The Last Coyote (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

T
HE CALL WAS
from Keisha Russell at the
Times
. She said she’d found one small story in the morgue under Fox’s name but she wanted to meet with Bosch to give it to him. He knew it was part of the game, part of making the pact. He looked at his watch. He could wait to see what the story said. He told her he’d buy her lunch at the Pantry in downtown.

Forty minutes later she was already in a booth near the cashier’s cage when he got there. He slipped into the opposite side of the booth.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Sorry, I was renting a car.”

“They took your car, huh? Must be serious.”

“We’re not going to talk about that.”

“I know. You know who owns this place?”

“Yeah, the mayor. Doesn’t make the food bad.”

She curled her lip and looked around as if the place were crawling with ants. The mayor was a Republican. The
Times
had gone with the Democrat. What was worse, for her, at least, was that the mayor was a supporter of the Police Department. Reporters didn’t like that. That was boring. They wanted City Hall infighting, controversy, scandal. It made things more interesting.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I could’ve suggested Gorky’s or some more liberal establishment.”

“Don’t worry about it, Bosch. I’m just funnin’ with ya.”

She wasn’t more than twenty-five, he guessed. She was a dark-complected black woman who had a beautiful grace about her. Bosch had no idea where she was from but he didn’t think it was L.A. She had the touch of an accent, a Caribbean lilt, that maybe she had worked on smoothing out. It was still there, though. He liked the way she said his name. In her mouth, it sounded exotic, like a wave breaking. He didn’t mind that she was little more than half his age and addressed him only by his last name.

“Where you from, Keisha?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I’m interested is all. You’re on the beat. I wanna know who I’m dealing with.”

“I’m from right here, Bosch. I came from Jamaica when I was five years old. I went to USC. Where are you from?”

“Right here. Been here all my life.”

He decided not to mention the fifteen months he spent fighting in the tunnels in Vietnam and the nine in North Carolina training for it.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Cut it working on my house. Been doing odd jobs while I’m off. So, what’s it been like taking Bremmer’s place on the cop beat? He’d been there a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s been difficult. But I’m making my way. Slowly. I’m making friends. I hope you’ll be one of my friends, Bosch.”

“I’ll be your friend. When I can. Let’s see what you got.”

She brought a manila file up onto the table but the waiter, an old bald man with a waxed mustache, arrived before she could open it. She ordered an egg salad sandwich. He ordered a well-done hamburger and fries. She frowned and he guessed why.

“You’re vegetarian, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. Next time you pick the place.”

“I will.”

She opened the file and he noticed she had several bracelets on her left wrist. They were made of braided thread in many bright colors. He looked in the file and saw a photocopy of a small newspaper clipping. Bosch could tell by the size of the clip that it was one of the stories that gets buried in the back of the paper. She passed it over to him.

“I think this is your Johnny Fox. The age is right but it does not describe him like you did. White trash, you said.”

Bosch read the story. It was dated September 30, 1962.

CAMPAIGN WORKER VICTIM OF HIT AND RUN

By Monte Kim,
Times
Staff Writer

A 29-year-old campaign worker for a candidate for the district attorney’s office was killed Saturday when he was struck by a speeding car in Hollywood, the Los Angeles police reported
.

The victim was identified as Johnny Fox, who lived in an apartment on Ivar Street in Hollywood. Police said Fox had been distributing campaign literature supporting district attorney hopeful Arno Conklin at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea Avenue when he was cut down by the speeding car as he crossed the street
.

Fox was crossing the southbound lanes of La Brea about 2 P.M. when the car struck him. Police said it appeared Fox was killed on impact and his body was dragged for several yards by the car
.

The car that hit Fox slowed momentarily after the collision but then sped away, police said. Witnesses told investigators the car proceeded south on La Brea at a high rate of speed. Police have not located the vehicle and witnesses could not provide a clear description of the make and model year. Police said an investigation is continuing
.

Conklin campaign manager Gordon Mittel said Fox had joined the campaign only a week ago
.

Reached at the district attorney’s office, where he is in charge of the special investigation branch under retiring DA John Charles Stock, Conklin said he had not yet met Fox but regretted the death of the man working for his election. The candidate declined further comment
.

Bosch studied the clip for a long moment after reading it.

“This Monte Kim, is he still at the paper?”

“Are you kidding? That’s like a millennium ago. Back then the newsroom was a bunch of white guys sitting around in white shirts and ties.”

Bosch looked down at his own shirt, then at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Anyway, he’s not around. And I don’t know about Conklin. A little before my time. Did he win?”

“Yeah. I think he had two terms, then I think he ran for attorney general or something and got his ass handed to him. Something like that. I wasn’t here then.”

“I thought you said you’ve been here all your life.”

“I went away for a while.”

“Vietnam, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, a lot of cops your age were there. Must’ve been a trip. Is that why you all became cops? So you could keep carrying guns?”

“Something like that.”

“Anyway, if Conklin’s still alive, he’s probably an old man. But Mittel’s still around. Obviously, you know that. He’s probably in one of these booths eating with the mayor.”

She smiled and he ignored it.

“Yeah, he’s a big shot. What’s the story on him?”

“Mittel? I don’t know. First name on a big downtown law firm, friend of governors and senators and other powerful people. Last I heard, he’s running the financing behind Robert Shepherd.”

“Robert Shepherd? You mean that computer guy?”

“More like computer magnate. Yeah, don’t you read the paper? Shepherd wants to run but doesn’t want to use up his own money. Mittel is doing the fund-raising for an exploratory campaign.”

“Run for what?”

“Jesus, Bosch, you don’t read the paper or watch TV.”

“I’ve been busy. Run for what?”

“Well, like any egomaniac I guess he wants to run for president. But for now he’s looking at the Senate. Shepherd wants to be a third-party candidate. Says the Republicans are too far right and the Democrats too left. He’s right down the middle. And from what I hear, if anybody can get the money together for him to do the third-candidate dance, it’s Mittel.”

“So Mittel wants to make himself a president.”

“I guess. But what are you asking me about him for anyway? I’m a cop reporter. You’re a cop. What’s this have to do with Gordon Mittel?”

She pointed to the photocopy. Bosch became aware that he might have asked too many questions.

“I’m just trying to catch up,” he said. “Like you said, I don’t read the papers.”

“That’s
paper
, not papers,” she said smiling. “I better not catch you reading or talking to the
Daily Snews
.”

“Hell hath no fury like a reporter scorned, right?”

“Something like that.”

He felt assured that he had deflected her suspicions. He held up the photocopy.

“There was no follow-up to this? They never caught anybody?”

“I guess not or there would be a story.”

“Can I keep this?”

“Sure.”

“You feel like taking another walk back to the morgue?”

“For what?”

“Stories about Conklin.”

“There will be hundreds, Bosch. You said he was DA for two terms.”

“I only want stories from before he was elected. And if you have the time, throw in stories on Mittel, too.”

“You know, you’re asking a lot. I could get in trouble if they knew I was doing clip searches for a cop.”

She put on a fake pout and he ignored that, too. He knew what she was driving at.

“You want to tell me what this is about, Bosch?”

He still didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so. Well, look, I’ve got two interviews to do this afternoon. I’m going to be gone. What I can do is get an intern to get the clips together and leave it all for you with the guard in the globe lobby. It will be in an envelope so nobody will know what it is. Would that be okay?”

He nodded. He’d been to Times Square before on a handful of occasions, usually meetings with reporters. It was a block-sized building with two lobbies. The centerpiece of the lobby at the First and Spring entrance was a huge globe that never stopped rotating, just as the news never stopped happening.

“You’ll just leave it under my name? Won’t that get you in trouble? You know, like you said, being too friendly with a cop. That’s got to be against the rules over there.”

She smiled at his sarcasm.

“Don’t worry. If an editor or somebody asks, I’ll just say it’s an investment in the future. You better remember that, Bosch. Friendship is a two-way street.”

“Don’t worry. I never forget that.”

He leaned forward across the table so he was up close to her face.

“I want you to remember something, too. One of the reasons I’m not telling you why I need this stuff is because I’m not sure what it means. If anything. But don’t you get too curious. Don’t you go making any calls. You do that, and you might mess things up. I might get hurt. You might get hurt. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The man with the waxed mustache appeared at the side of the table with their plates.

Chapter Twelve

I
NOTICED YOU ARRIVED
early today. Am I to take that as a sign that you want to be here?”

“Not especially. I was downtown having lunch with a friend, so I just came over.”

“Well, it’s good to hear you were out with a friend. I think that is good.”

Carmen Hinojos was behind her desk. The notebook was out and open but she sat with her hands clasped together in front of her. It was as if she was going out of her way to make no move that could be construed as threatening to the dialogue.

“What happened to your hand?”

Bosch held it up and looked at the bandages on his fingers.

“I hit it with a hammer. I was working on my house.”

“That’s too bad. I hope it’s okay.”

“I’ll live.”

“Why are you so dressed up? I hope you don’t feel you have to do that for these sessions.”

“No. I…I just like following my routine. Even if I’m not going to work, I got dressed like I was.”

“I understand.”

After she made an offer of coffee or water and Bosch declined, she got the session going.

“Tell me, what would you like to talk about today?”

“I don’t care. You’re the boss.”

“I’d rather that you not look at the relationship in that way. I’m not your boss, Detective Bosch. I’m just a facilitator, someone to help you talk about whatever you want, whatever you want to get off your chest.”

Bosch was silent. He couldn’t think of anything to volunteer. Carmen Hinojos drummed her pencil on her yellow tablet for a few moments before taking up the slack.

“Nothing at all, huh?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Then why don’t we talk about yesterday. When I called you, to remind you of our session today, you obviously seemed upset about something. Was that when you hit your hand?”

“No, that wasn’t it.”

He stopped but she said nothing and he decided to give in a little bit. He had to admit to himself that there was something about her that he liked. She was not threatening and he believed she was telling the truth when she said she was there only to help him.

“What happened when you called was that I had found out earlier that my partner, you know, my partner before all of this, had been paired up with a new man. I’ve been replaced already.”

“And how’d that make you feel?”

“You heard how I was. I was mad about it. I think anybody would be. Then I called my partner up later and he treated me like yesterday’s news. I taught that guy a lot and…”

“And what?”

“I don’t know. It hurt, I guess.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. You’d have to be me to see it the way I did.”

“I guess that’s true. But I can sympathize. Let’s leave it at that. Let me ask you this. Shouldn’t you have expected your partner to be paired up again? After all, isn’t it a department rule that detectives work in pairs? You are on leave for a so-far-unknown period of time. Wasn’t it a given that he’d get a new partner, whether permanent or otherwise?”

“I suppose.”

“Isn’t it safer to work in pairs?”

“I suppose.”

“What is your own experience? Did you feel safer the times you were with a partner on the job as opposed to those times when you were alone?”

“Yes, I felt safer.”

“So what happened was inevitable and inarguable, yet still it made you angry.”

“It wasn’t that it happened that brought it on. I don’t know, it was the way he told me and then the way he acted when I called. I really felt left out. I asked him for a favor and he…I don’t know.”

“He what?”

“He hesitated. Partners don’t do that. Not with each other. They’re supposed be there for each other. It’s supposedly a lot like a marriage, but I’ve never been married.”

She paused to write some notes, which made Bosch wonder what had just been said that was so important.

“You seem,” she said while still writing, “to have a low threshold for the toleration of frustrations.”

Her statement immediately made him angry but he knew that if he showed it then he would be confirming her statement. He thought maybe it was a trick designed to elicit such a response. He tried to calm himself.

“Doesn’t everybody?” he said in a controlled voice.

“I suppose, to a degree. When I reviewed your records I saw that you were in the Army during the Vietnam War. Did you see any combat?”

“Did I
see
any combat? Yes, I saw combat. I was in the middle of combat, too. I was even under it. Why do people always ask, did you
see
combat, like it was a goddamn movie they took you to over there?”

She was quiet for a long time, holding the pen but doing no writing. It seemed like she was simply waiting for the sails of his anger to lose the wind. He waved his hand in a gesture he hoped told her that he was sorry, that it was behind him, that they should move on.

“Sorry,” he said, just to make sure.

She still didn’t say anything and her stare was beginning to weigh on him. He looked away from her to the bookshelves along one wall of the office. They were filled with heavy, leather-bound psychiatry texts.

“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 postwar 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 they were 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? The 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.”