“It was war. There were too many weapons and not enough time to stand there and mark down serial numbers or anything like that. We’re talking truckloads of guns. So they were simply destroyed. Thousands of weapons at a time. They would haul them out into the middle of the desert, dump them in a hole, and then blow them to bits with high-grade explosives. They’d let ’em burn for a day or two and then push sand over the hole. Done deal.”
Bosch nodded.
“Done deal.”
He continued grinding on it. Something was out on the periphery of his thoughts. Something that connected, that would help bring it all into focus. He was sure of it but he just couldn’t see it clearly.
“Let me ask you something,” he finally said. “Have you seen this before? I mean a gun from over there showing up over here in a case. A gun that was supposedly seized and destroyed.”
“I checked on that very question this morning, and the answer is that we have seen it. At least one time that I could find. Just not exactly in this way.”
“Then in what way?”
“There was a murder at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, in ’ninety-six. A soldier killed another soldier in a drunken rage over a woman. The gun he used was also a Beretta model ninety-two that had belonged to Saddam’s army. The soldier in question had served in Kuwait during Desert Storm. During his confession, he said that he had taken it off a dead Iraqi soldier and later smuggled it home as a souvenir. I couldn’t find in the records I reviewed how that was done, however. But he did get it stateside.”
Bosch knew that there were many different ways to get souvenir weapons home. The practice was as old as the army itself. When he had served in Vietnam, the easy way was to break the gun down and mail the parts home separately over the course of several weeks.
“What are you thinking, Detective?”
Bosch chuckled.
“I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking that I have to figure out who brought that gun over here. My victim was a journalist and photographer. She covered that war. I read a story she wrote on the Highway of Death. I saw her photos . . .”
Bosch had to consider that Anneke Jespersen had brought the gun she was killed with to Los Angeles. It seemed unlikely, but he could not discount the fact that she had been in the same place the gun was last accounted for.
“When did they start using metal detectors at airports?” he asked.
“Oh, that goes way back,” Wingo said. “That started with all the hijackings in the seventies. But scanning checked baggage is different. That is much more recent and it’s not very consistent either.”
Bosch shook his head.
“She traveled light. I don’t think she was the type who checked bags.”
He couldn’t see it. It didn’t make sense that Anneke Jespersen had somehow picked up a dead or captured Iraqi soldier’s gun and smuggled it home and then again into the United States, only to be killed with it.
“That doesn’t sound promising,” Wingo said. “But if you could put together a census of the neighborhood where your victim was killed, you could find out who served in the military and in the Persian Gulf War. If there was someone living in the vicinity of the murder who had just come back . . .
“You know a lot was said back then about Gulf War Syndrome, exposure to chemicals and heat. A lot of incidents of violence back home were attributed to that war. The soldier at Fort Bragg—that was his defense.”
Bosch nodded but he was no longer listening to Wingo. Things were suddenly coming together, words and pictures and memories . . . visions of that night in the alley off Crenshaw. Of soldiers lining the street. Of black-and-white photos of soldiers on the Highway of Death . . . the blown-up barracks in Dhahran and the smoking hulk of an army Humvee . . . the lights on the Humvee they brought into the alley . . .
Bosch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and ran his hands back through his hair.
“Are you all right, Detective Bosch?” Wingo asked.
“I’m fine. I’m good.”
“Well, you don’t look it.”
“I think they were there . . .”
“Who was where?”
His hands still on top of his head, he realized he had spoken out loud. He turned to look at Wingo over his shoulder. He didn’t answer her question.
“You did it, Agent Wingo. I think you opened the black box.”
He stood up and looked down at her.
“Thank you and thank you to Rachel Walling. I need to go now.”
He turned and headed back toward the doors of the PAB. Wingo called after him.
“What’s the black box?”
He didn’t answer. He kept moving.
20
Bosch strode through the squad room to his desk. He saw Chu in the cubicle, turned sideways and hunched over his computer. Bosch entered the cubicle, grabbed his desk chair, and wheeled it right over next to Chu’s. He sat down on it backwards and started speaking in an urgent tone.
“What are you working on, David?”
“Um, just looking at travel options for Minnesota.”
“You going to go without me? It’s okay, I told you to.”
“I’m thinking I need to go, or start on something else while I’m waiting.”
“Then you’re right, you should go. Did you see who else can go?”
“Yeah, Trish the Dish is in. She has family in St. Paul, so she’s up for it, cold weather and all.”
“Yeah, tell her just to be careful with O’Toole looking over every travel voucher.”
“I already did. So, what do you need, Harry? I can tell you’re hot about something. You got one of your hunches?”
“Damn right. What I need you to do is get on the box and find out which California National Guard units were sent to Los Angeles during the ’ninety-two riots.”
“That should be easy enough.”
“And then find out which of those units were also deployed to the Persian Gulf for Desert Storm the year before. Understand?”
“Yes, you want to know which units were in both places.”
“Exactly. And once you have a list, I want to know where they were based in California and what they did in Desert Storm. Where they were assigned, that sort of thing. Can you do that?”
“I’m on it.”
“Good. And I’m guessing most of these units probably have archives online, websites, digital scrapbooks, things like that. I’m looking for names. Names of soldiers who were in Desert Storm in ’ninety-one and in L.A. a year later.”
“Got it.”
“Good. Thanks, David.”
“You know, Harry, you don’t have to call me by my first name if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m used to you calling me by my last name.”
Chu stared at his computer screen as he said it.
“It’s that obvious, huh?” Bosch said.
“It just sort of sticks out,” Chu said. “You know, after all this time of just calling me Chu.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. You find me what I’m looking for and I’ll call you Mr. Chu from now on.”
“That won’t be necessary. But do you mind telling me why we’re doing these searches? What’s it have to do with Jespersen?”
“I’m hoping everything.”
Bosch then explained the new theory of the case he was pursuing, that Anneke Jespersen was on a story and had come to L.A. not because of the riots but because she was following someone in one of the California National Guard units that had been deployed the previous year to the Persian Gulf.
“What happened over there that made her follow the guy?” Chu asked.
“I don’t know that yet,” Bosch said.
“What are you going to do while I’m working this angle?”
“I’m going to work another. Some of these guys are already in the murder book. I’ll start there.”
Bosch got up and rolled his chair back over to his desk. He sat down and opened the Jespersen case’s original murder book. Before he could start looking through the witness statements, his phone buzzed.