Part 2 (1/2)
”No, that's the crazy thing. He goes up with his gun but the guy in his car is already dead. Stabbed in the chest with a screwdriver.”
Bosch didn't get it. He didn't have enough of the facts. But he said nothing.
”The air bag killed him, Harry.”
”What do you mean, the air bag killed him?”
”The air bag. This G.o.dd.a.m.n hype was stealing the air bag out of the steering wheel and somehow the thing went off. It inflated instantly, like it was supposed to, and drove the screwdriver right into his heart, man. I've never seen anything like it. He must've been holding the screwdriver backwards or he was using the b.u.t.t-end to bang on the wheel. We haven't exactly figured out that part yet. We talked to a guy at Chrysler. He says that you take the protective cover off, like this dude had, and even static electricity can set the thing off. Our dead guy was wearing a sweater. I don't know, could've been it. Burns says it's the first death by static cling.”
While Edgar chuckled at his new partner's humor, Bosch thought about the scenario. He remembered a department info bulletin going out on air bag thefts the year before. They had become a hot commodity in the underground market, with thieves getting as much as three hundred dollars apiece for air bags from unscrupulous body shops. The body shops would buy them for three hundred and turn around and charge a customer nine hundred to install one. That was double the profit derived when ordering from the manufacturer.
”So it goes down as accidental?” Bosch asked.
”Yeah, accidental death. But the story ain't over. Both doors of the car were open.”
”The dead guy had a partner.”
”That's what we figure. And so if we find the f.u.c.ker we can charge him. Under the felony homicide law. So we had SID laser the inside of the car and pull all the prints they could. I took 'em down to Latents and talked one of the techs into scanning them and running them on the AFIS. And bingo.”
”You got the partner?”
”Dead bang. That AFIS computer has got a long reach, Harry. One of the nets is the U.S. Military Identification Center in St. Louis. We got a match on our guy outta there. He was in the Army ten years ago. We got his ID from that, then got an address from the DMV and picked him up today. He copped on the ride in. He's gonna go away for a while.”
”Sounds like a good day, then.”
”Didn't end there, though. I haven't told you the weird part yet.”
”Then tell me.”
”Remember I said we lasered the car and took all the prints?”
”Right.”
”Well, we got another match, too. This one on the crime indexes. A case outta Mississippi. Man, all days should be like this one was.”
”What was the match?” Bosch asked. He was growing impatient with the way Edgar was parceling out the story.
”We matched prints put on the net seven years ago by something called the Southern States Criminal Identification Base. It's like five states that don't add up in population to half of L.A. Anyway, one of the prints we put through today matched the doer on a double homicide in Biloxi all the way back in 'seventy-six. Some guy the papers there called the Bicentennial Butcher on account he killed two women on the Fourth of July.”
”The car's owner? The guy with the rifle?”
”d.a.m.n right. His fingerprints were on the cleaver left in one girl's skull. He was a bit surprised when we came back to his house this afternoon. We said, 'Hey, we caught the partner of the guy who died in your car. And by the way, you're under arrest for a two-bagger, motherf.u.c.ker.' I think it blew his mind, Harry. You shoulda been there.”
Edgar laughed loudly into the phone and Bosch knew, after only one week of being grounded, how much he missed the job.
”Did he cop?”
”No, he kept quiet. You can't be that stupid and get away with a double murder for almost twenty years. That's a nice run.”
”Yeah, what's he been doing?”
”Looks like he's just been laying low. Owns a hardware on Santa Monica. Married and has a kid and a dog. A total reform case. But he's going back to Biloxi. I hope he likes southern cooking 'cause he won't be coming back here anytime soon.”
Edgar laughed again. Bosch said nothing. The story was depressing because it was a reminder of what he was no longer doing. It also reminded him about what Hinojos had asked about defining his mission.
”Got a couple of Mississippi state troopers comin' out tomorrow,” Edgar said. ”Talked to them a little while ago and they are happy campers.”
Bosch didn't say anything for a while.
”Harry, you still there?”
”Yeah, I was just thinking about something...Well, it sounds like a h.e.l.l of a day of crime fighting. How's the fearless leader taking it?”
”Pounds? Jesus, he's got a hard-on over this the size of a Louisville slugger. You know what he's doing? He's trying to figure out a way to take credit for all three clearances. He's trying to put the Biloxi cases on our rate.”
It didn't surprise Bosch. It was a widespread practice among department managers and statisticians to add positive credit to crime clearance levels whenever and wherever possible. In the air bag case, there was no actual murder. It was an accident. But because the death occurred during the commission of a crime, California law held that an accomplice to the crime could be charged with his partner's death. Bosch knew that based on the partner's arrest for murder, Pounds intended to add a case to the murder clearance chart. He would not balance this by adding a case to the murder occurrence chart because the death by air bag was an accident. This little statistical two-step would result in a nice little boost for the Hollywood Division's overall homicide clearance rate, which in recent years had continually threatened to dip below fifty percent.
But unsatisfied with the modest jump this accounting deception would provide, Pounds intended to boldly add the two Biloxi murders to the clearance chart as well. After all, it could be argued, his homicide squad did clear two more cases. Adding a total of three cleared cases to one side of the chart without adding any to the other would likely give a tremendous boost to the overall clearance rate-as well as to the image of Pounds as a detective bureau commander. Bosch knew that Pounds was probably delighted with himself and the accomplishments of the day.
”He said our rate would jump six points,” Edgar was saying. ”He was a very pleased man, Harry. And my new partner was very pleased he had pleased his man.”
”I don't want to hear any more.”
”I didn't think so. So what are you doing to keep busy, besides counting cars on the freeway? You must be bored stiff, Harry.”
”Not really,” Bosch lied. ”Last week I finished fixing the deck. This week I'll-”
”Harry, I'm telling you, you're wasting your time and money. The inspectors are going to find you in there and kick you out on your a.s.s. Then they'll tear the place down themselves and hand you the bill. Your deck and the whole house will be in the back of a dump truck then.”
”I hired a lawyer to work on it.”
”What's he gonna do?”
”I don't know. I want to appeal the red tag. He's a land use guy. He said he can work it out.”
”I hope so. I still think you ought to tear it down and start over.”
”I didn't win the lotto yet.”
”The feds've got disaster loans. You could get one and-”
”I've applied, Jerry, but I like my house the way it is.”
”Okay, Harry. I hope your lawyer works it out. Anyway, I gotta go. Burns wants to have a beer over at the Short Stop. He's there waiting.”