The Drop(33)
“So what’s this about?” Pell asked in a high, nasal voice. “Doc didn’t tell me nothin’ about nothin’.”
Stone did not tell him not to call her Doc.
“It’s about a murder, Clayton,” Bosch said. “From way back when you were just a boy of eight years old.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about no murder, sir.”
The voice was grating and Bosch wondered if it had always been that way or if it was the by-product of the prison attack.
“I know that. And you should know that you are not suspected in this crime in any way.”
“Then why come to me?”
“Good question, and I’m going to just answer it straight, Clayton. You are in this room because your blood and your DNA were found on the victim’s body.”
Pell shot straight up out of his chair.
“Okay, I’m out of here.”
He turned to head toward the door.
“Clay!” Stone called out. “Hear him out! You are not a suspect! You were eight years old. He just wants to know what you know. Please!”
He looked down at her but pointed at Bosch.
“You can trust this guy but I don’t. The cops don’t do anybody any favors. Only themselves.”
Stone stood up to make her pitch.
“Clayton, please. Give it a chance.”
Pell reluctantly sat back down. Stone followed and he stared at her while refusing to look at Bosch.
“We think the killer had your blood on him,” Bosch said. “And it somehow got transferred to the victim. We don’t think you had anything to do with the crime.”
“Why don’t you just get it over with,” he replied, holding his wrists out together for cuffing.
“Clay, please,” Stone said.
He waved both hands in an enough already gesture. He was small enough that he could completely turn his body in his seat and put both legs over the chair’s left arm, giving Bosch the cold shoulder like a child ignoring his parent. He folded his arms across his chest and Bosch could see the top edge of a tattoo peeking out of his collar on the back of his neck.
“Clayton,” Stone said sternly. “Don’t you remember where you were when you were eight? Don’t you remember what you’ve told me over and over?”
Pell tucked his chin down toward his chest and then relented.
“Of course I do.”
“Then answer Detective Bosch’s questions.”
He milked it for ten seconds and then nodded.
“Okay. What?”
Just as Bosch was about to ask a question, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pell heard it.
“If you answer that, I am fucking walking out of here.”
“Don’t worry, I hate cell phones.”
Bosch waited for the buzzing to stop and then proceeded.
“Tell me about where you were and how you were living when you were eight years old, Clayton.”
Pell turned back straight in his chair to face Bosch.
“I was living with a monster. A guy who liked to beat the shit out of me whenever my mother wasn’t around.”
He paused. Bosch waited and then prompted.
“What else, Clayton?”
“He decided that just beatin’ me up wasn’t good enough. He decided he liked for me to suck him off, too. A couple times a week. So that’s how I was living, Detective.”
“And this man was named Johnny?”
“Where did you get that?”
Pell looked at Stone, assuming she had betrayed his confidence.
“The name’s in your PSI reports,” Bosch said quickly. “I read them. You mention a guy named Johnny in them. Is that who we’re talking about here?”
“I just call him that. Now, I mean. He reminded me of Jack Nicholson in that Stephen King movie. The ‘Here’s Johnny’ guy, chasing after the boy with an ax all the time. That was what it was like for me, only no ax. He didn’t need no ax.”
“What about his real name? Did you know it?”
“Nope, never did.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. The guy fucked me up for life. If I knew his name, I’d remember it. The only thing I remember was his nickname, what everybody called him.”
“What was it?”
A small, thin smile played on Pell’s lips. He had something everyone wanted and he was going to work it to his advantage. Bosch could tell. All those years in prison, he had learned to play the angles.
“What do I get for it?” he asked.
Bosch was ready.
“You might get to put the guy who tortured you away for good.”
“What makes you think he’s even still alive?”
Bosch shrugged.
“Just a guess. The reports say your mother had you when she was seventeen. So she was about twenty-five when she took up with this guy. My guess is that he wasn’t too much older than her. Twenty-two years ago . . . he’s probably in his fifties and he’s probably still out there doing what he does.”