The Black Box

gun. And by then I didn’t even have it no more.”
    Bosch made a furtive glance over his shoulder to Gant. Harry was moving out of his zone here. Washburn’s story had the desperation and detail of truth. Whoever had shot Jespersen could’ve tossed the murder weapon over the fence to get rid of it.
    Gant picked up on the glance and stood up. He pulled his chair over next to Bosch’s. He was an equal player now.
    “Charles, you’ve got a serious thing here,” he said in a tone that imparted that seriousness perfectly. “You have to know that we know more about this than you ever could. You can dig yourself out of a hole here if you don’t bullshit us. If you lie, we’re going to know it.”
    “Okay,” Washburn said meekly. “What I gotta say?”
    “You gotta tell us what you did with that gun twenty years ago.”
    “I gave it away. First I hid it, then I gave it away.”
    “To who?”
    “A guy I knew but he’s gone now.”
    “I’m not going to ask you again. Who?”
    “His name was Trumond but I never knew if that was his real name or not. On the street they called him True Story.”
    “Is that a nickname? What was his last name?”
    Gant was following standard interview technique in asking some questions he already knew the answers to. It helped gauge the interview subject’s veracity and sometimes provided a strategic advantage when the subject thought the interviewer knew less than he actually did.
    “I don’t know, man,” Washburn said. “But he’s dead now. He got clipped a few years back.”
    “Who clipped him?”
    “I don’t know. He was street. Somebody jus’ took ’m down, you know? It happens.”
    Gant leaned back in his chair, and this was a signal to Bosch to take the lead back if he wanted it.
    He did.
    “Tell me about the gun.”
    “Like you said, a Beretta. It was black.”
    “Where exactly did you find it in your yard?”
    “I don’t know, by the swing set. It was just there in the grass, man. I didn’t see it and ran over it with the lawn mower, put a big fucking scratch on the metal.”
    “Where was the scratch?”
    “Right down the side of the barrel.”
    Bosch knew the scratch could be an identifier if the gun was ever found. More important, the scratch would help confirm Washburn’s story.
    “Did the weapon still work?”
    “Oh, yeah, it worked. Worked fine. I fired it right there, put a slug in one of the fence posts. Surprised me, I was hardly pullin’ the trigger.”
    “Your mother hear the shot?”
    “Yeah, she came out but I’d put it in my pants under my shirt. I told her it was the lawn mower backfiring.”
    Bosch wondered about the slug in the fence post. If it was still there, it would further corroborate the story. He moved on.
    “All right, so you said your mother had you locked up in your room during the riots, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Okay, so when did you find the gun? The riots pretty much ended after three days. May first was the last night. Do you remember when you found the gun?”
    Washburn shook his head like he was annoyed.
    “That’s too far back, man. I can’t remember what day. I just remember I found the gun is all.”
    “Why did you give it to Tru Story?”
    “’Cause he was the street boss. I give it to him.”
    “You mean he was a boss in the Rolling Sixties Crips, correct?”
    “Yes, correct!”
    He said it in a mocking white man’s voice. It was clear he wanted to talk to Gant and not Bosch. Harry glanced toward Gant and he took the lead back.
    “You said Trumond. You mean Trumont, right? Trumont Story?”
    “I guess, man. I didn’t know him that well.”
    “Why’d you give him the gun, then?”
    “Because I wanted to know him. I wanted to move up the ladder, you know?”
    “And did you?”
    “Not really. I took a bust and got sent to JD up in Sylmar. I was there for almost two years. After that I sort of missed my chance.”
    One of the largest juvenile detention centers was in Sylmar in the northern suburbs of the San Fernando Valley. The juvy courts often sent underage criminals to centers far from their home neighborhoods in an effort to break their connection to gangs.
    “Did you ever see that weapon again?” Gant asked.
    “Nope, never did,” Washburn answered.
    “What about Tru Story?” Bosch asked. “Did you see him again?”
    “I’d see him on the street but we never were together. We never spoke.”
    Bosch waited a moment to see if he would say more. He didn’t.
    “Okay,