THERE was a small gathering of television reporters in the street in front of Nicholas Trent’s house. Bosch parked behind the Channel 2 van and he and Edgar got out. Bosch didn’t know what Edward Morton looked like but didn’t see anyone in the group who looked like an attorney. After more than twenty-five years on the job, he had unerring instincts that allowed him to identify lawyers and reporters. Over the top of the car, Bosch spoke to Edgar before the reporters could hear them.
“If we have to go in, we’ll do it around back-without the audience.”
“I gotya.”
They walked up to the driveway and were immediately accosted by the media crews, who turned on cameras and threw questions that went unanswered. Bosch noticed that Judy Surtain of Channel 4 was not among the reporters.
“Are you here to arrest Trent?”
“Can you tell us about the boy from New Orleans?”
“What about the press conference? Media Relations doesn’t know anything about a press conference.”
“Is Trent a suspect or not?”
Once Bosch was through the crowd and on Trent’s driveway, he suddenly turned back and faced the cameras. He hesitated a moment as if composing his thoughts. What he really was doing was giving them time to focus and get ready. He didn’t want anyone to miss this.
“There is no press conference scheduled,” Bosch said. “There has been no identification of the bones yet. The man who lives in this house was questioned last night as was every resident of this neighborhood. At no time was he called a suspect by the investigators on this case. Information leaked to the media by someone outside of the investigation and then broadcast without being checked first with the actual investigators has been completely wrong and damaging to the ongoing investigation. That’s it. That’s all I’m going to say. When there is some real and accurate information to report, we will give it to you through Media Relations.”
He turned back around and headed up the driveway to the house with Edgar. The reporters threw more questions at them but Bosch gave no indication of even hearing them.
At the front door Edgar knocked sharply and called out to Trent, telling him it was the police. After a few moments he knocked again and made the same announcement. They waited again and nothing happened.
“The back?” Edgar asked.
“Yeah, or the garage has a door on the side.”
They walked across the driveway and started heading down the side of the house. The reporters yelled more questions. Bosch guessed they were so used to throwing questions that were not answered at people that it simply became natural for them to do it and natural for them to know they would not be answered. Like a dog barking in the backyard long after the master has left for work.
They passed the side door to the garage, and Bosch noted that he was correct in remembering that there was only a single key lock on the knob. They continued into the backyard. There was a kitchen door with a dead bolt and a key lock on the knob. There was also a sliding door, which would be easy to pop open. Edgar stepped over to it but looked down through the glass to the interior sliding track and saw that there was a wooden dowel in place that would prevent the door from being opened from the outside.
“This won’t work, Harry,” he said.
Bosch had a small pouch containing a set of lock picks in his pocket. He didn’t want to have to work the dead bolt on the kitchen door.
“Let’s do the garage, unless…”
He walked over to the kitchen door and tried it. It was unlocked and he opened the door. In that moment he knew they would find Trent dead inside. Trent would be the helpful suicide. The one who leaves the door open so people don’t have to break in.
“Shit.”
Edgar came over, pulling his gun from its holster.
“You’re not going to need that,” Bosch said.
He stepped into the house and they moved through the kitchen.
“Mr. Trent?” Edgar yelled. “Police! Police in the house! Are you here, Mr. Trent?”
“Take the front,” Bosch said.
They split up and Bosch went down the short hallway to the rear bedrooms. He found Trent in the walk-in shower of the master bath. He had taken two wire hangers and fashioned a noose which he had attached to the stem pipe of the shower. He had then leaned back against the tiled wall and dropped his weight and asphyxiated himself. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn the night before. His bare feet were on the floor tiles. There were no indications at all that Trent had had second thoughts about killing himself. Being that it was not a suspension hanging, he could have stopped his death at any time. He didn’t.
Bosch would have to leave it for the coroner’s people but he judged by the darkening of the body’s tongue, which was distended from the mouth, that Trent had been dead at least twelve hours. That would put his death in the vicinity of the very early morning, not long after Channel 4 had first announced his hidden past to the world and labeled him a suspect in the bones case.
“Harry?”
Bosch nearly jumped. He turned around and looked at Edgar.
“Don’t do that to me, man. What?”
Edgar was staring at the body as he spoke.
“He left a three-page note out on the coffee table.”
Bosch stepped out of the shower and pushed past Edgar. He headed toward the living room, taking a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and blowing into them to expand the rubber before snapping them on.
“Did you read the whole thing?”
“Yeah, he says he didn’t do the kid. He says he’s killing himself because the police and reporters have destroyed him and he can’t go on. Like that. There’s some weird stuff, too.”
Bosch went into the living room. Edgar was a few steps behind him. Bosch saw three handwritten pages spread side by side on the coffee table. He sat down on the couch in front of them.
“This how they were?”
“Yup. I didn’t touch them.”
Bosch started reading the pages. What he presumed were Trent’s last words were a rambling denial of the murder of the boy on the hillside and a purging of anger over what had been done to him.
Now EVERYBODY will know! You people have ruined me, KILLED me. The blood is on you, not on me! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, no, no, NO! I never hurt anyone. Never, never, never. Not a soul on this earth. I love the children. LOVE!!!! No, it was you who hurt me. You. But it is I who can’t live with the pain of what you have ruthlessly caused. I can’t.
It was repetitive and almost as if someone had written down an extemporaneous diatribe rather than sat down with pen and paper and wrote out their thoughts. The middle of the second page was blocked off and inside the box were names under a heading of “Those Found Responsible.” The list started with Judy Surtain, included the anchor on the Channel 4 nightly news, and listed Bosch, Edgar and three names Bosch didn’t recognize. Calvin Stumbo, Max Rebner and Alicia Felzer.
“Stumbo was the cop and Rebner was the DA on the first case,” Edgar said. “In the sixties.”
Bosch nodded.
“And Felzer?”
“Don’t know that one.”
The pen with which the pages were apparently written was on the table next to the last page. Bosch didn’t touch it because he planned to have it checked for Trent’s fingerprints.
As he continued to read, Bosch noticed that each page was signed at the bottom with Trent’s signature. At the end of the last page, Trent made an odd plea that Bosch didn’t readily understand.
My one regret is for my children. Who will care for my children? They need food and clothes. I have some money. The money goes to them. Whatever I have. This is my last will and testament signed by me. Give the money to the children. Have Morton give the money and don’t charge me anything. Do it for the children.
“His children?” Bosch asked.
“Yeah, I know,” Edgar said. “Weird.”
