The Concrete Blonde (hb-3) by Michael Connelly

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,” Judge Keyes interjected. “Don’t go asking questions. That isn’t your job here.”
    “Sorry, Your Honor,” Lloyd said. “Yes, he had a master’s degree. I’m not sure exactly what it was for.”
    “You mentioned the makeup in your nonresponsive answer a moment ago,” Chandler said. “What did you mean?”
    “In the garage apartment where Church was killed. Makeup that belonged to nine of the victims was found in a cabinet in the bathroom. It tied him directly to those cases. Nine of eleven-it was convincing.”
    “Who found the makeup in there?”
    “Harry Bosch did.”
    “When he went there alone and killed him.”
    “Is that a question?”
    “No, Lieutenant. I withdraw it.”
    She paused to let the jury think about that while she flipped through her yellow pages.
    “Lieutenant Lloyd, tell us about that night. What happened?”
    Lloyd told the story as it had been described dozens of times before. On TV, in newspapers, in Bremmer’s book. It was midnight, squad B was going off shift when the task force hot line rang and Bosch took the call, the last of the night. A street prostitute named Dixie McQueen said she had just escaped from the Dollmaker. Bosch went alone because the others on squad B had gone home and he figured it might be another dead end. He picked the woman up at Hollywood and Western and followed her directions into Silverlake. On Hyperion she convinced Bosch she had escaped from the Dollmaker and pointed to the lighted windows of an apartment over a garage. Bosch went up alone. A few moments later Norman Church was dead.
    “He kicked open the door?” Chandler asked.
    “Yes. There was the thought that maybe he had gone and gotten somebody to take the prostitute’s place.”
    “Did he shout that he was police?”
    “Yes.”
    “How do you know?”
    “He said so.”
    “Any witnesses hear it?”
    “No.”
    “What about Miss McQueen, the prostitute?”
    “No. Bosch had kept her in the car parked on the street in case there was trouble.”
    “So what you’re saying is we have Detective Bosch’s word that he feared there might be another victim, that he identified himself and that Mr. Church made a threatening move toward the pillow.”
    “Yes,” Lloyd said reluctantly.
    “I notice, Lieutenant Lloyd,