Between the Dark and the Daylight Read online

  International Author of the Year: Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Quercus)

  Inducted into the International Crime Writing Hall of Fame: P.D. James

  Writer’s Award for Classic TV Drama: Colin Dexter for Inspector Morse

  Film of the Year: The Bourne Ultimatum

  TV Crime Drama of the Year: Criminal Justice

  International Crime Drama of the Year: The Wire

  Best Actress and Actor Awards: Hermione Norris and Rupert Penry-Jones for Spooks

  Arthur Ellis Awards (Crime Writers of Canada)

  Best novel: Jon Redfern, Trumpets Sound No More (RendezVous)

  Best first novel: Liam Durcan, Garcia’s Heart (McClelland and Stewart)

  Best nonfiction: Julian Sher, One Child at a Time: The Global Fight to Rescue Children from Online Predators (Vintage Canada)

  Best juvenile novel: Shane Peacock, Eye of the Crow (Tundra)

  Best short story: Leslie Watts, “Turners” (Kingston Whig-Standard, July 7)

  The Unhanged Arthur (best unpublished first crime novel): D.J. McIntosh, The Witch of Babylon

  Best Crime Writing in French: Mario Bolduc, Tsiganes (Editions Libre Expression)

  Thriller Awards (International Thriller Writers, Inc.)

  Best novel: Robert Harris, The Ghost (Simon and Schuster)

  Best first novel: Joe Hill, Heart-Shaped Box (Morrow)

  Best paperback original: Tom Piccirilli, The Midnight Road (Bantam)

  ThrillerMaster Award: Sandra Brown

  Silver Bullet Award: David Baldacci

  Ned Kelly Awards (Crime Writers’ Association of Australia)

  Best novel: Michael Robotham, Shatter (Little, Brown)

  Best first novel: Chris Womersley, The Low Road (Scribe)

  Best non-fiction: Evan McHugh, Red Centre, Dark Heart (Viking)

  Lifetime achievement: Marele Day

  Dilys Award (Independent Mystery Booksellers Association)

  William Kent Krueger, Thunder Bay (Atria)

  Lefty Award (Left Coast Crime)

  (best humorous mystery novel in the English language) Elaine Viets, Murder With Reservations (Signet)

  Nero Wolfe Award (Wolfe Pack)

  Jonathan Santlofer, Anatomy of Fear (Morrow)

  Hammett Prize

  (International Association of Crime Writers, North America Branch)

  Gil Adamson, The Outlander (House of Anansi Press)

  JON L. BREEN was first published in 1966 with a quiz in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, followed the following year by his first short story, a parody of Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct. Around a hundred short stories have followed, plus seven novels (with an eighth on the horizon), three story collections, several edited anthologies, three reference books on mystery fiction (two of them Edgar winners), and more book reviews and articles than he can count. In 1977, he became the proprietor of EQMM’S “Jury Box” column, which he has contributed ever since, save for a few years in the mid-’80s. He also contributes the “What About Murder?” column to Mystery Scene and has been an occasional strictly non-political contributor to The Weekly Standard. Retired since the dawn of 2000, he lives happily with his wife, Rita, in Fountain Valley, California.

  Father’s Day

  BY MICHAEL CONNELLY

  The victim’s tiny body was left alone in the emergency room enclosure. The doctors, after halting their resuscitation efforts, had solemnly retreated and pulled the plastic curtains closed around the bed. The entire construction, management, and purpose of the hospital was to prevent death. When the effort failed, nobody wanted to see it.

  The curtains were opaque. Harry Bosch looked like a ghost as he approached and then split them to enter. He stepped into the enclosure and stood somber and alone with the dead. The boy’s body took up less than a quarter of the big metal bed. Bosch had worked thousands of cases, but nothing ever touched him like the sight of a young child’s lifeless body. Fifteen months old. Cases in which the child’s age was still counted in months were the most difficult of all. He knew that if he dwelled too long, he would start to question everything — from the meaning of life to his mission in it.

  The boy looked like he was only asleep. Bosch made a quick study, looking for any bruising or sign of mishap. The child was naked and uncovered, his skin as pink as a newborn’s. Bosch saw no sign of trauma except for an old scrape on the boy’s forehead.

  He pulled on gloves and very carefully moved the body to check it from all angles. His heart sank as he did this, but he saw nothing that was suspicious. When he was finished, he covered the body with the sheet — he wasn’t sure why — and slipped back through the plastic curtains shrouding the bed.

  The boy’s father was in a private waiting room down the hall. Bosch would eventually get to him, but the paramedics who had transported the boy had agreed to stick around to be interviewed. Bosch looked for them first and found both men — one old, one young; one to mentor, one to learn — sitting in the crowded ER waiting room. He invited them outside so they could speak privately.

  The dry summer heat hit them as soon as the glass doors parted. Like walking out of a casino in Vegas. They walked to the side so they would not be bothered, but stayed in the shade of the portico. He identified himself and told them he would need the written reports on their rescue effort as soon as they were completed.

  “For now, tell me about the call.”

  The senior man did the talking. His name was Ticotin.

  “The kid was already in full arrest when we got there,” he began. “We did what we could, but the best thing was just to ice him and transport him — try to get him in here and see what the pros could do.”

  “Did you take a body-temperature reading at the scene?” Bosch asked.

  “First thing,” Ticotin said. “It was one oh six eight. So you gotta figure the kid was up around one oh eight, one oh nine, before we got there. There was no way he was going to come back from that. Not a little baby like that.”

  Ticotin shook his head as though he were frustrated by having been sent to rescue someone who could not be rescued. Bosch nodded as he took out his notebook and wrote down the temperature reading.

  “You know what time that was?” he asked. “We arrived at twelve seventeen, so I would say we took the BT no more than three minutes later. First thing you do. That’s the protocol.”

  Bosch nodded again and wrote the time — 12:20 p.m. — next to the temperature reading. He looked up and tracked a car coming quickly into the ER lot. It parked, and his partner, Ignacio Ferras, got out. He had gone directly to the accident scene while Bosch had gone directly to the hospital. Bosch signaled him over. Ferras walked with anxious speed. Bosch knew he had something to report, but Bosch didn’t want him to say it in front of the paramedics. He introduced him and then quickly got back to his questions.

  “Where was the father when you got there?”

  “They had the kid on the floor by the back door, where he had brought him in. The father was sort of collapsed on the floor next to him, screaming and crying like they do. Kicking the floor.”

  “Did he ever say anything?”

  “Not right then.”

  “Then when?”

  “When we made the decision to transport and work on the kid in the truck, he wanted to go. We told him he couldn’t. We told him to get somebody from the office to drive him.”

  “What were his words?”

  “He just said, ‘I want to go with him. I want to be with my son,’ stuff like that.”

  Ferras shook his head as if in pain.

  “At any time did he talk about what had happened?” Bosch asked.

  Ticotin checked his partner, who shook his head.

  “No,” Ticotin said. “He didn’t.”

  “Then how were you informed of what had happened?”

  “Well, initially, we heard it from dispatch. Then one of the office workers, a lady, she told us when we got there. She led us to the back and told
us along the way.”

  Bosch thought he had all he was going to get, but then thought of something else.

  “You didn’t happen to take an exterior-air-temperature reading for that spot, did you?”

  The two paramedics looked at each other and then at Bosch.

  “Didn’t think to,” Ticotin said. “But it’s gotta be at least ninety — five, with the Santa Anas kicking up like this. I don’t remember a June this hot.”

  Bosch remembered a June he had spent in a jungle, but wasn’t going to get into it. He thanked the paramedics and let them get back to duty. He put his notebook away and looked at his partner.

  “Okay, tell me about the scene,” he said.

  “We’ve got to charge this guy, Harry,” Ferras said urgently.

  “Why? What did you find?”

  “It’s not what I found. It’s because it was just a kid, Harry. What kind of father would let this happen? How could he forget?”

  Ferras had become a father for the first time six months earlier. Bosch knew this. The experience had made him a professional dad, and every Monday he came in to the squad with a new batch of photos. To Bosch, the kid looked the same week to week, but not to Ferras. He was in love with being a father, with having a son.

  “Ignacio, you’ve got to separate your own feelings about it from the facts and the evidence, okay? You know this. Calm down.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that, how could he forget, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know, and we’re going to keep that in mind. So tell me what you found out over there. Who’d you talk to?”

  “The office manager.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “It’s a lady. She said that he came in through the back door shortly after ten. All the sales agents park in the back and use the back door-that’s why nobody saw the kid. The father came in, talking on the cell phone. Then he got off and asked if he’d gotten a fax, but there was no fax. So he made another call, and she heard him ask where the fax was. Then he waited for the fax.”

  “How long did he wait?”

  “She said not long, but the fax was an offer to buy. So he called the client, and that started a whole back-and-forth with calls and faxes, and he completely forgot about the kid. It was at least two hours, Harry. Two hours!”

  Bosch could almost share his partner’s anger, but he had been on the mission a couple of decades longer than Ferras and knew how to hold it in when he had to and when to let it go.

  “Harry, something else too.”

  “What?”

  “The baby had something wrong with him.”

  “The manager saw the kid?”

  “No, I mean, always. Since birth. She said it was a big tragedy. The kid was handicapped. Blind, deaf, a bunch of things wrong. Fifteen months old, and he couldn’t walk or talk and never could even crawl. He just cried a lot.”

  Bosch nodded as he tried to plug this information into everything else he knew and had accumulated. Just then, another car came speeding into the parking lot. It pulled into the ambulance chute in front of the ER doors. A woman leaped out and ran into the ER, leaving the car running and the door open.

  “That’s probably the mother,” Bosch said. “We better get in there.”

  Bosch started trotting toward the ER doors, and Ferras followed. They went through the ER waiting room and down a hallway, where the father had been placed in a private room to wait.

  As Bosch got close, he did not hear any screaming or crying or fists on flesh — things that wouldn’t have surprised him. The door was open, and when he turned in, he saw the parents of the dead boy embracing each other, but not a tear lined any of their cheeks. Bosch’s initial split-second reaction was that he was seeing relief in their young faces.

  They separated when they saw Bosch enter, followed by Ferras.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Helton?” he asked.

  They nodded in unison. But the man corrected Bosch.

  “I’m Stephen Helton, and this is my wife, Arlene Haddon.”

  “I’m Detective Bosch with the Los Angeles Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Ferras. We are very sorry for the loss of your son. It is our job now to investigate William’s death and to learn exactly what happened to him.”

  Helton nodded as his wife stepped close to him and put her face into his chest. Something silent was transmitted.

  “Does this have to be done now?” Helton asked. “We’ve just lost our beautiful little — ”

  “Yes, sir, it has to be done now. This is a homicide investigation.”

  “It was an accident,” Helton weakly protested. “It’s all my fault, but it was an accident.”

  “It’s still a homicide investigation. We would like to speak to you each privately, without the intrusions that will occur here. Do you mind coming down to the police station to be interviewed?”

  “We’ll leave him here?”

  “The hospital is making arrangements for your son’s body to be moved to the medical examiner’s office.”

  “They’re going to cut him open?” the mother asked in a near hysterical voice.

  “They will examine his body and then determine if an autopsy is necessary,’’ Bosch said. “It is required by law that any untimely death fall under the jurisdiction of the medical examiner.”

  He waited to see if there was further protest. When there wasn’t, he stepped back and gestured for them to leave the room.

  “We’ll drive you down to Parker Center, and I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

  They placed the grieving parents in separate interview rooms in the third-floor offices of Homicide Special. Because it was Sunday, the cafeteria was closed, and Bosch had to make do with the vending machines in the alcove by the elevators. He got a can of Coke and two packages of cheese crackers. He had not eaten breakfast before being called in on the case and was now famished.

  He took his time while eating the crackers and talking things over with Ferras. He wanted both Helton and Haddon to believe that they were waiting while the other spouse was being interviewed. It was a trick of the trade, part of the strategy. Each would have to wonder what the other was saying.

  “Okay,” Bosch finally said. “I’m going to go in and take the husband. You can watch in the booth or you can take a run at the wife. Your choice.”

  It was a big moment. Bosch was more than twenty-five years ahead of Ferras on the job. He was the mentor, and Ferras was the student. So far in their fledgling partnership, Bosch had never let Ferras conduct a formal interview. He was allowing that now, and the look on Ferras’s face showed that it was not lost on him.

  “You’re going to let me talk to her?”

  “Sure, why not? You can handle it.”

  “All right if I get in the booth and watch you with him first? That way you can watch me.”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “Thanks, Harry.”

  “Don’t thank me, Ignacio. Thank yourself. You earned it.”

  Bosch dumped the empty cracker packages and the can in a trash bin near his desk.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Go on the Internet first and check the LA Times to see if they’ve had any stories lately about a case like this. You know, with a kid. I’d be curious, and if there are, we might be able to make a play with the story. Use it like a prop.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’ll go set up the video in the booth.”

  Ten minutes later, Bosch entered Interview Room Three, where Stephen Helton was waiting for him. Helton looked like he was not quite thirty years old. He was lean and tan and looked like the perfect real estate salesman. He looked like he had never spent even five minutes in a police station before.

  Immediately, he protested.

  “What is taking so long? I’ve just lost my son, and you stick me in this room for an hour? Is that procedure?”

  “It hasn’t been that long, Stephen. But I am sorry you had to wait. We were
talking to your wife, and that went longer than we thought it would.”

  “Why were you talking to her? Willy was with me the whole time.”

  “We talked to her for the same reason we’re talking to you. I’m sorry for the delay.”

  Bosch pulled out the chair that was across the small table from Helton and sat down.

  “First of all,” he said, “thank you for coming in for the interview. You understand that you are not under arrest or anything like that. You are free to go if you wish. But by law we have to conduct an investigation of the death, and we appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I just want to get it over with so I can begin the process.”

  “What process is that?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever process you go through. Believe me, I’m new at this. You know, grief and guilt and mourning. Willy wasn’t in our lives very long, but we loved him very much. This is just awful. I made a mistake, and I am going to pay for it for the rest of my life, Detective Bosch.”

  Bosch almost told him that his son paid for the mistake with the rest of his life but chose not to antagonize the man. Instead, he just nodded and noted that Helton had looked down at his lap when he had spoken most of his statement. Averting the eyes was a classic tell that indicated untruthfulness. Another tell was that Helton had his hands down in his lap and out of sight. The open and truthful person keeps his hands on the table and in sight.

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Bosch said. “Tell me how the day started.”

  Helton nodded and began.

  “Sunday’s our busiest day. We’re both in real estate. You may have seen the signs: Haddon and Helton. We’re PPG’s top-volume team. Today Arlene had an open house at noon and a couple of private showings before that. So Willy was going to be with me. We lost another nanny on Friday, and there was no one else to take him.”

  “How did you lose the nanny?”

  “She quit. They all quit. Willy is a handful … because of his condition. I mean, why deal with a handicapped child if someone with a normal, healthy child will pay you the same thing? Subsequently, we go through a lot of nannies.”