The Black Echo

The watch sergeant in the com center beneath City Hall let Bosch record the 911 call off one of the big reel-to-reels that never stop rolling and recording the cries of the city. The voice of the emergency operator was female and black. The caller was male and white. The caller sounded like a boy.

“Nine one one emergency. What are you reporting?”

“Uh, uh-”

“Can I help you? What are you reporting?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m reporting you have a dead guy in a pipe.”

“You said you are reporting a dead body?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“What do you mean a pipe, sir?”

“He is in a pipe up by the dam.”

“What dam is that?”

“Uh, you know, where they got the water reservoir and everything, the Hollywood sign.”

“Is that the Mulholland Dam, sir? Above Hollywood?”

“Yeah, that’s it. You got it. Mulholland. I couldn’t remember the name.”

“Where is the body?”

“They have a big old pipe up there. You know, the one that people sleep in. The dead guy is in the pipe. He’s there.”

“Do you know this person?”

“No, man, no way.”

“Is he sleeping?”

“Shit, no.” The boy laughed nervously. “He’s dead.”

“How are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m just telling you. If you don’t want to-”

“What is your name, sir?”

“What is this? What do you need my name for? I just saw it. I didn’t do it.”

“How am I to know this is a legitimate call?”

“Check the pipe, you’ll know. I don’t know what else to tell you. What’s my name got to do with anything?”

“For our records, sir. Can you give me your name?”

“Uh, no.”

“Sir, will you stay there until an officer arrives?”

“No, I’m already gone. I’m not there, man. I’m down-”

“I know, sir. I have a readout here that says you are at a pay phone on Gower near Hollywood Boulevard. Will you wait for the officer?”

“How-? Never mind, I gotta go now. You check it out. The body is there. A dead guy.”

“Sir, we would like to talk-”

The line was disconnected. Bosch put the cassette tape in his pocket and headed out of the com center the way he had come in.

***

It had been ten months since Harry Bosch had been on the third floor at Parker Center. He had worked in RHD-the Robbery-Homicide Division-for almost ten years, but never came back after his suspension and transfer from the Homicide Special squad to Hollywood detectives. On the day he got the word, his desk was cleared by two goons from Internal Affairs named Lewis and Clarke. They dumped his stuff on the homicide table at Hollywood Station, then left a message on his phone tape at home saying that’s where he could find it. Now, ten months later, he was back on the hallowed floor of the department’s elite detective squad, and he was glad it was Sunday. There would be no faces he knew. No reason to look away.

Room 321 was empty except for the weekend duty detective, whom Bosch didn’t know. Harry pointed to the back of the room and said, “Bosch, Hollywood detectives. I have to use the box.”

The duty man, a young guy with a haircut he had kept when he split the Marine Corps, had a gun catalog open on his desk. He looked back at the computers along the back wall as if to make sure they were still there and then back at Bosch.

“S’pose to use the one in your own division,” he said.

Bosch walked by him. “I don’t have the time to go out to Hollywood. I got an autopsy in twenty minutes,” he lied.

“You know, I’ve heard of you, Bosch. Yeah. The TV show and all of that. You used to be on this floor. Used to.”

The last line hung in the air like smog and Bosch tried to ignore it. As he went back to the computer terminals, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over his old desk. He wondered who used it now. It was cluttered, and he noticed the cards on the Rolodex were crisp and unworn at the edges. New. Harry turned around and looked at the duty man, who was still watching him.

“This your desk when you aren’t pulling Sundays?”

The kid smiled and nodded his head.

“You deserve it, kid. You’re just right for the part. That hair, that stupid grin. You’re going to go far.”

“Just ’cause you got busted out of here for being a one-man army… Ah, fuck you, Bosch, you has-been.”

Bosch pulled a chair on casters away from a desk and pushed it in front of the IBM PC sitting on a table against the rear wall. He hit the switch and in a few moments the amber-colored letters appeared on the screen: “Homicide Information Tracking Management Automated Network.”

For a moment Bosch smiled at the department’s unceasing need for acronyms. It seemed to him that every unit, task force and computer file had been christened with a name that gave its acronym the sound of eliteness. To the public, acronyms meant action, large numbers of manpower applied to vital problems. There was HITMAN, COBRA, CRASH, BADCATS, DARE. A hundred others. Somewhere in Parker Center there was someone who spent all day making up catchy acronyms, he believed. Computers had acronyms, even ideas had acronyms. If your special unit didn’t have an acronym, then you weren’t shit in this department.