reopening case number 9212-00346 was to take the bullet casing to the Ballistics Unit for analysis and profiling. Because of the workload backup and the nonpriority status of cold case requests coming from the Open-Unsolved Unit, three months went by before Bosch got a return. The response wasn’t a panacea, an answer that would immediately solve the case, but it gave Bosch a pathway. After twenty years of no justice for Anneke Jespersen, that wasn’t bad at all.
The ballistics report gave Bosch the name Rufus Coleman, forty-one years old and a hard-core member of the Rolling 60s Crips gang. He was currently incarcerated for murder in the California State Penitentiary at San Quentin.
I
t was almost noon by the time the door opened and Coleman was led in by two prison guards. He was locked with his arms behind his back into the seat across the table from Bosch. The guards warned him that they would be watching and then left the two of them staring at each other across the table.
“You a cop, right?” Coleman said. “You know what puttin’ me in a room with a cop could do to me, if one a these hacks put word ’round?”
Bosch didn’t answer. He studied the man across from him. He had seen mug shots but they only framed Coleman’s face. He knew Coleman was big—he was a known Rolling 60s enforcer—but not this big. He had a heavily muscled and sculpted physique, a neck wider than his head—including his ears. Sixteen years of pushing and lifting prison-yard iron had given him a chest that easily extended beyond his chin, and biceps-triceps vises that looked like they could crush walnuts to powder. In the mug shots, his hair had always had a stylized fade. Now his head was clean-shaven and he had used his dome as a canvas for the Lord. On either side he had blue prison-ink crosses wrapped in barbed wire. Bosch wondered if that was part of the lobbying effort with the parole board. I’m saved. It says so right here on my cranium.
“Yes, I’m a cop,” Bosch finally said. “Up from L.A.”
“Sher’ff’s or PD?”
“LAPD. My name’s Bosch. And Rufus, this is going to be the single luckiest or unluckiest day of your life. The cool thing is you’re going to get to pick which one of those days it is. Most of us, we never get the chance to choose between good luck and bad luck. One or the other of them just sort of happens. It’s fate. But this time you do, Rufus. You get to choose. Right now.”
“Yeah, how’s that? You the man with all the luck in your pockets?”
Bosch nodded.
“Today I am.”
Bosch had placed a file folder on the table before Coleman was brought in. He now opened it and lifted out two letters. He left the envelope, which was addressed and already stamped, in the file, just far enough away that Coleman wouldn’t be able to read it.
“So next month you’re taking your second shot at parole, I hear,” Bosch said.
“That’s right,” Coleman said, a slight tone of curiosity and concern in his voice.
“Well, I don’t know if you know how it works but the same two board members who heard your first hearing two years ago come back for your second. So you got two guys coming who already turned you down once. That means you’re going to need help, Rufus.”
“I already got the Lord on my side.”
He leaned forward and turned his head from side to side so Bosch could get a good look at the tattooed crosses. They reminded Bosch of the team logo on the side of a football helmet.
“I think you’re going to need more than a couple tattoos, you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you dick, Five-oh. I don’t need your help. I got my letters all sorted and the D-block chaplain and my good record. I even got a forgiveness letter from the Regis family.”
Walter Regis was the name of the man Coleman had murdered in cold blood.
“Yeah, how much you pay for that?”
“I didn’t pay. I prayed and the Lord provided. The family knows me and what I’m about now. They forgive my sins, as does the Lord.”
Bosch nodded and looked down at the letters in front of him for a long moment before continuing.
“All right, so you got it all set. You got the letter and you’ve got the Lord. You may not need me working for you, Rufus, but you sure don’t want me working against you. That’s the thing. You don’t want that.”
“So get to it. What’s your fucking play?”
Bosch nodded. Now they were down to it. He lifted the envelope.
“You see this envelope? It’s addressed to the parole board in Sacramento and it’s got your inmate number down here in the corner and it’s got a stamp on it all ready to go.”
He put the envelope down and picked up the letters, one in each hand, holding them out side by side for Coleman to look at and read.
“I’m going to put one of these two letters in that envelope and drop it in a mailbox as soon as I get out of here today. You’re going to decide which one.”
Coleman leaned forward and Bosch heard the shackles click against the back of his metal chair. He was so big it looked like he was wearing a linebacker’s shoulder pads under his gray prison jumpsuit.
“What are you talking about, Five-oh? I can’t read that shit.”
Bosch leaned back and turned the letters so he could read them.
“Well, they are letters addressed to the parole board. One speaks very favorably of you. It says you are remorseful about the crimes you have committed and have been cooperating with me in seeking the resolution of a long unsolved murder. It ends—”
“I ain’t cooperating with you on shit, man. You can’t put a snitch jacket on me. You watch your fucking mouth on that shit.”
“It ends with me recommending that you be granted parole.”
Bosch put the letter down and turned his attention to the other.
“Now, this second one is not so good for you. This one says nothing about remorse. It says that you have refused to cooperate in a murder investigation in which you have important information. And lastly it says that the LAPD’s Gang Intelligence Unit has gathered intel that suggests that the Rolling 60s are awaiting your return to freedom so they can once again utilize your skills as a hit man for the—”
“That’s some bullshit right there! That’s a lie! You can’t send that shit!”
Bosch calmly put the letter down on the table and started folding it for the envelope. He looked at Coleman deadpan.
“You’re going to sit there and tell me what I can do and can’t do? Uh-uh, that’s not how this works, Rufus. You give me what I want and I give you what you want. That’s how it works.”
Bosch ran his finger along the creases of the letter and then started sliding it into the envelope.
“What murder you talking about?”
Bosch looked up at him. There was the first give. Bosch reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photo of Jespersen he’d had made from her press pass. He held it up for Coleman to see.
“A white girl? I don’t know nothin’ about no murdered white girl.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then what the fuck we doin’ here? When did she get her ass killed?”
“May first, nineteen ninety-two.”
Coleman did the date math, shook his head, and smiled like he was dealing with a dummy.
“You got the wrong guy. ’Ninety-two I was in Corcoran on a five spot. Eat that shit,
Dee
-tective.”
“I know exactly where you were in ‘ninety-two. You think I’d come all the way up here if I didn’t know everything about you?”
“All I know is that I was nowhere near some white girl’s murder.”
Bosch shook his head as if to say he wasn’t arguing that point.
“Let me explain it to you, Rufus, because I’ve got somebody else I want to see in here and then a plane to catch. You listening now?”
“I’m listening. Let’s hear your shit.”
Bosch held the photo up again.
“So we’re talking twenty years ago. The night of April thirtieth going into May first, nineteen ninety-two. The second night of the L.A. riots. Anneke Jespersen from Copenhagen is down on Crenshaw with her cameras. She’s taking pictures for the newspaper back in Denmark.”
“The fuck she doin’ down there? She shouldn’t a been down there.”
“I won’t argue that, Rufus. But she was there. And somebody stood her up against a wall in an alley and popped her right in the eye.”
“Wadn’t me and I don’t know a thing about it.”
“I know it wasn’t you. You’ve got the perfect alibi. You were in prison. Can I continue?”
“Yeah, man, tell your story.”
“Whoever killed Anneke Jespersen used a Beretta. We recovered the shell at the scene. The shell showed the distinctive markings of a Beretta model ninety-two.”
Bosch studied Coleman to see if he was seeing where this was going.
“You following me now, Rufus?”
“I’m following but I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“The gun that killed Anneke Jespersen was never recovered, the case was never solved. Then four years later, you come along fresh out of Corcoran and get arrested and charged with the murder of a rival gang member named Walter Regis, age nineteen. You shot him in the face while he was sitting in a booth at a club on Florence. The supposed motivation was that he was seen selling crack on one of the Sixties’ corners. You were convicted of that crime based on multiple eyewitness testimony and your own statements to police. But the one piece of evidence they didn’t have was the gun you used, a Beretta model ninety-two. The gun was never recovered. You see where I’m going with this?”
“Not yet.”
Coleman was starting to dummy up. But that was okay with Bosch. Coleman wanted one thing: to get out of prison. He would eventually understand that Bosch could either help or hurt his chances.
“Well, let me keep telling the story and you try to follow along. I’ll try to make it easy for you.”
He paused. Coleman didn’t object.
“So now we’re up to nineteen ninety-six and you get convicted and get fifteen to life and go off to prison like the good Rolling Sixties soldier that you were. Another seven years go by and now it’s two thousand three and there’s another murder. A street dealer in the Grape Street Crips named Eddie Vaughn gets whacked and robbed while he’s sitting in his car with a forty and a blunt. Somebody reaches in from the passenger side and puts two in his head and two in the torso. But reaching in like that was bad form. The shells were ejected and they bounced all around inside the car. No time to grab them all. The shooter gets two of them and just runs off.”
“What’s it got to do with me, man? I was up here by then.”
Bosch nodded emphatically.
“You’re right, Rufus, you were up here. But you see, by two thousand three they had this thing called the National Integrated Ballistic Identification System. It’s a computer data bank run by the ATF, and it keeps track of bullets and casings collected from crime scenes and murder victims.”
“That’s fucking fantastic.”
“Ballistics, Rufus, it’s practically like having fingerprints now. They matched those shells from Eddie Vaughn’s car to the gun you used seven years earlier to wipe out Walter Regis. Same gun used in both killings by two different killers.”
“That’s some cool shit there,
Dee
-tective.”
“It sure is but it’s not really news to you. I know they came up here to talk to you about the Vaughn case. The investigators on that one, they wanted to know who you gave the gun to after you hit Regis. They wanted to know who the Rolling Sixties shot caller that you did the hit for was. Because they were thinking the same guy might’ve called the shot on Vaughn.”
“I think I might remember that. It was a long time ago. I didn’t tell them shit then and I ain’t telling you shit now.”
“Yeah, I pulled the report. You told them to fuck themselves and go on back home. See, back then you were still a soldier, brave and strong. But that was nine years ago and you had nothing to lose then. The thought of making parole in ten years was pie-in-the-sky stuff to you. But now it’s a different story. And now we’re talking about three murders with the same gun. Earlier this year I took the shell we picked up at the Jespersen scene in ‘ninety-two and had it run through the ATF data bank. It matched up to Regis and Vaughn. Three killings tied to one gun—a Beretta model ninety-two.”
Bosch sat back in his chair and waited for a reaction. He knew that Coleman knew what he wanted.
“I can’t help you, man,” Coleman said. “You can call the hacks back in for me.”
“You sure? Because I can help you.”
He lifted the envelope.
“Or I could hurt you.”
He waited.
“I could make sure you put in another ten years here before they even look at you again for parole. Is that how you want to play it?”
Coleman shook his head.
“And how long you think I’d last out there if I helped you, man?”
“Not long at all. I’ll give you that. But nobody has to know about this, Rufus. I’m not asking you to testify in court or give a written statement.”
At least not yet,
Bosch thought.
“All I want is a name. Between you and me right here and that’s it. I want the guy who called the hit. The guy who gave you the gun and told you to take out Regis. The guy you gave the gun back to after you did the job.”
Coleman cast his eyes to the table as he thought. Bosch knew he was weighing the years. Even the strongest of soldiers has a limit.
“It’s not like that,” he finally said. “The shot caller never talks to the gunner. There are buffers, man.”
Bosch had been briefed by Gang Intelligence before making the journey. He had been told that the hierarchies of the longtime South Central gangs were usually set up like paramilitary organizations. It was a pyramid and a bottom-level enforcer like Coleman wouldn’t even know who had called the hit on Regis. So Bosch had used the question as a test. If Coleman named the shot caller, he would know Coleman was lying.
“All right,” Bosch said. “I get that. So then let’s keep it simple. Keep it on the gun. Who gave it to you the night you hit Regis and who’d you give it back to after?”
Coleman nodded and kept his eyes down. He remained silent and Bosch waited. This was the play. This was what he had come for.
“I can’t do this no more,” Coleman whispered.
Bosch said nothing and tried to keep his breathing normal. Coleman was going to break.
“I got a kid,” he said. “She’s practically a grown woman and I never seen her anywhere but this place. I seen her in prison, that’s all.”
Bosch nodded.
“That shouldn’t be,” he said. “I’ve got a daughter myself and I went through a lot of years without her.”
Bosch now saw a wet shine in Coleman’s eyes. The gang soldier was worn by years of incarceration and guilt and fear. Sixteen years of watching his own back. The layers of muscle were simply the disguise of a broken man.
“Give me the name, Rufus,” he urged. “And I send the letter. Done deal. You don’t give me what I want and you know you’ll never get out of here alive. And there’ll always be glass between you and your girl.”