“Have you ever heard of the FBI's Behavioral Science Division?” Chandler asked.
“Yes, I have.”
“What do they do?”
“They study serial killers among other things. Come up with psychological profiles, victim profiles, give advice, things like that.”
“You had eleven murders, what advice did the FBI's Behavioral Science Division give you?”
“None.”
“Why was that? Were they stumped?”
“No, we didn't call on them.”
“Ah, and why didn't you call them?”
“Well, ma'am, we believed we had a handle on it. We had worked up profiles ourselves and we didn't think the FBI could help us much. The forensic psychologist helping us, Dr. Locke from USC, had once been an adviser to the FBI on sex crimes. We had his experience and the department's staff psychiatrist helping out. We believed we were in good shape in that department.”
“Did the FBI offer their help?”
Lloyd hesitated here. It seemed he was finally understanding where she was headed.
“Uh, yes, somebody called after the case was making a lot of press. They wanted to get in on it. I told them we were fine, that no help was needed.”
“Do you regret that decision now?”
“No. I don't think the FBI could've done any better than us. They usually come in on cases being handled by smaller departments or cases making a big media splash.”
“And you don't think that's fair, correct?”
“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 longstanding 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
.
The concrete blonde story had Bremmer's byline on it. It combined quotes from the opening arguments in the trial with the discovery of the body and its possible connection to the case. The story also reported that police sources revealed that Detective Harry Bosch had received a note from someone claiming to be the real Dollmaker.
There was obviously a leak in Hollywood Division but Bosch knew it would be impossible to trace the person down. The note had been found at the front desk and any number of uniform officers could have known about it and leaked the word to Bremmer. After all, Bremmer was a good friend to have. Bosch had even leaked information to him in the past and on occasion found Bremmer to be quite useful.
Citing the unnamed sources, the story said police investigators had not concluded whether the note was legitimate or if the discovery of the body was connected to the Dollmaker case which ended four years earlier.
The only other point of interest in the story for Bosch was the short history on the Bing's Billiards building. It had been burned on the second night of the riots, no arrests ever made. Arson investigators said the separations between the storage units were not bearing walls, meaning trying to stop the flames was like trying to hold water in a cup made of toilet paper. From ignition to full involvement of flames was only eighteen minutes. Most of the storage units were rented by movie industry people and some valuable studio props were either looted or lost in the fire. The building was a total loss. The investigators traced the origin to the billiard hall. A pool table had been set on fire and it went from there.
Bosch put the paper down and began thinking about Lloyd's testimony. He remembered what Belk had said, that the case rode on himself. Chandler must know this as well. She would be waiting for him, ready to make Lloyd's outing seem like a joy ride in comparison. He grudgingly had to admit to himself that he respected her skill, her toughness. It made him remember something and he got up to use the pay phone out front. He was surprised to find Edgar was at the homicide table and not out eating lunch.
“Any luck on the ID?” Bosch asked.
“No, man, the prints didn't check. No matches at all. She didn't have a record. We're still trying other sources, adult entertainment licenses, stuff like that.”
“Shit.”
“Well, we got something else cooking. Remember that CSUN anthropology professor I was telling you about? Well, he's been here all morning with a student, painting the plaster face and getting it ready. I got the press coming in at three to show it off. Rojas went out to buy a blonde wig we'll stick on it. If we get good play on the tube we might crack loose an ID.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Yeah. How's court? The shit hit the fan in the
Times
today. That guy Bremmer has some sources.”
“Court's fine. Let me ask you something. After you left the scene yesterday and went back to the station, where was Pounds?”
“Pounds? He was—we got back at the same time. Why?”
“When did he leave?”
“A little while later. Right before you got here.”
“Was he on the phone in his office?”
“I think he made a few calls. I wasn't really watching. What's going on, you think he's Bremmer's source?”
“One last question. Did he close the door when he was on the phone?”
Bosch knew Pounds was paranoid. He always kept the door to his office open and the blinds on the glass partitions up so he could see and hear what was happening in the squad room. If he ever closed either or both, the troops outside knew something was up.
“Well, now that you mention it, I think he did have the door closed a little while. What is it?”
“Bremmer I'm not worried about. But somebody was talking to Money Chandler. In court this morning she knew I had been called out to the scene yesterday. That wasn't in the
Times
. Somebody told her.”
Edgar was silent a moment before replying.
“Yeah, but why would Pounds talk to her?”
“I don't know.”
“Maybe Bremmer. He could have told her, even though it wasn't in his story.”
“The story says she couldn't be reached for comment. It's got to be somebody else. A leak. Probably the same person talked to Bremmer and Chandler. Somebody who wants to fuck me up.”
Edgar didn't say anything and Bosch let it go for now.
“I better head back to court.”
“Hey, how'd Lloyd do? I heard on KFWB he was the first wit.”
“He did about as expected.”
“Shit. Who's next?”
“I don't know. She has Irving and Locke, the shrink, on subpoena. My guess is, it will be Irving. He'll pick up where Lloyd left off.”