The Black Echo

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.
    Once he was in the HITMAN system, a template of case questions appeared on the screen and he filled in the blanks. He then typed in three search keys: “Mulholland Dam,” “overdose” and “staged overdose.” He then pushed the execute key. Half a minute later, the computer told him that a search of eight thousand homicide cases-about ten years’ worth-stored on the computer’s hard disk had come up with only six hits. Bosch called them up one by one. The first three were unsolved slayings of young women who were found dead on the dam in the early 1980s. Each was strangled. Bosch glanced quickly at the information and went on. The fourth case was a body found floating in the reservoir five years earlier. Cause of death was not drowning but otherwise unknown. The last two were drug overdoses, the first of which occurred during a picnic at the park above the reservoir. It looked pretty straightforward to Bosch and he went on. The last hit was a DB found in the pipe fourteen months earlier. Cause of death was later determined to be heart stoppage due to an overdose of tar heroin.
    “Decedent known to frequent area of the dam and sleep in pipe,” the computer readout said. “No further follow-up.”
    It was the death that Crowley, the Hollywood watch sergeant, had mentioned when he woke Bosch up that morning. Bosch pushed a key and printed out the information on the last death, though he didn’t think it figured into his case. He signed off and shut down the computer, then he sat there a moment thinking. Without getting out of the chair he rolled over to another PC. He turned it on and fed his password in. He took the Polaroid out of his pocket, looked at the bracelet and typed in its description for a stolen property records search. This in itself was an art. He had to describe the bracelet the way he believed other cops would, cops who might be typing in descriptions of a whole inventory of jewelry taken in a robbery or burglary. He described