The Concrete Blonde by Michael Connelly

splash.”
    “And you don't think that's fair, correct?”
    “What?”
    “Bigfooting, I think it's called. You didn't want the FBI coming in and taking over, right?”
    “No. It was like I said, we were okay without them.”
    “Isn't it true that the LAPD and the FBI have a longstanding history of jealousies and competitiveness that has resulted in the two agencies rarely communicating or working together?”
    “No, I don't buy that.”
    It didn't matter if he bought it. Bosch knew she was making her points with the jury. Whether
they
bought it was the only thing that mattered.
    “Your task force came up with a suspect profile, correct?”
    “Yes. I believe I just mentioned that.”
    She asked Judge Keyes if she could approach the witness with a document she said was plaintiff's exhibit 1A. She handed it to the clerk, who handed it to Lloyd.
    “What is that, Lieutenant?”
    “This is a composite drawing and the psychological profile we came up with after, I think, the seventh killing.”
    “How did you come up with the drawing of the suspect?”
    “Between the seventh and eighth victims, we had an intended victim who managed to survive. She was able to get away from the man and call the police. Working with this survivor, we came up with the drawing.”
    “Okay, are you familiar with the facial appearance of Norman Church?”
    “Not to a great extent. I saw him after he was dead.”
    Chandler asked to approach again and submitted plaintiff's 2A, a collage of several photographs of Church taped to a piece of cardboard. She gave Lloyd a few moments to study them.
    “Do you see any resemblance between the composite drawing and the photographs of Mr. Church?”
    Lloyd hesitated and then said,” Our killer was known to wear disguises and our witness—the victim who got away—was a drug user. She was a porno actress. She wasn't reliable.”
    “Your Honor, can you instruct the witness to answer the questions that are asked?”
    The judge did so.
    “No,” Lloyd said, his head bowed after being chastised. “No resemblance.”
    “Okay,” Chandler said, “going back to the profile you have there. Where did that come from?”
    “Primarily from Dr. Locke at USC and Dr. Shafer, an LAPD staff psychiatrist I think they consulted with some others before writing it up.”
    “Can you read that first paragraph?”
    “Yes. It says, ‘Subject is believed to be a white male, twenty-five to thirty-five years old with minimal college education. He is a physically strong man though may not be large in appearance. He lives alone, alienated from family and friends. He is reacting to a deep-rooted hatred of women suggesting an abusive mother or female guardian. His painting of the faces of his victims with makeup is his attempt to remake women into an image that pleases him, that smiles at him. They become dolls, not threats.’ Do you want me to read the part that outlines the repetitive traits of the killings?”
    “No, that is not necessary. You were involved in the investigation of Mr. Church after he was killed by Bosch, correct?”
    “Correct.”
    “List for the jury all of the traits in the suspect profile that your task force found that matched Mr. Church.”
    Lloyd looked down at the paper in his hands for a long time without speaking.
    “I'll help you get started, Lieutenant,” Chandler said. “He was a white male, correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “What else is similar? Did he live alone?”
    “No.”
    “He actually had a wife and two daughters, correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was he between twenty-five and thirty-five years old?”
    “No.”
    “Actually, he was thirty-nine years old, correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he have a minimal education?”
    “No.”
    “Actually, he had a master's degree in mechanical engineering, didn't he?”
    “Then what was he doing there in that room?” Lloyd said angrily. “Why was the makeup from the victims there? Why—”
    “Answer the question asked of you, Lieutenant,”