Blue on Black by Michael Connelly Page A

the killing. I noticed that of the two, the fishermen committed crimes that took more thinking, had more finesse. The hunters committed crimes of stalking and disorganized abduction. The fishermen were smarter, were more organized.”
    “Great, so what are you saying, this guy is too smart for us?”
    “No, I’m just saying Denninger’s smart. He prepared for the time that he would become the focus of law enforcement. He was ready.”
    “Smart enough not to leave any evidence, to drop the bodies over the side and sink ’em so we’d never find ’em.”
    “Look at all these photos of the fish he’s caught.”
    She moved the photos around on the table, turning them so they would face Bosch.
    “Yeah, we got them from him. He had them on a bulletin board in his kitchen. He was proud of them. He said we could have them.”
    “Really?”
    “He said he had plenty more.”
    “He’s touching them.”
    “What?”
    “In every picture he is holding up the fish or at least touching it in some way.”
    Bosch leaned forward over the table. She was right. He hadn’t noticed this—wasn’t sure what it meant.
    “Okay,” he said.
    “Trophies. He likes trophies. He likes to touch his trophies. To be close.”
    “That’s what we were hoping, that he had kept something from the girls and we’d make the link that way. Driver’s license, lock of hair…anything. But like I told you, we got nothing. His place is clean. His pickup is clean. His boat is clean. The garage where he works is clean. He’s Mr. Clean.”
    “Sometimes the trophy isn’t a lock of hair. It’s the real thing.”
    “You’re saying he kept the bodies? Impossible. We would have found them. We’ve put six hundred hours into this case so far. No bodies. He dumped them in the Pacific and we’ll never find them again.”
    Walling nodded, seemingly in agreement.
    “I worked more than one case where the bodies were buried and the killer would return to visit. I had another where the bodies were found and buried by their families. Each night of the week the killer would go to a different cemetery to visit his victims. That’s where we caught him. It’s a strong attraction to be with his conquests, his trophies. Maybe it’s the same with water. Maybe he weighted them and they are exactly where he put them in. He visits them on the water.”
    “Yeah, but how would he mark the locations? He’d have to—”
    Bosch stopped as he realized the answer to his own question. Walling handed him the photo of Denninger smiling at the camera and holding up the fish with two hands.
    “The console,” she said.
    Bosch studied the photograph. The photo had been taken from the stern by an unknown photographer. The boat was a twenty-eight-foot open fisher, with a center console and a T-top that offered partial shade from the sun. Denninger was standing by the starboard gunwale, holding up his shining trophy fish. Next to him was the console. Scattered across the top in the shelter behind the windshield was a variety of fishing equipment. Bosch saw pliers, thick rubber gloves, a knife, and a plastic tray filled with lures and leaders and hooks. There was also a small electronic device with an LED screen that Bosch had previously dismissed as Denninger’s cell phone.
    But now, as he looked at the photograph, Bosch saw that Denninger had his phone clipped to his belt. The device on the console was something else.
    “GPS?” he said.
    “Looks like it,” Walling said. “Small, handheld, perfect for marking fishing spots.”
    “And the locations of bodies if you planned to come back to visit.”
    Walling nodded. Adrenaline started to pour into Bosch’s bloodstream. Walling had led him right to a solid break.
    “There was no GPS in the possessions we searched,” he said.
    “He hid it somewhere,” she said. “He doesn’t need trophies. He just needs his spots. So he can visit the girls.”
    Bosch stood up and started pacing in the small room.
    “Where could it