“Of course,” Rider said.

“First of all, forget closure. Closure is bullshit. Closure is a media term, something they put in newspaper articles about cold cases. Closure is a joke. It’s a fucking lie. All we do here is provide answers. Answers have to be enough. So don’t mislead yourself about what you are doing here. Don’t mislead the family members you deal with on these cases and don’t be misled by them.”

He paused for reaction, got none and moved on. Bosch noticed that the crime scene photo framed on the wall was of a man collapsed in a bullet-riddled phone booth. It was the kind of phone booth you only saw in old movies and at the Farmers Market or over at Phillippe’s.

“Without a doubt,” Pratt said, “this squad is the most noble place in the building. A city that forgets its murder victims is a city lost. This is where we don’t forget. We’re like the guys they bring in in the bottom of the ninth inning to win or lose the game. The closers. If we can’t do it, nobody can. If we blow it, the game is over because we’re the last resort. Yes, we’re outnumbered. We’ve got eight thousand open-unsolveds since nineteen sixty. But we are undaunted. Even if this whole unit clears only one case a month-just twelve a year-we are doing something. We’re the closers, baby. If you’re in homicide, this is the place to be.”

Bosch was impressed by his fervor. He could see sincerity and even pain in his eyes. He nodded. He immediately knew that he wanted to work for this man, a rarity in his experience in the department.

“Just don’t forget that closure isn’t the same as being a closer,” Pratt added.

“Got it,” Bosch said.

“Now, I know you both have long experience working homicides. What you are going to find different here is your relationship with the cases.”

“Relationship?” Bosch asked.

“Yes, relationship. What I mean is that working fresh kills is a completely different animal.