Page 135 of Resurrection Walk

“Cop instincts, I guess.”

I had never doubted Bosch’s cop instincts. Arslanian’s answer gave me pause as I thought about how I would continue the case if Sanger was in the wind.

PART THIRTEEN

THE MAN IN BLACK

47

BOSCH WANTED TOget closer so he could hear their conversation but he couldn’t risk it. He was obviously known to Sanger and he had seen the man in the back row of the courtroom. If either saw Bosch they would more than likely shut down what looked like a heated conversation. So Bosch watched from afar, using a bus-stop shelter in front of the courthouse on Spring Street as a blind.

Sanger and the man she was talking to were in the designated smoking area on the north side of the courthouse. She stood next to a concrete urn that served as a trash-can-size ashtray. Sanger was smoking but the man she was talking to was not. He appeared to Bosch to be Latino. He was short with brown skin, jet-black hair, and a mustache that extended beyond the corners of his mouth. Their conversation seemed confrontational. The man was dressed completely in black, like a priest, and he leaned slightly toward Sanger as he spoke. And Sanger leaned toward him, shaking her head emphatically as if she disagreed with whatever the man was saying.

Bosch checked his watch. The courtroom break was almost over and he needed at least five minutes to go back in through security and take an elevator. When he looked back at the smoking section, he saw the man lean in even closer to Sanger and grab the front of her uniform with one hand. It happened so quickly that there was almost no struggle from Sanger. With his free hand the man pulled Sanger’s weapon from her holster, pressed the muzzle to her side, and fired three quick shots, using her body to muffle the reports. He then pushed her into the urn and she toppled over it to the ground. A woman passing on the sidewalk screamed and started running away from the courthouse.

The man with the gun didn’t even look up. He stepped around the urn, extended his arm, and fired one more time, finishing Sanger with a head shot. He turned and walked calmly out of the smoking area. He crossed the front steps of the courthouse, moved quickly out to the sidewalk, and headed south on Spring Street. He carried the gun down at his side.

Bosch stepped out of the bus shelter and ran up the steps and into the smoking area. Sanger was dead, her eyes open and staring blankly at the sky. The final bullet had hit her in the exact center of her forehead. Blood soaked her uniform and the concrete next to her body.

Bosch turned. The killer was now a block away on Spring. A uniformed marshal had stepped through the heavy glass doors of the courthouse after hearing the shots and the pedestrian’s scream. Bosch moved toward him.

“A deputy’s been shot,” he said. “That guy walking down Spring is the shooter.”

Bosch pointed toward the man in black.

“Where’s the deputy?” the marshal asked.

“In the smoking area,” Bosch said. “She’s dead.”

The marshal ran off toward the smoking area as he pulled a radio from a holster on his belt and yelled in the call.

“Shots fired, officer down! North side smoking area! Repeat, shots fired, officer down.”

Bosch looked down Spring Street. The killer had passed City Hall and was almost to First Street. He was getting away.

Bosch started down Spring Street in pursuit. He pulled his phone and called 911. An operator answered immediately.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“There’s been a shooting outside the federal courthouse. A man killed a sheriff’s deputy with her own gun. I’m following him south on Spring Street. I’m unarmed.”

“Okay, sir, slow down. Who got shot? You said a deputy?”

“Yes, a sheriff’s deputy. Sergeant Stephanie Sanger. The federal marshals are there and I’m following the shooter. I need backup to Spring and First Street. He’s literally walking by the PAB right now.”

The Police Administration Building was on the east side of Spring. As Bosch followed, he saw the killer cross over to the west side of the street and continue walking beside the old Los Angeles Times Building toward Second Street. As he’d crossed the street, he had glanced back up Spring as if looking for cars, but Bosch knew he was checking to see if he was being followed. Bosch was more than a block away and did not attract the gunman’s attention.

“I think he’s going to turn west on Second,” he said.

“Sir, are you law enforcement?” the operator asked.

“Retired LAPD.”

“Then you need to stop and wait for the police officers to arrive. They have been dispatched.”

“I can’t. He’s getting away.”

“Sir, you need —”

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