The Black Box by Michael Connelly: A review

Time for another Harry Bosch mystery.

The Black Box is the eighteenth book in the series. I'm finally closing in on the end, or at least on the most recent entry. The unique thing about this series has been the unwavering quality of the writing. Connelly just keeps on getting better.

Bosch is still with the Open-Unsolved Unit and, in this one, he gets to take another look at a murder that he originally started the investigation on back when it happened in 1992. It's a murder that he didn't get a chance to solve and so it has haunted him for twenty years.

In the spring of 1992, Los Angeles was in turmoil after the trial of the police officers who beat Rodney King. Riots broke out after the acquittal of the officers and many people were injured or killed. One of those killed was a young photo-journalist from Denmark named Anneke Jespersen. It was never determined why she was in the area at the time or what she was doing. Was her killing simply an incidental occurrence of the violence that was happening on the streets? Or was she specifically targeted? After Bosch and his partner were first on the scene at the murder, the investigation was handed off to a task force and Bosch never got to follow up.

Fast forward twenty years. It is 2012 and suddenly Harry has another chance at this case when the gun that was used to kill Jespersen is used in a new crime. Her case is reopened and Harry and his current partner, David Chu, are assigned to it.

After twenty years, the events of a particular night in 1992 are exceedingly murky. Some of the people who might be able to shed light on them are now dead, evidence is unavailable or else the chain of evidence cannot be proven, and, as usual, Bosch has to fight the bureaucracy that is more interested in statistics and making the department look good than in the actual solving of crimes.

But giving Harry Bosch a murder to solve is like giving a bulldog a bone - he's not going to give it up. He persists in spite of all obstacles and finally finds a connection between the National Guard unit that was on duty in the area where the photo-journalist was killed and Jespersen's past as a war correspondent during the Gulf War. That same unit had been present on a ship for rest and recuperation at the same time that Jespersen was on the ship during the war.

Harry doggedly traces Jespersen's travel after she was on that ship and begins to suspect that she was investigating war crimes. It seems that perhaps her killing was not a random event during a riot but that she was actually the specific target of the killer.

It's a real pleasure watching Harry as he puts facts together and finally comes up with a working theory of what happened on the night of the murder which we know he will pursue to its conclusion. At the same time, he is struggling with the perils of being father to a teenage daughter, a daughter who has decided that she, too, wants a career with the police. And he has a relationship with a new woman which looks promising but is also fraught with tension.

In the end, Harry puts himself and his career at risk in order to find justice for the murdered woman that he feels he failed twenty years before. Knowing his dedication to the murder victims whose cases he works, we wouldn't expect anything less.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

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