The Concrete Blonde Page 7

  “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.”

  6

  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 not
e 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.”

  “Well, good luck. By the way, if you’re looking for something to do. This press gig I’m holding will hit the TV news tonight. I’ll be here waiting by the phones. If you want to answer a few, I could use the help.”

  Bosch thought briefly about his plan for dinner with Sylvia. She’d understand.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  • • •

  The afternoon testimony was largely uneventful. Chandler’s strategy, it seemed to Bosch, was to build a two-part question into the jury’s eventual deliberation, giving her clients two shots at the prize. One would be the wrong-man theory, which held that Bosch had flat-out killed an innocent man. The second question would be the use of force. Even if the jury determined that Norman Church, family man, was the Dollmaker, serial killer, they would have to decide whether Bosch’s actions were appropriate.

  Chandler called her client, Deborah Church, to the witness stand right after lunch. She gave a tearful account of a wonderful life with a wonderful husband who fawned over everybody; his daughters, his wife, his mother and mother-in-law. No misogynistic aberrations here. No sign of childhood abuse. The widow held a box of Kleenex in her hand as she testified, going to a new tissue every other question.

  She wore the traditional black dress of a widow. Bosch remembered how appealing Sylvia had been when he saw her at her husband’s funeral dressed in black. Deborah Church looked downright scary. It was as if she reveled in her role here. The widow of the fallen innocent. The real victim. Chandler had coached her well.

  It was a good show, but it was too good to be true and Chandler knew it. Rather than leave the bad things to be drawn out on cross-examination, she finally got around to asking Deborah Church how, her marriage being so wonderful, her husband was in that garage apartment—which was rented under an alias—when Bosch kicked the door open.

  “We had been having some difficulty.” She stopped to dab an eye with a tissue. “Norman was going through a lot of stress—he had a lot of responsibility in the aircraft design department. He needed to expend it and so he took the apartment. He said it was to be alone. To think. I didn’t know about this woman he brought there. I think it was probably his first time doing something like that. He was a naive man. I think she saw this. She took his money and then set him up by calling the police on him and giving the crazy story that he was the Dollmaker. There was a reward, you know.”

  Bosch wrote a note on a pad he kept in front of him and slid it over to Belk, who read it and then jotted something down on his own pad.

  “What about all of the makeup found there, Mrs. Church?” Chandler asked. “Can you explain that?”

  “All I know is that I would have known if my husband was that monster. I would have known. If there was makeup found there, it was put there by somebody else. Maybe after he was already dead.”

  Bosch believed he could feel the eyes of the courtroom burning into him as the widow accused him of planting evidence after murdering her husband.

  After that, Chandler moved her questioning on to safer topics like Norman Church’s relationship with his daughters and then ended her direct examination with a weeper.

  “Did he love his daughters?”

  “Very much so,” Mrs. Church said as a new production of tears rolled down her cheeks. This time she did not wipe them away with a tissue. She let the jury watch them roll down her face into the folds of her double chin.

  After giving her a few moments to compose herself, Belk got up and took his place at the lectern.

&nbs
p; “Again, Your Honor, I will be brief. Mrs. Church, I want to make this very clear to the jury. Did you say in your testimony that you knew about your husband’s apartment but didn’t know about any women he may or may not have brought there?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  Belk looked at his pad.

  “Did you not tell detectives on the night of the shooting that you had never heard of any apartment? Didn’t you emphatically deny that your husband even had such an apartment?”

  Deborah Church didn’t answer.

  “I can arrange to have a tape of your first interview played in court if it will help refresh your—”

  “Yes, I said that. I lied.”

  “You lied? Why would you lie to the police?”

  “Because a policeman had just killed my husband. I didn’t—I couldn’t deal with them.”

  “The truth is you told the truth that night, correct, Mrs. Church? You never knew about any apartment.”

  “No, that’s not true. I knew about it.”

  “Had you and your husband talked about it?”

  “Yes, we discussed it.”

  “You approved of it?”

  “Yes . . . , reluctantly. It was my hope he would stay at home and we could work this stress out together.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Church, then if you knew of the apartment, had discussed it and given your approval, reluctantly or not, why then did your husband rent it under a false name?”

  She didn’t answer. Belk had nailed her. Bosch thought he saw the widow glance in Chandler’s direction. He looked at the lawyer but she made no move, no change in facial expression to help her client.

  “I guess,” the widow finally said, “that was one of the questions you could have asked him if Mr. Bosch had not murdered him in cold blood.”

  Without Belk’s prompting, Judge Keyes said, “The jury will disregard that last characterization. Mrs. Church, you know better than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  “Nothing further,” Belk said as he left the lectern.

  The judge called a ten-minute recess.

  • • •

  During the break, Bosch went out to the ash can. Money Chandler didn’t come out but the homeless man made a pass. Bosch offered him a whole cigarette, which he took and put in his shirt pocket. He was unshaven again and the slight look of dementia was still in his eyes.