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were slowly fed into the National Crime Index computer and we came up with a list of forty-six men with criminal records ranging from minor to the extreme.
    The first time I studied the list of forty-six, I knew. I felt certain that one of the names on it belonged to the killer of the girl with no name.

    The Golden Gate lived up to its name in the afternoon sun. It was packed with cars going both ways and the tourist turnoff on the north side had the LOT FULL sign up. I kept moving, into the rainbow-painted tunnel and through the mountain. Soon enough I could see San Quentin up on the right. A foreboding-looking place in an idyllic spot, it housed the worst criminals California had to offer. And I was going to see the worst of the worst.

    “Detective Bosch?”
    I turned from the window where I had been looking down at the white stones of the veterans cemetery across Wilshire. A man in a white shirt and maroon tie stood holding open the door to the FBI offices. He looked like he was in his midthirties, with a lean build and healthy look about him. He was smiling.
    “Terry McCaleb?”
    “That’s me.”
    We shook hands and he invited me back, leading me through a warren of wood-paneled hallways and offices until we came to his. It looked like it might have been a janitor’s closet at one time. It was smaller than a solitary-confinement cell and had just enough room for a desk and two chairs.
    “Guess it’s a good thing my partner didn’t want to come,” I said, squeezing into the room.
    Frankie Sheehan alternately referred to criminal profiling as “bureau bullshit” and “Quantico quackery.” When I had chosen a week earlier to contact McCaleb, the resident profiler in the bureau’s L.A. office, there had been an argument about it. But I was lead on the case; I made the call.
    “Yeah, things are kind of tight here,” McCaleb said. “But at least I get a private space.”
    “Most cops I know like being in a squad room. They like the camaraderie, I guess.”
    McCaleb just nodded and said, “I like being alone.”
    He pointed to the guest chair and I sat down. I noticed a photo of a young girl taped to the wall above his desk. She looked to be about the same age as my victim. I thought that if it was McCaleb’s daughter, maybe it would be a little plus for me. Something that would make him put a little extra drive into my case.
    “She’s not my daughter,” McCaleb said. “She’s from an old case. A Florida case.”
    I just looked at him. It wouldn’t be the last time he seemed to know my thoughts like I was saying them out loud.
    “So, still no ID on yours, right?”
    “No, nothing yet.”
    “That always makes it tough.”
    “So on your message you said you’d reviewed the file?”
    “Yeah, I did.”
    I had sent copies of the murder book and all crime scene photographs the week before. We had not videotaped the crime scene and this distressed McCaleb. But I had been able to get tape of the scene from a television reporter. His station’s chopper had been in the air over the crime scene but had not aired any footage because of the graphic nature of its contents.
    McCaleb opened a file on his desk and referred to it before speaking.
    “First of all, are you familiar with our VICAP program—Violent Criminal Apprehension?”
    “I know what it is. This is the first time I ever submitted a case.”
    “Yes, you’re a rarity in the LAPD . Most of you guys don’t want or trust the help. But a few more guys like you and maybe I can get a bigger office.”
    I nodded. I wasn’t going to tell him that it was institutional distrust and suspicion that stopped most LAPD detectives from seeking the help of the bureau. It was an unspoken dictate that came from the police chief himself. It was said that the chief could be heard cursing loudly in his office every time news of an FBI arrest within city limits was reported. It was well known in the department that the bank robbery squad routinely monitored the