Michael Connelly (109 page)

She had one more card. From beneath her legal pad she pulled out a document and walked it up to the clerk, who handed it to
the judge. Chandler then returned to the lectern.

“Your Honor, that is a subpoena I have prepared for the police department that I would like reflected in the record. I am
asking that a copy of the note referred to in the
Times
article, the note written by the Dollmaker and received yesterday, be released to me as part of discovery.”

Belk jumped to his feet.

“Hold on, Mr. Belk,” the judge admonished. “Let her finish.”

“Your Honor, it is evidence in this case. It should be turned over immediately.”

Judge Keyes gave Belk the nod and the deputy city attorney lumbered to the lectern, Chandler having to back up to give him
room.

“Your Honor, this note is in no way evidence in this case. It has not been verified as having come from anybody. However,
it is evidence in a murder case unattached to this proceeding. And it is not the LAPD’s practice to parade its evidence out
in an open court while there is a suspect still at large. I ask that you deny her request.”

Judge Keyes clasped his hands together and thought a moment.

“Tell you what, Mr. Belk. You get a copy of the note and bring it in here. I’ll take a look and then decide if it will be
entered in evidence. That’s all. Ms. Rivera, call in the jury please, we’re losing the morning.”

After the jury was in the box and everybody in court sat down, Judge Keyes asked who had seen any news stories relating to
the case. No one in the box raised a hand. Bosch knew that if any one of them had seen the story, they wouldn’t admit to it
anyway. To do so would be to invite certain dismissal from the jury — a ticket straight back to the jury assembly room where
the minutes tick by like hours.

“Very well,” the judge said. “Call your first witness, Ms. Chandler.”

Terry Lloyd took the witness stand like a man who was as familiar with it as the recliner chair he got drunk in every night
in front of the TV set. He even adjusted the microphone in front of him without any help from the clerk. Lloyd had a drinker’s
badge of a nose and unusually dark brown hair for a man of his age, which was pushing sixty. That was because it was obvious
to everyone who looked at him, except maybe himself, that he wore a rug. Chandler went through some preliminary questions,
establishing that he was a lieutenant in the LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division.

“During a period beginning four and a half years ago were you placed in charge of a task force of detectives attempting to
identify a serial killer?”

“Yes I was.”

“Can you tell the jury how that came about and functioned?”

“It was put together after the same killer was identified as the perpetrator in five killings. We were unofficially known
in the department as the West-side Strangler Task Force. After the media got wind of it, the killer became known as the Dollmaker
— because he used the victims’ own makeup to paint their faces like dolls. I had eighteen detectives assigned to the task
force. We broke them up into two squads, A and B. Squad A worked a day shift, B took the nights. We investigated the killings
as they occurred and followed the call-in leads. After it hit the media, we were getting maybe a hundred calls a week — people
saying this guy or that guy was the Dollmaker. We had to check them all out.”

“The task force, no matter what it was called, was not successful, is that correct?”

“No, ma’am, that is wrong. We were successful. We got the killer.”

“And who was that?”

“Norman Church was the killer.”

“Was he identified as such before or after he was killed?”

“After. He was good for all of them.”

“And good for the department, too?”

“I don’t follow.”

“It was good for the department that you were able to connect him to the murders. Otherwise you’d —”

“Ask questions, Ms. Chandler,” the judge interrupted.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Lieutenant Lloyd, the man you say was the killer, Norman Church, was not killed himself until there were
at least six more murders following the establishment of the task force, is that correct?”

“Correct.”

“Allowing at least six more women to be strangled. How is that considered successful by the department?”

“We didn’t allow anything. We did the best we could to track down this perpetrator. We eventually did. That made us successful.
Very successful, in my book.”

“In your book. Tell me, Lieutenant Lloyd, had the name Norman Church come up at any time in the investigation before the night
he was shot to death while unarmed by Detective Bosch? Any reference at all?”

“No, it hadn’t. But we connected —”

“Just answer the question I ask, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

Chandler referred to her yellow pad on the lectern. Bosch noticed that Belk was alternately taking notes on one pad in front
of him and writing down questions on another.

“Okay, Lieutenant,” Chandler said, “your task force did not catch up with a supposed perpetrator, as you call it, until six
deaths after you started. Would it be fair to say you and your detectives were under severe pressure to catch him, to close
this case?”

“We were under pressure, yes.”

“From who? Who was pressuring you, Lieutenant Lloyd?”

“Well, we had the papers, TV. The department was on me.”

“How so? The department, I mean. Did you have meetings with your supervisors?”

“I had daily meetings with the RHD captain and weeklies — every Monday — with the police chief.”

“What did they tell you about solving the case?”

“They said get the thing solved. People were dying. I didn’t need to be told that but they did anyway.”

“And did you communicate that to the task force detectives?”

“Of course. But they didn’t need to be told it either. These guys were looking at the bodies every time one showed up. It
was hard. They wanted this guy bad. They didn’t need to read it in the papers or hear it from the chief or even me, for that
matter.”

Lloyd seemed to be getting off on his cop-as-a-lonely-hunter tangent. Bosch could see that he didn’t realize he had walked
into Chandler’s trap. She was going to argue at the end of the trial that Bosch and the cops were under such pressure to find
a killer that Bosch killed Church and then they fabricated his ties to the killings. The fall-guy theory. Harry wished he
could call time out and tell Lloyd to shut the hell up.

“So everyone on the task force knew there was pressure to find a killer?”

“Not a killer.
The
killer. Yes, there was pressure. It’s part of the job.”

“What was Detective Bosch’s role on the task force?”

“He was my B squad supervisor. He worked the night shift. He was a detective third grade so he kind of ran things when I wasn’t
there, which was often. Primarily, I was a floater but I usually worked the day shift with squad A.”

“Do you recall saying to Detective Bosch, ‘We’ve gotta get this guy,’ words to that effect?”

“Not specifically. But I said words to that effect at squad meetings. He was there. But that was our goal, nothing wrong with
that. We had to get this guy. Same situation, I’d say it again.”

Bosch began to feel that Lloyd was paying him back for having stolen the show, closing the case without him. His answers no
longer appeared to be grounded in congenial stupidity but in malice. Bosch bent close to Belk and whispered, “He’s fucking
me because he didn’t get to shoot Church himself.”

Belk put his finger to his lips, signaling Harry to be quiet. He then went back to writing on one of his two pads.

“Have you ever heard of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division?” Chandler asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“What do they do?”

“They study serial killers among other things. Come up with psychological profiles, victim profiles, give advice, things like
that.”

“You had eleven murders, what advice did the FBI’s Behavioral Science Division give you?”

“None.”

“Why was that? Were they stumped?”

“No, we didn’t call on them.”

“Ah, and why didn’t you call them?”

“Well, ma’am, we believed we had a handle on it. We had worked up profiles ourselves and we didn’t think the FBI could help
us much. The forensic psychologist helping us, Dr. Locke from USC, had once been an adviser to the FBI on sex crimes. We had
his experience and the department’s staff psychiatrist helping out. We believed we were in good shape in that department.”

“Did the FBI offer their help?”

Lloyd hesitated here. It seemed he was finally understanding where she was headed.

“Uh, yes, somebody called after the case was making a lot of press. They wanted to get in on it. I told them we were fine,
that no help was needed.”

“Do you regret that decision now?”

“No. I don’t think the FBI could’ve done any better than us. They usually come in on cases being handled by smaller departments
or cases making a big media splash.”

“And you don’t think that’s fair, correct?”

“What?”

“Bigfooting, I think it’s called. You didn’t want the FBI coming in and taking over, right?”

“No. It was like I said, we were okay without them.”

“Isn’t it true that the LAPD and the FBI have a long-standing history of jealousies and competitiveness that has resulted
in the two agencies rarely communicating or working together?”

“No, I don’t buy that.”

It didn’t matter if he bought it. Bosch knew she was making her points with the jury. Whether
they
bought it was the only thing that mattered.

“Your task force came up with a suspect profile, correct?”

“Yes. I believe I just mentioned that.”

She asked Judge Keyes if she could approach the witness with a document she said was plaintiff’s exhibit 1A. She handed it
to the clerk, who handed it to Lloyd.

“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 Doll-maker and pointed to the lighted windows of
an apartment over a garage. Bosch went up alone. A few moments later Norman Church was dead.