The Blue Religion

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.”

“So you were left to take care of the boy today while your wife had the property showings.”

“It wasn’t like I wasn’t working, though. I was negotiating a sale that would have brought in a thirty-thousand-dollar commission. It was important.”

“Is that why you went into the office?”

“Exactly. We got an offer sheet, and I was going to have to respond. So I got Willy ready and put him in the car and went in to work.”

“What time was this?”

“About quarter to ten. I got the call from the other realtor at about nine thirty. The buyer was playing hardball. The response time was going to be set at an hour. So I had to get my seller on standby, pack up Willy, and get in there to pick up the fax.”

“Do you have a fax at home?”

“Yes, but if the deal went down, we’d have to get together in the office. We have a signing room, and all the forms are right there. My file on the property was in my office too.”

Bosch nodded. It sounded plausible, to a point.

“Okay, so you head off to the office…”

“Exactly. And two things happened…”

Helton brought his hands up into sight but only to hold them across his face to hide his eyes. A classic tell.

“What two things?”

“I got a call on my cell – from Arlene – and Willy fell asleep in his car seat. Do you understand?”

“Make me understand.”

“I was distracted by the call, and I was no longer distracted by Willy. He had fallen asleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I forgot he was there. Forgive me, God, but I forgot I had him with me!”

“I understand. What happened next?”

Helton dropped his hands out of sight again. He looked at Bosch briefly and then at the tabletop.

“I parked in my assigned space behind PPG, and I went in. I was still talking to Arlene. One of our buyers is trying to get out of a contract because he’s found something he likes better. So we were talking about that, about how to finesse things with that, and I was on the phone when I went in.”

“Okay, I see that. What happened when you went in?”

Helton didn’t answer right away. He sat there looking at the table as if trying to remember so he could get the answer right.

“Stephen?” Bosch prompted. “What happened next?”

“I had told the buyer’s agent to fax me the offer. But it wasn’t there. So I got off the line from my wife and I called the agent. Then I waited around for the fax. Checked my slips and made a few callbacks while I was waiting.”

“What are your slips?”

“Phone messages. People who see our signs on properties and call. I don’t put my cell or home number on the signs.”

“How many callbacks did you make?”

“I think just two. I got a message on one and spoke briefly to the other person. My fax came in, and that was what I was there for. I got off the line.”

“Now, at this point it was what time?”

“I don’t know, about ten after ten.”

“Would you say that at this point you were still cognizant that your son was still in your car in the parking lot?”

Helton took time to think through an answer again but spoke before Bosch had to prompt him.

“No, because if I knew he was in the car, I would not have left him in the first place. I forgot about him while I was still in the car. You understand?”

Bosch leaned back in his seat. Whether he understood it or not, Helton had just dodged one legal bullet. If he had acknowledged that he had knowingly left the boy in the car – even if he planned to be back in a few minutes – that would have greatly supported a charge of negligent homicide. But Helton had maneuvered the question correctly, almost as if he had expected it.

“Okay,” Bosch said. “What happened next?”

Helton shook his head wistfully and looked at the sidewall as if gazing through a window toward the past he couldn’t change.

“I, uh, got involved in the deal,” he said. “The fax came in, I called my client, and I faxed back a counter. I also did a lot of talking to the other agent. By phone. We were trying to get the deal done, and we had to hand-hold both our clients through this.”

“For two hours.”

“Yes, it took that long.”

“And when was it that you remembered that you had left William in the car out in the parking lot, where it was about ninety-five degrees?”

“I guess as soon – first of all, I didn’t know what the temperature was. I object to that. I left that car at about ten, and it was not ninety-five degrees. Not even close. I hadn’t even used the air conditioner on the way over.”

There was a complete lack of remorse or guilt in Helton’s demeanor. He wasn’t even attempting to fake it anymore. Bosch had become convinced that this man had no love or affinity for his damaged and now lost child. William was simply a burden that had to be dealt with and therefore could easily be forgotten when things like business and selling houses and making money came up.

But where was the crime in all this? Bosch knew he could charge him with negligence, but the courts tend to view the loss of a child as enough punishment in these situations. Helton would go free with his wife as sympathetic figures, free to continue their lives while baby William moldered in his grave.

The tells always add up. Bosch instinctively believed Helton was a liar. And he began to believe that William’s death was no accident. Unlike his partner, who had let the passions of his own fatherhood lead him down the path, Bosch had come to this point after careful observation and analysis. It was now time to press on, to bait Helton and see if he would make a mistake.

“Is there anything else you want to add at this point to the story?” he asked.

Helton let out a deep breath and slowly shook his head.

“That’s the whole sad story,” he said. “I wish to God it never happened. But it did.”

He looked directly at Bosch for the first time during the entire interview. Bosch held his gaze and then asked a question.

“Do you have a good marriage, Stephen?”

Helton looked away and stared at the invisible window again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you have a good marriage? You can say yes or no if you want.”

“Yes, I have a good marriage,” Helton responded emphatically. “I don’t know what my wife told you, but I think it is very solid. What are you trying to say?”

“All I’m saying is that sometimes, when there is a child with challenges, it strains the marriage. My partner just had a baby. The kid’s healthy, but money’s tight and his wife isn’t back at work yet. You know the deal. It’s tough. I can only imagine what the strain of having a child with William’s difficulties would be like.”

“Yeah, well, we made it by all right.”

“The nannies quitting all the time…”

“It wasn’t that hard. As soon as one quits, we put an ad on craigslist for another.”

Bosch nodded and scratched the back of his head. While doing this, he waved a finger in a circular motion toward the camera that was in the air vent up on the wall behind him. Helton could not see him do this.

“When did you two get married?” he asked.

“Two and a half years ago. We met on a contract. She had the buyer, and I had the seller. We worked well together. We started talking about joining forces, and then we realized we were in love.”

“Then William came.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“That must’ve changed things.”

“It did.”

“So when Arlene was pregnant, couldn’t the doctors tell that he had these problems?”

“They could have if they had seen him. But Arlene’s a workaholic. She was busy all the time. She missed some appointments and the ultrasounds. When they discovered there was a problem, it was too late.”

“Do you blame your wife for that?”

Helton looked aghast.

“No, of course not. Look, what does this have to do with what happened today? I mean, why are you asking me all this?”

Bosch leaned across the table.

“It may have a lot to do with it, Stephen. I am trying to determine what happened today and why. The ‘why’ is the tough part.”

“It was an accident! I forgot he was in the car, okay? I will go to my grave knowing that my mistake killed my own son. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Bosch leaned back and said nothing. He hoped Helton would say more.

“Do you have a son, Detective? Any children?”

“A daughter.”

“Yeah, well then, happy Father’s Day. I’m really glad for you. I hope you never have to go through what I’m going through right now. Believe me, it’s not fun!”

Bosch had forgotten it was Father’s Day. The realization knocked him off his rhythm, and his thoughts went to his daughter living eight thousand miles away. In her ten years, he had been with her on only one Father’s Day. What did that say about him? Here he was, trying to get inside another father’s actions and motivations, and he knew his own could not stand equal scrutiny.

The moment ended when there was a knock on the door and Ferras came in, carrying a file.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I thought you might want to see this.”

He handed the file to Bosch and left the room. Bosch turned the file on the table in front of them and opened it, so that Helton would not be able to see its contents. Inside was a computer printout and a handwritten note on a Post-it.

The note said: “No ad on craigslist.”

The printout was of a story that ran in the LA Times ten months earlier. It was about the heatstroke death of a child who had been left in a car in Lancaster while his mother ran into a store to buy milk. She ran into the middle of a robbery. She was tied up along with the store clerk and placed in a back room. The robbers ransacked the store and escaped. It was an hour before the victims were discovered and freed, but by then the child in the car had already succumbed to heatstroke. Bosch scanned the story quickly, then dropped the file closed. He looked at Helton without speaking.

“What?” Helton asked.

“Just some additional information and lab reports,” he lied. “Do you get the LA Times, by the way?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just curious, that’s all. Now, how many nannies do you think you’ve employed in the fifteen months that William was alive?”

Helton shook his head.

“I don’t know. At least ten. They don’t stay long. They can’t take it.”

“And then you go to craigslist to place an ad?”

“Yes.”

“And you just lost a nanny on Friday?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“She just walked out on you?”

“No, she got another job and told us she was leaving. She made up a lie about it being closer to home and with gas prices and all that. But we knew why she was leaving. She could not handle Willy.”

“She told you this Friday?”

“No, when she gave notice.”

“When was that?”

“She gave two weeks’ notice, so it was two weeks back from Friday.”

“And do you have a new nanny lined up?”

“No, not yet. We were still looking.”

“But you put the feelers out and ran the ad again, that sort of thing?”

“Right, but listen, what does this have to – ”

“Let me ask the questions, Stephen. Your wife told us that she worried about leaving William with you, that you couldn’t handle the strain of it.”

Helton looked shocked. The statement came from left field, as Bosch had wanted it.

“What? Why would she say that?”

“I don’t know. Is it true?”

“No, it’s not true.”

“She told us she was worried that this wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s absolutely crazy and I doubt she said it. You are lying.”

He turned in his seat, so that the front of his body faced the corner of the room and he would have to turn his face to look directly at Bosch. Another tell. Bosch knew he was zeroing in. He decided it was the right time to gamble.

“She mentioned a story you found in the LA Times that was about a kid left in a car up in Lancaster. The kid died of heat-stroke. She was worried that it gave you the idea.”

Helton swiveled in his seat and leaned forward to put his elbows on the table and run his hands through his hair.

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe she…”

He didn’t finish. Bosch knew his gamble had paid off. Helton’s mind was racing along the edge. It was time to push him over.

“You didn’t forget that William was in the car, did you, Stephen?”

Helton didn’t answer. He buried his face in his hands again. Bosch leaned forward, so that he only had to whisper.

“You left him there and you knew what was going to happen. You planned it. That’s why you didn’t bother running ads for a new nanny. You knew you weren’t going to need one.”

Helton remained silent and unmoving. Bosch kept working him, changing tacks and offering sympathy now.

“It’s understandable,” he said. “I mean, what kind of life would that kid have, anyway? Some might even call this a mercy killing. The kid falls asleep and never wakes up. I’ve worked these kinds of cases before, Stephen. It’s actually not a bad way to go. It sounds bad, but it isn’t. You just get tired and you go to sleep.”

Helton kept his face in his hands, but he shook his head. Bosch didn’t know if he was denying it still or shaking off something else. He waited, and the delay paid off.

“It was her idea,” Helton said in a quiet voice. “She’s the one who couldn’t take it anymore.”

In that moment Bosch knew he had him, but he showed nothing. He kept working it.

“Wait a minute,” Bosch said. “She said she had nothing to do with it, that this was your idea and your plan and that when she called you, it was to talk you out of it.”

Helton dropped his hands with a slap on the table.

“That’s a lie! It was her! She was embarrassed that we had a kid like that! She couldn’t take him anywhere and we couldn’t go anywhere! He was ruining our lives and she told me I had to do something about it! She told me how to do something about it! She said I would be saving two lives while sacrificing only one.”

Bosch pulled back across the table. It was done. It was over.

“Okay, Stephen, I think I understand. And I want to hear all about it. But at this point I need to inform you of your rights. After that, if you want to talk, we’ll talk, and I’ll listen.”

WHEN BOSCH CAME out of the interview room, Ignacio Ferras was there, waiting for him in the hallway. His partner raised his fist, and Bosch tapped his knuckles with his own fist.

“That was beautiful,” Ferras said. “You walked him right down the road.”

“Thanks,” Bosch said. “Let’s hope the DA is impressed too.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry.”

“Well, there will be no worries if you go into the other room and turn the wife now.”

Ferras looked surprised.

“You still want me to take the wife?”

“She’s yours. Let’s walk them into the DA as bookends.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Go check the equipment and make sure we’re still recording in there. I’ve got to go make a quick call.”

“You got it, Harry.”

Bosch walked into the squad room and sat down at his desk. He checked his watch and knew it would be getting late in Hong Kong. He pulled out his cell phone anyway and sent a call across the Pacific.

His daughter answered with a cheerful hello. Bosch knew he wouldn’t even have to say anything and he would feel fulfilled by just the sound of her voice saying the one word.

“Hey, baby, it’s me,” he said.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Happy Father’s Day!”

And Bosch realized in that moment that he was indeed a happy man.