He first called Judge Robert O’Neill, who had presided over a four-month murder trial on which Bosch had been lead detective. Bosch checked his watch after sending the call and saw it was not yet 11 p.m., which always seemed to be the witching hour with judges. They got upset when you called them later, even in an emergency.
O’Neill answered promptly with no sign of sleep or intoxicants in his voice. This was something to note. Bosch had once had a case where the defense lawyer challenged the validity of a search warrant because it had been signed by a judge at 3 a.m. after Bosch had woken him from sleep.
“Judge O’Neill, it’s Harry Bosch. I hope I’m not waking you.”
“Harry, how are you? And, no, you didn’t wake me. These days I stay up late and sleep even later.”
Bosch wasn’t sure what he’d meant by the last part.
“Are you on vacation, sir? Could you still approve a telephonic affidavit? We’ve got a missing—”
“Let me stop you right there, Harry. You apparently didn’t hear the news. I’m off the bench. I pulled the plug three months ago.”
Bosch was stunned and embarrassed. Since his own retirement from the LAPD he had not kept track of who held sway in the courtrooms in the Foltz building.
“You retired?” he asked.
“I did,” O’Neill said. “And last I heard, you did too. Is this some kind of a prank?”
“Uh, no, sir. No prank. I’m doing some work for the San Fernando Police Department now. And I need to go. We have an emergency situation here and I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Bosch disconnected before O’Neill could ask anything else and waste Harry’s time. He quickly went back to his contact list, deleted O’Neill, and then called Judge John Houghton, who was next in line on the list of judges friendly to Bosch. He was known as Shootin’ Houghton among local cops and lawyers because he had a concealed-carry permit and once fired a shot into the ceiling of his courtroom to restore order during a brawl between defendants in a Mexican mafia prosecution. He was subsequently censured by the county judicial committee and the California Bar, and was also charged by the City Attorney with illegal use of a firearm, a misdemeanor. Despite all of that he routinely won landslide reelection each term as a law and order judge.
He, too, answered with a clear voice.
“Harry Bosch? I thought you retired.”
“Retired and hired, Judge. I’m working for San Fernando PD now. Part-time, on their backlog of cold cases. But I’m calling because we have an all-hands emergency going—a missing officer— and I’m outside a suspect’s house and need to conduct a search. We’re hoping to find her still alive.”
“A female officer?”
“Yes, sir. A detective. We think the suspect in a serial rape case grabbed her about seven or eight hours ago. We did a quick run-through of the property under exigent circumstance. Now we would like to go back in for a deep look for the officer and anything relating to the underlying rape case.”
“I understand.”
“This is all moving very quickly and I don’t have time to go back to the station to print up an affidavit. Can I run down the probable cause for you and follow up with the paperwork tomorrow?”
“Go ahead. Give it to me.”
The first hurdle jumped, Bosch spent the next five minutes going through the steps and the evidence that led them to Dockweiler as the Screen Cutter suspect. He threw in many other bits of information that he could not connect to either the Screen Cutter case or the abduction of Bella Lourdes but that he knew would help paint the picture for the judge and lead to his approval to search. Things like the digging tools in the truck, the warm bag of food for two, the terrible condition of the home. All of it, combined with Dockweiler’s pedigree as a former police officer, won the day, and Houghton gave Bosch permission to search Dockweiler’s house and vehicle.
Bosch thanked the judge profusely and promised to turn in a written search warrant affidavit the next day.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Houghton said.
32
After disconnecting he went back into the house and signaled down the hallway to Valdez, who was back in the same spot under the archway entrance to the kitchen.
The police chief hurried down the hallway to where Bosch waited by the front door. Bosch heard voices from the kitchen but this time it wasn’t Trevino talking. It was Dockweiler.
Valdez spoke before Bosch could tell him about the telephonic warrant he had just procured.
“Trevino broke him,” he whispered excitedly. “He’s going to tell us where she is. Says she’s still alive.”
The news took Bosch by surprise.
“Trevino broke him?”
Valdez nodded.
“It was deny, deny, deny, then ‘okay, you got me.’”
Bosch had to see this. He started down the hallway toward the kitchen, questioning whether it was his own vanity and wounded pride that made him doubt Trevino’s success, or something else.
He entered the kitchen and Dockweiler was still at the table, hands double-cuffed behind his back and to the chair. When he glanced up and saw it was Bosch and not Valdez, a momentary look passed over his face. Bosch wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or some other reaction. He had never seen Dockweiler before the events of this night and had no precursors for facial reads of him. But soon enough he got a translation.
Dockweiler pointed at him with his chin.
“I don’t want him in here,” he said. “I’m not talking if he’s here.”
Trevino turned around and saw it was Bosch, not Valdez, who had upset the suspect.
“Detective Bosch,” he said. “Why don’t you—”
“Why not?” Bosch said over the captain’s voice. “Afraid I’ll know that you’re spinning a line of bullshit?”
“Bosch!” Trevino barked. “Leave the room. Now. We are getting this man’s full cooperation, and if he wants you out, then you’re out.”
Bosch didn’t move. This was ridiculous.
“She’s only got so much air,” Dockweiler said. “If you want to play games, what happens is on you, Bosch.”
Bosch felt Valdez grab his upper arm from behind. He was about to be pulled out of the room. He looked over at Sisto, who was leaning against the counter behind Trevino. He smirked and shook his head like Bosch had become some sort of pitiful nuisance that had to be put up with.
“Harry, let’s walk out,” Valdez said.
Bosch looked at Dockweiler one last time and tried to get a read on him. But his eyes were dead. A psychopath’s eyes. Unreadable. In that moment he knew there was a play here. He just didn’t know what it was.
Now Bosch felt a tug on his arm from Valdez and he finally turned toward the archway. He stepped out of the kitchen and started down the hallway to the front door. Valdez followed him to make sure he didn’t double back.
“Let’s go out,” Valdez said.
They stepped through the front door and Valdez closed it behind them.
“Harry, we have to play it this way,” Valdez said. “The guy’s talking and says he’ll take us to her. We have no choice.”
“That’s a ploy,” Bosch said. “He’ll just be looking for a chance to make a move.”
“We know that. We’re not stupid. We’re not taking him on a field trip in the middle of the night. If he really wants to cooperate and show us where Bella is, then he can draw us a map. But he’s staying in that chair, no question.”
“Look, Chief…there’s something not right here. Things don’t add up with what I’m seeing in his truck and the house and everything. We need—”
“What doesn’t add up?”
“I don’t know yet. If I had been in there and heard what he was saying or if I was asking the questions, then I’d have a handle on it. But—”
“Look, I have to go back in there and watch over this. Just sit tight and when we get what we need from him, I’ll relay it right to you. You can lead the charge and go get Bella.”
“I don’t need to be the hero—that’s not what this is about. I still think it’s bullshit. He’s not going to do this. You read the Screen Cutter profile. It’s all in there. Guys like this don’t ever admit to anything. They have no guilt, so there’s nothing to admit to. They’re manipulators to the end.”