BOSCH identified the three occupants of the interview room and announced the date and time, even though both of these would be printed on the lower frame of the video being recorded of the session. He put a rights waiver form on the table and told Delacroix he wanted to advise him one more time of his rights. When he was finished he asked Delacroix to sign the form and then moved it to the side of the table. He took a gulp of coffee and started.
“Mr. Delacroix, earlier today you expressed to me a desire to talk about what happened to your son, Arthur, in nineteen eighty. Do you still wish to speak to us about that?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s start with the basic questions and then we can go back and cover everything else. Did you cause the death of your son, Arthur Delacroix?”
“Yes, I did.”
He said it without hesitation or emotion.
“Did you kill him?”
“Yes, I did. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Yes.”
“When did this occur?”
“It was in May, I think, of nineteen eighty. I think that’s when it was. You people probably know more about it than me.”
“Please don’t assume that. Please answer each question to the best of your ability and recollection.”
“I’ll try.”
“Where was your son killed?”
“In the house where we lived at the time. In his room.”
“How was he killed? Did you strike him?”
“Uh, yes. I…”
Delacroix’s businesslike approach to the interview suddenly eroded and his face seemed to close in on itself. He used the heels of his palms to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.
“You struck him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“All over, I guess.”
“Including the head?”
“Yes.”
“This was in his room, you said?”
“Yes, his room.”
“What did you hit him with?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you use your fists or an object of some kind?”
“Yes, both. My hands and an object.”
“What was the object you struck your son with?”
“I really can’t remember. I’ll have to… it was just something he had there. In his room. I have to think.”
“We can come back to it, Mr. Delacroix. Why on that day did you-first of all, when did it happen? What time of day?”
“It was in the morning. After Sheila-she’s my daughter-had gone to school. That’s really all I remember, Sheila was gone.”
“What about your wife, the boy’s mother?”
“Oh, she was long gone. She’s the reason I started-”
He stopped. Bosch assumed he was going to lay blame for his drinking on his wife, which would conveniently blame her for everything that came out of the drinking, including murder.
“When was the last time you talked to your wife?”
“Ex-wife. I haven’t talked to her since the day she left. That was…”
He didn’t finish. He couldn’t remember how long.
“What about your daughter? When did you talk to her last?”
Delacroix looked away from Bosch and down at his hands on the table.
“Long time,” he said.
“How long?”
“I don’t remember. We don’t talk. She helped me buy the trailer. That was five or six years ago.”
“You didn’t talk to her this week?”
Delacroix looked up at him, a curious look on his face.
“This week? No. Why would-”
“Let me ask the questions. What about the news? Did you read any newspapers in the last couple weeks or watch the news on TV?”
Delacroix shook his head.
“I don’t like what’s on television now. I like to watch tapes.”
Bosch realized he had gotten off track. He decided to get back to the basic story. What was important for him to achieve here was a clear and simple confession to Arthur Delacroix’s death. It needed to be solid and detailed enough to stand up. Without a doubt Bosch knew that at some point after Delacroix got a lawyer, the confession would be withdrawn. They always were. It would be challenged on all fronts-from the procedures followed to the suspect’s state of mind-and Bosch’s duty was not only to take the confession but to make sure it survived and could eventually be delivered to twelve jurors.
“Let’s get back to your son, Arthur. Do you remember what the object was you struck him with on the day of his death?”
“I’m thinking it was this little bat he had. A miniature baseball bat that was like a souvenir from a Dodgers game.”
Bosch nodded. He knew what he was talking about. They sold bats at the souvenir stands that were like the old billy clubs cops carried until they went to metal batons. They could be lethal.
“Why did you hit him?”
Delacroix looked down at his hands. Bosch noticed his fingernails were gone. It looked painful.
“Um, I don’t remember. I was probably drunk. I…”
Again the tears came in a burst and he hid his face in his tortured hands. Bosch waited until he dropped his hands and continued.
“He… he should have been in school. And he wasn’t. I came in the room and there he was. I got mad. I paid good money-money I didn’t have-for that school. I started to yell. I started to hit and then… then I just picked up the little bat and I hit him. I hit him too hard, I guess. I didn’t mean to.”
Bosch waited again but Delacroix didn’t go on.
“He was dead then?”
Delacroix nodded.
“That means yes?”
“Yes. Yes.”
There was a soft knock on the door. Bosch nodded to Edgar, who got up and went out. Bosch assumed it was the prosecutor but he wasn’t going to interrupt things now to make introductions. He pressed on.
“What did you do next? After Arthur was dead.”
“I took him out the back and down the steps to the garage. Nobody saw me. I put him in the trunk of my car. I then went back to his room, I cleaned up and put some of his clothes in a bag.”
“What kind of bag?”
“It was his school bag. His backpack.”
“What clothes did you put into it?”
“I don’t remember. Whatever I grabbed out of the drawer, you know?”
“All right. Can you describe this backpack?”
Delacroix shrugged his shoulders.
