And whose idea was it to make detectives work solo, Bosch wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, he said, “You ever hear the story about when Porter was in uniform about ten years back? He and his partner stopped one time to write up a citation for some shitbag they saw sitting on a curb drinking in public. Porter was driving. It was routine-just a misdee writeup-so he stayed behind the wheel. He’s sitting there when the shitbag stands up and caps his partner in the face. Standing there, both hands on his cite book, takes it right between the eyes and Porter sat there watching.”
Pounds looked exasperated.
“I know that story, Bosch,” Pounds said. “They re-enact it for every class of recruits that goes through the academy. A lesson in what not to do, how not to fuck up. But it’s ancient history. If he wanted a stress-out, he should’ve taken it then.”
“That’s the point, man. He didn’t take it then when he could have. He tried to make it through. Maybe he tried for ten years and then he just went down in the flood of all the shit in the world. What do you want him to do? Take the same out Cal Moore took? You get a star in your file for saving the city the pension?”
Pounds did not speak for a few seconds, then said, “Very eloquent, Bosch, but in the long run it is none of your business what happens to Porter. I should not have brought it up. But I did so you would understand what I have to say now.”
He went through his housekeeping trick of making sure all the corners were aligned on the stack of blue binders. Then he pushed the stack across the desk toward Bosch.
“You are taking Porter’s caseload. I want you to shelve the Kappalanni matter for a few days. You’re not getting anywhere at the moment. Put it down until after the first and dive into this.
“I want you to take Porter’s eight open cases and study them. Do it quickly. I want you to look for the one you think you can do something with quickly and then hit it with everything you’ve got for the next five days-until New Year’s Day. Work the weekend, I’ll approve the overtime. If you need one of the others on the table to double up with you, no problem. But put somebody in jail, Harry. Go get me an arrest. I-we need to clear one more case to get to that halfway mark. The deadline is midnight, New Year’s Eve.”
Bosch just looked at him over the stack of binders. He had the full measure of this man now. Pounds wasn’t a cop anymore. He was a bureaucrat. He was nothing. He saw crime, the spilling of blood, the suffering of humans, as statistical entries in a log. And at the end of the year the log told him how well he did. Not people. Not the voice from within. It was the kind of impersonal arrogance that poisoned much of the department and isolated it from the city, its people. No wonder Porter wanted out. No wonder Cal Moore pulled his own plug. Harry stood up and picked up the stack of binders and stared at Pounds with a look that said, I know you. Pounds turned his eyes away.
At the door, Bosch said, “You know, if you bust Porter down, he’ll just get sent back here to the table. Then where will you be? Next year how many cases will there still be open?”
Pounds’s eyebrows went up as he considered this.
“If you let him go, you’ll get a replacement. A lot of sharp people on the other tables. Meehan over on the juvenile table is good. You bring him over to our table and I bet you’ll see your stats go up. But if you go ahead and bust Porter and bring him back, we might be doing this again next year.”
Pounds waited a moment, to make sure Bosch was done, before speaking.
“What is it with you, Bosch? When it comes to investigations Porter couldn’t carry your lunch. Yet you’re standing there trying to save his ass. What’s the point?”
“There is no point, Lieutenant. I guess that’s the point. Get me?”
He carried the binders to his spot at the table and dropped them on the floor next to his chair. Edgar looked at him. So did Dunne and Moshito, who had recently arrived.
“Don’t ask,” Harry said.
He sat down and looked at the pile at his feet and didn’t want to have anything to do with it. What he wanted was a cigarette but there was no smoking in the squad room, at least while Pounds was around. He looked up a number in his Rolodex and dialed. The call was not picked up until the seventh ring.
“What now?”
“Lou?”
“Who is it?”
“Bosch.”
“Oh, yeah, Harry. Sorry, I didn’t know who was calling. What’s going on? You hear I’m going for a stress-out?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling. I got your cases-Pounds gave ’em to me-and, uh, I want to try to turn one real quick, like by the end of the week. I was wondering if you had any idea-you think you might know which one I should hit? I’m starting from scratch.”
There was a long silence on the phone.
“Harry, shit,” he finally said and for the first time Bosch realized he might already be drunk. “Aw, damn. I didn’t think that cocksucker would dump it all on you. I, uh, Harry… Harry, I didn’t do too good on…”
“Hey, Lou. It’s no biggee, you know? My decks were cleared. I’m just looking for a place to start. If you can’t point me, that’s okay. I’ll just look through the stuff.”
He waited and realized the others at the table had been listening to him and not even acting like they weren’t.
“Fuck it,” Porter said. “I, aw fuck it, I don’t know, Harry. I-I haven’t been on it, you know what I mean. I been kinda fallin’ apart here. You hear about Moore? Shit, I saw the news last night. I…”
“Yeah, it’s too bad. Listen, Lou, don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll look through the stuff. I got the murder books here and I’ll look through ’em.”
Nothing.
“Lou?”
“Okay, Harry. Give me a call back if you want. Maybe later I’ll think of something. Right now I’m not too fucking good.”
Bosch thought a few moments before saying anything else. In his mind he pictured Porter on the other end of the line standing in total darkness. Alone.
“Listen,” he said in a low voice. “You better… you have to watch out for Pounds on your application. He might ask the suits to check you out, you know what I mean, put a couple of guys on you. You gotta stay out of the bars. He might try to bust your application. Understand?”
After a while Porter said he understood. Bosch hung up then and looked at the others at the table. The squad room always seemed loud until he had to make phone calls he didn’t want anyone to hear. He got out a cigarette.
“Ninety-eight dumped Porter’s whole caseload on you?” Edgar asked.
“That’s right. That’s me, the bureau garbage man.”
“Yeah, then what’s that make us, chopped liver?”
Bosch smiled. He could tell Edgar didn’t know whether to be happy he avoided the assignment or mad because he was passed over.
“Well, Jed, if you want, I’ll hustle back into the box and tell Ninety-eight that you’re volunteering to split this up with me. I’m sure the pencil-pushing prick will-”
He stopped because Edgar had kicked him under the table. He turned in his seat and saw Pounds coming up from behind. His face was red. He had probably heard the last exchange.
“Bosch, you’re not going to smoke that disgusting thing in here, are you?”
“No, Lieutenant, I was just on my way out back.”
He pushed his chair back and walked out to the back parking lot to smoke. The backdoor of the drunk tank was unlocked and open. The Christmas-night drunks had already been loaded into the jail bus and hauled to arraignment court to make their pleas. A trustee in gray overalls was spraying the floor of the tank with a hose. Harry knew the concrete floor of the tank had been graded on a slight incline as an aid in this daily cleansing. He watched the dirty water slosh out the door and into the parking lot where it flowed to a sewer drain. There was vomit and blood in the water and the smell from the tank was terrible. But Harry stood his ground. This was his place.