The Harry Bosch Novels, Volume 2 Page 9

  “I am sorry to intrude on such an emotionally sensitive area,” she finally said. “The reason—”

  “But that’s what this is all about, right? What you have is a license to intrude and I can’t do anything about it.”

  “So, then, accept it,” she said sternly. “We’ve been over this before. To help you we have to talk about you. Accept it and maybe we can move on. Now, as I was saying, the reason I mentioned the war was that I wanted to ask you if you are familiar with post-traumatic stress syndrome. Have you ever heard of it?”

  He looked back at her. He knew what was coming.

  “Yes, of course I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well, Detective, in the past it’s primarily been associated with servicemen returning from the war but it’s not just a war or post-war problem. It can happen in any kind of stressful environment. Any kind. And I have to say I think that you are a walking, talking example of this disorder’s symptoms.”

  “Jesus . . . ,” he said, shaking his head. He turned in his seat so he wasn’t looking at her or her bookcase. He stared at the sky through the window. It was cloudless. “You people sit up here in these offices and have no idea . . .”

  He didn’t finish. He just shook his head. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie. It was like he couldn’t get enough air into his chest.

  “Hear me out, Detective, okay? Just look at the facts here. Can you think of anything more stressful to be in this city during the last few years than a police officer? Between Rodney King and the scrutiny and villainy that brought, the riots, fires, floods and earthquakes, each officer on this force has had to write the book on stress management and, of course, mismanagement.”

  “You left out killer bees.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. It was on the news.”

  “With all that’s happened and gone on in this city, with every one of these calamities, who is in the middle every time? The police officers. The ones who have to respond. The ones who can’t stay at home, duck down and wait until it’s over. So let’s go from that generalization to the individual. You, Detective. You have been a front-line contender with all of these crises. At the same time you’ve had your real job to contend with. Homicide. It’s one of the highest-stress jobs in the department. Tell me, how many murders have you investigated in the last three years?”

  “Look, I’m not looking for an excuse. I told you before that I did what I did because I wanted to. It had nothing to do with riots or—”

  “How many dead bodies have you looked at? Just answer my question, please. How many dead bodies? How many widows did you break the news to? How many mothers did you tell about their dead children?”

  He brought his hands up and rubbed his face. All he knew was that he wanted to hide from her.

  “A lot,” he finally whispered.

  “More than a lot . . .”

  He exhaled loudly.

  “Thank you for answering. I’m not trying to corner you. The point of my questions and the treatise on the social, cultural and even geologic fragmentation of this city is that what I’m saying here is that you’ve been through more than most, okay? And this doesn’t even include the baggage you might still have from Vietnam or the loss of the romantic relationship. But whatever the reasons, the symptoms of stress are showing. They are there, plain as day. Your intolerance, your inability to sublimate frustrations, most of all your assault on your commanding officer.”

  She paused but Bosch didn’t say anything. He had a feeling she wasn’t finished. She wasn’t.

  “There are other signs as well,” she continued. “Your refusal to leave your damaged home can be perceived as a form of denial of what is happening around you. There are physical symptoms. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I don’t think I need to ask to know that you’re drinking too much. And your hand. You didn’t hurt yourself with a hammer. You fell asleep with a cigarette in your hand. That is a burn and I’d bet my state license on it.”

  She opened a drawer and took out two plastic cups and a bottle of water. She filled the cups and pushed one across the desk to him. A peace offering. He watched her silently. He felt exhausted, unrepairable. He also couldn’t help but be amazed by her at the same time she was so expertly cutting him open. After she took a sip of water she continued.

  “These things are all indicative of a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress syndrome. However, we have one problem with that. The word post when used in such a diagnosis indicates the time of stress has passed. That’s not the case here. Not in L.A. Not with your job. Harry, you are in a nonstop pressure cooker. You owe yourself some breathing room. That’s what this leave is all about. Breathing room. Time to recoup and recover. So don’t fight it. Grab it. That’s the best advice I can give you. Grab it and use it. To save yourself.”

  Bosch breathed out heavily and held up his bandaged hand.

  “You can keep your state license.”

  “Thank you.”

  They rested a moment until she continued in a voice meant to soothe him.

  “You also have to know you are not alone. This is nothing to be embarrassed about. There has been a sharp increase in incidents of officer stress in the last three years. Behavioral Sciences Services just made a request to the City Council for five more psychologists. Our caseload went from eighteen hundred counseling sessions in 1990 to more than double that last year. We’ve even got a name for what’s going on here. The blue angst. And you have it, Harry.”

  Bosch smiled and shook his head, still clinging to what denial he had left.

  “The blue angst. Sounds like the name of a Wambaugh novel, doesn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “So what you’re saying is that I’m not going to get my job back.”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. All I am saying is that we have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  “I feel like I’ve been broken down by the world champ. You mind if I call you sometime when I’m trying to get a confession out of a hump who won’t talk to me?”

  “Believe me, just saying that is a start.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to want to come here. That’s all. Don’t look at it as a punishment. I want you to work with me, not against me. When we talk I want you to talk about everything and nothing. Anything that comes to mind. Hold back nothing. And one other thing. I’m not telling you to completely cut it out, but you have to cut back on the drinking. You have to have a clear mind. As you obviously know, the effects of alcohol stay with an individual long after the night it was consumed.”

  “I’ll try. All of it. I’ll try.”

  “That’s all I ask. And since you suddenly seem so willing, I have another thought. I have a cancelation of a session tomorrow at three. Can you make it?”

  Bosch hesitated, didn’t say anything.

  “We seem to finally be working well and I think it will help. The sooner we get through with our work, the sooner you should be able to get back to your work. What do you say?”

  “Three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  “Good. Let’s get back to our dialogue. Why don’t you start? Whatever you want to talk about.”

  He leaned forward and reached for the cup of water. He looked at her as he drank from it, then put the cup back on the desk.

  “Just say anything?”

  “Anything. Whatever is happening in your life or mind that you want to talk about.”

  He thought for a long moment.

  “I saw a coyote last night. Near my house. I . . . I was drunk, I guess, but I know I saw him.”

  “Why was that significant to you?”

  He tried to compose the proper answer.

  “I’m not sure . . . I guess there’s not too many left in the hills in the city— least near where I live. So whenever I see one, I get this feeling that it might be the last one left out there. You know? T
he last coyote. And I guess that would bother me if it ever turned out to be true, if I never saw one again.”

  She nodded as if he had scored some point in a game he wasn’t sure how to play.

  “There used to be one that lived in the canyon below my house. I’d see him down there and—”

  “How do you know it was a he? And I think you called the one you saw last night a he. How are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I don’t even know. It’s just a guess.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Um, he— it— lived down there below my house and I used to see him from time to time. After the earthquake it was gone. I don’t know what happened to it. Then I saw this one last night. Something about the mist and the light out there . . . it looked like its coat was blue. He looked hungry. There is something . . . they’re kind of sad and threatening at the same time. You know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Anyway, I thought about him when I got in bed after I got home. That was when I burned my hand. I fell asleep with the cigarette. But before I woke up I had this dream. I mean, I think it was a dream. Maybe like a daydream, like I was still kind of awake. And in it, whatever it was, the coyote was there again. But it was with me. And we were in the canyon or on a hill or something and I wasn’t really sure.”

  He held up his hand.

  “And then I felt the fire.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “Well, interpretation of dreams is not something I do often. Frankly, I’m not sure of its value. The real value I think I see in what you just told me was the willingness to tell me. It shows me a one-eighty-degree turn in your approach to these sessions. For what it’s worth, I think it’s clear you identify with the coyote. Perhaps, there are not many policemen like you left and you feel the same threat to your existence or your mission. I don’t really know. But look at your own words. You called them sad and threatening at the same time. Could that be you also?”

  He drank from his cup before answering.

  “I’ve been sad before. But I’ve found comfort in it.”

  They sat in silence for a while, digesting what had been said. She looked at her watch.

  “We still have some time. Is there anything else you want to talk about? Maybe something related to this story?”

  He contemplated the question for a while and took out a cigarette.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “As long as you want. Don’t worry about the time. I want to do this.”

  “You’ve talked about my mission. You told me to think about my mission. And you said the word again just a minute ago.”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated.

  “What I say here is protected, right?”

  She furrowed her brow.

  “I’m not talking about anything illegal. What I mean is, whatever I tell you in here, you’re not going to tell people, right? It won’t get back to Irving.”

  “No. What you tell me stays right here. That’s an absolute. I told you, I make a single, narrowly focused recommendation for or against return to duty that I give to Assistant Chief Irving. That’s it.”

  He nodded, hesitated again and then made his decision. He would tell her.

  “Well, you were talking about my mission and your mission and so on and, well, I think I’ve had a mission for a long time. Only I didn’t know it, or I mean . . . I didn’t accept it. I didn’t acknowledge it. I don’t know how to explain it right. Maybe I was afraid or something. I put it off. For a lot of years. Anyway, what I’m telling you is that I’ve accepted it now.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you. Harry, you have to come out and tell me what you’re talking about.”

  He looked down at the gray rug in front of him. He spoke to it because he didn’t know how to say it to her face.

  “I’m an orphan . . . I never knew my father and my mother was murdered in Hollywood when I was a kid. Nobody . . . there never was any arrest made.”

  “You’re looking for her killer, aren’t you?”

  He looked up at her and nodded.

  “That’s my mission right now.”

  She showed no shock on her face, which in turn surprised him. It was as if she expected him to say what he had just said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Chapter 13

  Bosch sat at his dining room table with his notebook out and the newspaper clips that Keisha Russell had had a Times intern gather for him sitting in front of him in two separate stacks. One stack for Conklin stories and one for Mittel stories. There was a bottle of Henry’s on the table and through the evening he had been nursing it like cough syrup. The one beer was all he would allow himself. The ashtray, however, was loaded and there was a pall of blue smoke around the table. He had placed no limit on cigarettes. Hinojos had said nothing about smoking.

  She’d had plenty to say about his mission, though. She’d flatly counseled him to stop until he was better emotionally prepared to face what he might find. He told her that he was too far down the road to stop. Then she said something that he kept thinking about as he drove home and it intruded even now.

  “You better think about this and make sure it’s what you want,” she said. “Subconsciously or not, you may have been working toward this all your life. It could be the reason you are who you are. A policeman, a homicide investigator. Resolving your mother’s death could also resolve your need to be a policeman. It could take your drive, your mission, away from you. You have to be prepared for that or you should turn back.”

  Bosch considered what she had said to be true. He knew that all his life it had been there. What had happened to his mother had helped define everything he did after. And it was always there in the dark recesses of his mind. A promise to find out. A promise to avenge. It was never anything that had been spoken aloud or even thought about with much focus. For to have done that was to plan and this was no part of a grand agenda. Still, he was crowded with the feeling that what he was doing was inevitable, something scheduled by an unseen hand a long time ago.

  His mind put Hinojos aside and focused on a memory. He was under the surface of the water, eyes open and looking up toward the light above the pool. Then, the light was eclipsed by a figure standing above, the image murky, a dark angel hovering above. Bosch kicked off the bottom and moved toward the figure.

  Bosch picked up the bottle of beer and finished it in one pull. He tried to concentrate again on the newspaper clips in front of him.

  He had initially been surprised at how many stories there were about Arno Conklin prior to his ascendance to the throne of the district attorney’s office. But as he started to read through them he saw most of the stories were mundane dispatches from trials in which Conklin was the prosecuting attorney. Still, Bosch got somewhat of a feel for the man through the cases he tried and his style as a prosecutor. It was clear that his star rose both in the office and the public’s eyes with a series of highly publicized cases.

  The stories were in chronological order and the first dealt with the successful prosecution in 1953 of a woman who poisoned both her parents and then stored their bodies in trunks in the garage until neighbors complained about the smell to the police a month later. Conklin was quoted at length in several articles on the case. One time he was described as the “dashing deputy district attorney.” The case was one of the early forerunners of the insanity defense. The woman claimed diminished capacity. But judging by the number of articles, there was a public furor over the case and the jury only took a half hour to convict. The defendant received the death penalty and Conklin’s place in the public arena as a champion of public safety, a seeker of justice, was secured. There was a photo of him talking to the reporters after the verdict. The paper’s earlier description of him had him down perfectly. He was a dashing man. He wore a dark three-piece suit, had short blond hair and was cleanshaven. He was lean and tall and had the r
uddy, All-American look that actors pay surgeons thousands for. Arno was a star in his own right.

  There were more stories about more murder cases in the clips after that first one. Conklin won every one of them. And he always asked for— and got— the death penalty. Bosch noticed that in the stories from the later fifties, he had been elevated in title to senior deputy district attorney and then by the end of the decade to assistant, one of the top jobs in the office. It was a meteoric rise to have taken place in only a decade.

  There was one report on a press conference in which DA John Charles Stock announced he was placing Conklin in charge of the Special Investigations Unit and charging him with cleaning up the myriad vice problems that threatened the social fabric of Los Angeles County.

  “I’ve always gone to Arno Conklin with the toughest jobs,” the DA said. “And I go to him again. The people of the Los Angeles community want a clean community and, by God, we will have it. To those who know we are coming for you, my advice is, move out. San Francisco will have you. San Diego will have you. But the City of Angels won’t have you!”

  Following that there were several stories spread over a couple of years with splashy headlines about crackdowns on gambling parlors, pipe dens, whorehouses and the street prostitution trade. Conklin worked with a task force of forty cops comprised of loaners from all departments in the county. Hollywood was the main target of “Conklin’s Commandos,” as the Times dubbed the squad, but the scourge of the law came down on wrongdoers all over the county. From Long Beach to the desert, all those who labored for the wages of sin were running scared— at least according to the newspaper articles. Bosch had no doubt that the vice lords Conklin’s Commandos were targeting operated business as usual and that it was only the bottom feeders, the replaceable employees, that were getting the hook.

  The last Conklin story in the stack was on his February 1, 1962, announcement that he would run for the top spot in the district attorney’s office on a campaign of renewed emphasis on ridding the county of the vices that threatened any great society. Bosch noted that part of the stately speech he delivered on the steps of the old downtown courthouse was a well-known police philosophy that Conklin, or his speechwriter, had apparently appropriated as original thought.