The Crossing by Michael Connelly Page A

crime scene photos across the table. It was a close-up color shot of Alexandra Parks’s brutalized and unrecognizable face. The reports in the murder book said that when her husband found her, a pillow had been placed over her face. In the psychological profile of the crime scene contained in the murder book, it was suggested that the killer did this because he was ashamed of what he had done and was covering it up. If that was the case, Bosch was expecting a reaction from Foster when he saw the horror of the crime.
    He got one. Foster glanced down at the photo and then jerked his head back and looked up at the ceiling.
    “Oh my lord! Oh my lord!”
    Bosch watched him closely, studying his reaction. He believed that in the next few seconds he would decide whether Foster had murdered Alexandra Parks. He was a one-man jury reading the nuances of facial expression before rendering a verdict.
    “Take it away,” Foster said.
    “No, I want you to look at it,” Bosch said.
    “I can’t.”
    Without bringing his eyes down from the ceiling Foster pointed at the photo on the table.
    “I can’t believe this. They say I did that, that I would do that to a woman’s face.”
    “That’s right.”
    “My mother will be at the trial and they’ll show that?”
    “Probably. Unless the judge says it’s too prejudicial—good chance of that, I’d say.”
    Foster made some kind of keening sound from the back of his throat. A wounded animal sound.
    “Look at me, Da’Quan,” Bosch said. “Look at me.”
    Foster slowly brought his head and gaze down and looked at Bosch, maintaining an eye-line focus that did not include the photo on the table. Bosch read pain and sympathy in his eyes. He had sat across the table from many murderers in his time as a detective. Most of them, especially the psychopaths, were very good liars. But in the end it was always the eyes that betrayed them. Psychopaths are cold. They can talk sympathy but they can’t show it in their eyes. Bosch always looked at their eyes.
    “Did you do this, Da’Quan?” Bosch asked.
    “I didn’t,” Foster said.
    What Bosch believed he saw in Da’Quan Foster’s eyes now was the truth. He reached over and flipped the photograph over so it was no longer a threat.
    “Okay, you can relax about it now,” Bosch said.
    Foster’s shoulders were slumped and he looked wrung out. It was dawning on him, possibly for the first time, that he stood accused of the worst kind of crime.
    “I think I believe you, Da’Quan. That’s a good thing. What is bad is that your DNA was found
in
the victim and we need to explain that.”
    “It wadn’t mine.”
    “That’s just a denial and that doesn’t work as an explanation. The science is against you so far. The DNA makes this a slam-dunk case for the prosecution, Da’Quan. You’re a dead man walking unless we can explain it.”
    “I can’t explain it. I know it wasn’t from me. That’s it.”
    “Then how did it get there, Da’Quan?”
    “I don’t know! It’s like planted evidence.”
    “Planted by who?”
    “I don’t know!”
    “The cops?”
    “Somebody.”
    “Were you there that night? In this lady’s house?”
    “Hell, no!”
    “Then where were you?”
    “At the studio. I was painting.”
    “No, you weren’t. That’s bullshit. The Sheriff’s Department has a witness. He says he went by the studio. You weren’t there.”
    “Yes, I was.”
    “Their witness is going to get on the stand at your trial and testify that he went to the studio to see you but you weren’t there. You add that to the DNA and you’re done. All over. You understand?”
    Bosch pointed to the overturned photo.
    “A crime like that, no judge and no jury’s going to have a second thought about giving you the death penalty. You’ll go the way Tookie went.”
    He let that sink in for a moment before continuing in a softer voice.
    “You want me to help you, Da’Quan? I need to know everything. Good and bad. You can lie to your