“Harry?”
“Hello, Margaret. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. What brings you here?”
“Well, I wanted to see how you were doing and I wanted to also ask about the case — the murder book you gave me. I was hoping I could get a look at John Jack’s office, see if there were any notes relating to his investigation.”
“Well, you’re welcome to look but I don’t think there is anything there.”
She led him into the house and turned on lights as they went. It made Bosch wonder whether she had been sitting in the dark when he had knocked on the door.
In the office Margaret signaled toward the desk. Bosch paused and studied the whole room.
“The murder book was sitting on top of the desk when I retrieved it,” he said. “Is that where it was, or did you find it somewhere?”
“It was in the bottom right side drawer,” Margaret said. “I found it when I was looking for the cemetery papers.”
“Cemetery papers?”
“He bought that plot at Hollywood Forever many years ago. He liked the name of it.”
Bosch moved around the desk and sat down. He opened the bottom right drawer. It was now empty.
“Did you clean this out?”
“No, I haven’t looked in there since the day I found the book.”
“So there was nothing else in the drawer? Just the murder book?”
“That was all.”
“Did John Jack spend a lot of time in here?”
“A day or two a week. When he did the bills and the taxes. Things like that.”
“Did he have a computer or a laptop?”
“No, he never got one. He said he hated using computers when he worked.”
Bosch nodded. He opened another drawer while talking.
“Had you ever seen the murder book before you found it in the drawer?”
“No, Harry, I hadn’t. What’s going on with it?”
The drawer had two checkbooks and rubber-banded stacks of envelopes from DWP and the Dish Network. It was all household billing records.
“Well, I gave it to a detective and she started checking into it. She said there was nothing added to it by John Jack. So we thought maybe he kept notes separate from it.”
He opened the top drawer and found it full of pens, paper clips, and Post-it pads. There was a pair of scissors, a roll of packing tape, a mini-light, and a magnifying glass with a bone handle with an inscription carved in it.
To my Sherlock
Love, Margaret
“It’s like he took the book with him when he retired but never worked it.”
From the desk Bosch saw a door on the opposite wall.
“You mind if I look in the closet?”
“No, go ahead.”
Bosch got up and walked over. The closet was for long-term storage of clothes. There was a set of golf clubs that looked like they had barely been used and Bosch remembered that they had been presented to John Jack at his retirement party.
On the shelf above the hanging bar Bosch saw a cardboard file box next to a stack of old LPs and a bobby’s helmet that had probably been given to John Jack by a visiting police officer from England.
“What’s in the file box?”
“I don’t know. This was his room, Harry.”
“Mind if I look?”
“Go ahead.”
Bosch pulled the box down. It was heavy and it was sealed. He carried it over to the desk and used the scissors from the drawer to cut the tape stretched across the top of the box.
The box was filled with police documents but they were not contained in files or murder books. At first glance they appeared to be haphazardly stored, from multiple cases. Bosch started taking out thick sheaves of documents and putting them on the desk.
“This might take a while,” he said. “I need to look through these to see what they are and if they’re connected to the murder book.”
“I’ll leave you here so you can work,” Margaret said. “Would you like me to make some coffee, Harry?”
“Uh, no. But a glass of water would be good. My knee is swelling and I have to take a pill.”
“Did you overwork it?”
“Maybe. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll go get your water.”
Bosch finished taking the documents out of the box and started going through them from what would have been at the bottom. It quickly became clear they had nothing to do with the John Hilton case. What Bosch had in front of him were copies of partial case records and arrest reports as well as state parole-board notifications. John Jack Thompson had been keeping tabs on the people he had sent to prison as a detective, writing letters of opposition to the parole board, and keeping track of when prisoners were released.
Margaret came back into the room with a glass of water. Bosch thanked her and reached into his pocket for a prescription bottle.
“I hope that’s not that oxycodone that’s in the paper all the time,” Margaret said.
“No, nothing that strong,” Bosch said. “Just to help with the swelling.”
“Are you finding anything?”
“In this? Not really. It looks like old records of the people he put in prison. Did he ever say he was afraid that one of them might come looking for him?”
“No, he never said that. I asked him about it a few times but he always said we had nothing to worry about. That the baddest people were never getting out.”
Bosch nodded.
“Probably true,” he said.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Margaret said.
After she left the room, Bosch considered the documents in front of him. He decided he wasn’t going to spend two hours looking at every piece of paper from the box. He was confident that the contents were unrelated to Hilton. He started checking through a final sampling of papers just to make sure and came across a copy of a sixty-day summary report on a murder case that he recognized.
The victim was a nineteen-year-old student at Los Angeles City College named Sarah Freelander. She was found raped and stabbed to death in the fall of 1982. She had disappeared somewhere between the school on the east side of the 101 freeway and her apartment on Sierra Vista on the west side of the freeway after attending a night class. Her apartment was thirteen blocks from the school and she commuted by bike. Her roommate reported her missing but she was young and there was no indication of foul play. The report was not taken seriously.
Thompson and Bosch were called in when her body and bike were found beneath a stand of trees that lined the elevated free-way beyond the outfield fence of a ballfield at the Lemon Grove Recreation Center.
The small park ran along Hobart Boulevard on the west side of the freeway and was equidistant from Melrose Avenue to the south and Santa Monica Boulevard to the north, the two streets with free-way underpasses that Sarah likely would have chosen between for her ride home from school. They worked the case hard and Bosch remembered coming to Jack’s home office to get away from the station to discuss ideas and possibilities. John Jack had the internal fire going. Something about the dead girl pierced him and he had promised her parents he would find the killer. That was when Bosch first saw the fierceness his mentor brought to the job and to his search for the truth.
But they never cleared the case. They found a credible witness who saw Sarah on her bike riding toward the Melrose underpass but never were able to pick up her trail on the other side. They keyed on a fellow LACC student who had been rejected a month before when he asked Sarah for a second date. But they never broke him or his alibi, and the case eventually went nowhere. Yet John Jack always carried it with him. Even when their partnership was long over and Bosch would run into him at a retirement party or a training session, John Jack would bring up Sarah Freelander and the disappointment of not finding her killer. He still thought it was the other student.