Bosch, unrelated to the Los Angeles detective, lugged the big case to the porch.
“Gentlemen,” he said to the three of us. “You have a client for me?”
Forte pointed through the door.
“Well, he looks dead.”
“Reason I called, Harry.”
“Just joking. Give me a few and I’ll let you know whatever I can. Did anyone touch anything?”
“Nope. What you see is what we saw,” Forte responded.
Bosch opened his case on the porch, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a small hand-held black light. He pointed it toward the door and scanned the jam, handle and facing.
“Nothing unusual here,” he said more to himself than to us.
He switched to a super-bright flashlight, crouched down so the beam played across the carpet at a low angle and directed it between the doorway and Jacob’s feet. “Couple of shoe indentations. Tennies, I’d guess.”
I glanced just inside the doorway. On a rubber mat were two pair of boots and a pair of Velcro-strap nylon shoes. Few people in the area would walk into their homes with their shoes or boots on electing, instead, to leave them just inside the door. Too much rain, pine needles and dirt get dragged in otherwise.
“Jake isn’t wearing shoes,” I said, nodding toward the body.
“Sweat socks,” Sal responded. “Looks like the killer didn’t know the local courtesy.”
I leaned over Bosch’s case and pulled a small tape measure from his kit, slid out about a foot of the metal ruler and carefully set it next to the first shoe impression. “About a size eight or nine. Hard to tell on the carpet, but certainly not bigger than a nine.” Harry nodded agreement.
I asked Bosch to push down hard on the carpet with his gloved hand and remove it when I told him to. He did. I gave it a five count then nodded. Bosch lifted his hand. The impression remained in the nap.
“Old carpet,” Bosch and I said in virtual unison.
“Lost its resiliency,” I said.
Bosch leaned over and planted his nose into the carpet. “It’s been recently shampooed and vacuumed.” Standing up he looked at Forte, “Your guy weighs 130 to 150 pounds, wears a size nine shoe so he’s probably not carrying around a beer-barrel gut unless he’s a big-footed midget. You agree, Nick?”
“Spot on.”
“This have something to do with the guy you found in the tree?”
“Could be,” Forte answered.
“Huh. And where are the bones?”
Sal and I looked at each other. A smile spread across Forte’s face. Clearing my throat, “Well, we kinda burned them.”
“What?”
“Well, not really. We started a fire with the Madrone…”
“Jesus H, Nick. You burned them?”
“Not a lot.”
“You didn’t burn them a lot.” Bosch started to cluck. “You meat head. That sounds like something Sal would do.”
Sal sputtered, “I beg your pardon?”
Forte shook his head and walked away. I thought I heard him laughing to himself.
“No offense,” Bosch said, raising his hand in defense. “Actually, it’s the most expedient way of getting bones out of wood. Chalk one up for you guys. Can I see them?”
“Well, sure. You want to come out and pick them up or do you want us to put them in a trash bag and deliver them?”
Bosch looked to the sky. “Nick, Nick, Nick.” he sighed, “I’ll come get them. This afternoon okay?”
“Sure. The trash bag offer still stands.”
CHAPTER THREE
After Bosch picked up the bones on Tuesday, Sal and I spent the next couple of days putting our respective houses in order before Cookie and Tatiana headed out. I had a Honey Do list a mile long with a growing number of “reminders” including feeding the cats, leaving left-over pizza for Lilly the raccoon (there is no left over pizza when Cookie’s gone. Scratch that one.), changing the bed sheets at least once a week (fat chance) and throwing away any Chinese-food containers after three weeks.
Then it hit the fan on Thursday.
That’s when the Western World newspaper is published and the front page was totally devoted to “Tree Man” including Karl’s three photos as well as lengthy speculation about the link between Jake’s killer and the fact he cut down the Madrone with the encased skeleton. Some fool was quoted as saying the skeleton was a Native American and this was retribution for disturbing a hallowed grave. Chief Forte was quoted as saying it was too early to make such statements and that Sal and I were working to uncover the true nature of both the Tree Man and Jake’s murder and if they were even remotely connected. The spokesperson for the Consolidated Tribes of Siletz, of which the Coquilles are a part, explained there was no record of any of such ritual remotely resembling encasing someone in a tree.
My cell phone buzzed.
“Drago.”
“Nick, Forte. Just got the autopsy report on Jacob. Single shot to the back of the head, which we knew. A .22, it appears. From a semi-auto, not a revolver. We ran it through the data base and found a test bullet that matched. A Phoenix Arms Deluxe Rangemaster model HP22A.”
“Small gun.”
“Real light weight. Lots of noise, not a lot of accuracy over 30 feet. Okay for concealed carry, but usually a hip pocket or purse weapon.”
“Any registration on it?”
“Nope. We know that it was sold through a gun shop in Eugene in 2002 but the shop is gone and the buyer died three years ago. The family says they think the owner turned the gun over to the Eugene cop shop just before he passed away, but the department doesn’t have any record of that. No family connection to the coast or Cobb, as far as we can tell, but Eugene is looking into it for us.”
“Could have been bought at a gun show along the way. Isn’t worth much on the used-gun market. Less than a hundred bucks, I’d guess, so just about anyone could afford it.”
“Have you heard yet from Bosch?” Forte asked.
“Nary a word. Didn’t expect much right away.”
“Yeah, he’s the lonely ranger ‘round these parts,” Forte said with a bad impression of a Texas drawl.
“Chief…”
“Yeah, Nick?”
“Don’t do that again. ‘Kay? You
