Read the first five chapters of the new Renée Ballard and Harry Bosch novel below.
On Sale October 22nd, 2019
Bosch arrived late and had to park on a cemetery lane far from the gravesite. Careful not to step on anybody’s grave, he limped through two memorial sections, his cane sinking into the soft ground, until he saw the gathering for John Jack Thompson. It was standing room only around the old detective’s gravesite and Bosch knew that wouldn’t work with his knee only three weeks post-op.
He retreated to the nearby Garden of Legends section and sat on a concrete bench that was part of Tyrone Power’s tomb. He assumed it was okay since it was clearly a bench. He remembered his mother taking him to see Power in the movies when he was a kid. Old stuff they would run in the revival theaters on Beverly. He remembered the handsome actor as Zorro and as the accused American in Witness for the Prosecution.
The service for Thompson lasted a half hour. Bosch was too far away to hear what was said but he knew what was said. John Jack—he was always called that—was a good man who gave forty years of service to the Los Angeles Police Department in uniform and as a detective. He put many bad people away and taught generations of detectives how to do the same.
One of them was Bosch—paired with the legend as a newly minted homicide detective in Hollywood Division more than three decades earlier. Among other things, John Jack had taught Bosch how to read the tells of a liar in an interrogation room. John Jack knew when somebody was lying. He always did.
Their pairing had lasted two years only because Bosch trained well and John Jack was needed to break in the next new homicide man, but the mentor and student had stayed in touch through the years. Bosch spoke at Thompson’s retirement party, recounting the time they were working a murder case and John Jack pulled over a bakery delivery truck when he saw it turn right at a red light without first coming to a complete stop. Bosch questioned why they were stopping their search for a murder suspect for a minor traffic infraction and John Jack said it was because he and his wife, Margaret, were having company for dinner that night and he needed to bring home a dessert. He got out of their city ride, approached the truck, and badged the driver. He told him he had just committed a two-pie traffic offense. But being a fair man, John Jack cut a deal for one cherry pie and he came back to the city car with that night’s dessert.
Those kinds of stories and the legend of John Jack Thompson dimmed in the twenty years since his retirement but the gathering around his grave was thick and Bosch recognized many of the men and women he had worked with himself during his own time with an LAPD badge. He suspected that the reception at John Jack’s house after the service was going to be equally crowded and might last into the night.
After the casket was lowered and people started heading back to their cars, Bosch made his way across the lawn to where Margaret remained seated, a folded flag in her lap. She smiled at Bosch as he approached.
“Harry, you got my message,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bosch said.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand.
“He was a good man, Margaret,” he said.
“He was,” she said. “And you were one of his favorites. He took great pride in all of the cases you closed.”
Bosch turned and looked down into the grave. John Jack’s box appeared to have been made of stainless steel.
“He picked it,” Margaret said. “He said it looked like a bullet.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get over to see him,” he said. “Before the end.”
“It’s okay, Harry,” she said. “You had your knee. How is it doing?”
“Better every day. I won’t need this cane much longer.”
“When John Jack had his knees done, he said it was a new lease on life. That was fifteen years ago.”
Bosch just nodded. He thought a new lease on life was a little optimistic.
“Are you coming back to the house?” Margaret asked. “There is something there for you. From him.”
Bosch looked at her.
“You’ll see. Something I would give only to you.”
It looked like two generations of children.
“Can I walk you over to the limo?” Bosch asked.
“That would be nice, Harry,” Margaret said.
Bosch had picked up a cherry pie that morning at Gelson’s and that was what had made him late to the funeral. He carried it into the bungalow on Orange Grove, where John Jack and Margaret Thompson had lived for more than fifty years. He put it on the dining room table, where there were other plates and trays of food.
The house was crowded. Bosch said hellos and shook a few hands as he pushed his way through the knots of people, looking for Margaret. He found her in the kitchen, oven mitts on and getting a hot pan out of the oven. Keeping busy.
“Harry,” she said. “Did you bring the pie?”
“Yes,” he said. “I put it on the table.”
She opened a drawer and gave Bosch a spatula and a knife.
“What were you going to give me?” Bosch asked.
“Just hold your horses,” Margaret said. “First cut the pie, then go back to John Jack’s office. Down the hall, on the left. It’s on his desk and you can’t miss it.”
Bosch went into the dining room and used the knife she had given him to cut the pie into eight slices that were equal to the width of the triangular spatula. He then made his way through the people crowded in the living room to a hallway that he remembered led back to John Jack’s home office. The door was closed and for some reason he knocked, even though he knew no one should be in there.
He opened the door and entered a small, cluttered office with shelves on two walls and a desk pushed up against a third under a window. Sitting on a green blotter was a blue plastic binder that was thick with three inches of documents inside.
It was a murder book.
Ballard studied what she could see of the remains with an unflinching eye. The smell of kerosene mixed with burned flesh was overpowering this close, but she stood her ground. She was in charge of the scene until the fire experts arrived. The nylon tent had melted and collapsed on the victim. It tightly shrouded the body in places where the fire had not completely burned through. The body was broad-shouldered and large. She assumed the victim was a male. He seemed to be in repose and she wondered how he could have slept through it. She also knew that toxicity tests would determine his alcohol and drug levels.
Ballard knew it would not be her case but she pulled out her phone and took photos of the body and the scene, including close-ups of the overturned camping heater, the presumed source of the blaze. She then opened the temperature app on the phone and noted that the current temperature listed for Hollywood was 52 degrees. That would go in her report and be forwarded to the fire department’s arson unit.
She stepped back and looked around. It was 3:15 a.m. and Cole Avenue was largely deserted, except for the homeless people who had come out of the tents and cardboard shanties that lined the sidewalk running alongside the Hollywood Recreation Center. They stared both wide-eyed and addled as the investigation into the death of one of their own proceeded.’
“How’d we get this?” Ballard asked.
Stan Dvorek, the patrol sergeant who had called her out, stepped over.
“FD called us,” he said. “They got it from coms. Somebody driving by saw the flames and called it in as a fire.”
“They get a name on the PR?” Ballard asked.
“He didn’t give one. Called it in, kept driving.”
There were two fire trucks still on scene, having made the journey just three blocks down from Station 27 to douse the tent fire. The crews were standing by to be questioned.
“I’m going to take the fire guys,” Ballard said. “Why don’t you have your guys talk to some of these people, see if anybody saw anything.”
“Isn’t that arson’s job?” Dvorek asked. “They’re just going to have to re-interview if we find anybody worth talking to.”
“First on scene, Stan. We need to do this right.”
Ballard walked away, ending the debate. Dvorek might be the patrol supervisor, but Ballard was in charge of the crime scene. Until it was determined that the fatal fire was an accident, she would treat it as a crime scene.
She walked over to the waiting firefighters and asked which of the two crews were first on scene. She then asked the six firefighters assigned to the first truck what they saw. The information she received from them was thin. The tent fire had almost burned itself out by the time the fire-rescue team was on scene. Nobody saw anyone around the blaze. No witnesses, no suspects. A fire extinguisher from the truck was used to douse the remaining flames, and the victim was determined to be dead and therefore was not transported to a hospital.
From there Ballard took a walk up and down the block, looking for cameras. The homeless encampment ran along the city park’s outdoor basketball courts, where there were no security cameras. On the west side of Cole was a line of one-story warehouses inhabited by prop houses and equipment-rental houses catering to the film and television industry. Ballard saw a few cameras but on closer inspection they turned out to be either dummies or set at angles that would not be helpful to the investigation.
When she got back to the scene, she saw Dvorek conferring with two of his patrol officers. Ballard recognized them from the morning-watch roll call at Hollywood Division.
“Anything?” Ballard asked.
“About what you’d expect,” Dvorek said. “‘I didn’t see nothin’, I didn’t hear nothin’, I don’t know nothin’.’ Waste of time.”
“Had to be done, D.,” she said.
“So where the fuck is arson?” Dvorek asked. “I need to get my people back out.”
“Last I heard, in transit. They don’t run twenty-four hours, so they had to roust a team from home.”
“Jesus, we’ll be waiting out here all night. Did you roll the M.E. out yet?”
“On the way. You can probably clear half your guys and yourself. Just leave one car here.”
“You got it.”
Dvorek went off to issue new orders to his officers. Ballard walked back to the immediate crime scene and looked at the tent that had melted over the dead man like a shroud. She was staring down at it when peripheral movement caught her eye. She looked up to see a woman and a girl climbing out of a shelter made of a blue plastic tarp tied to the fence that surrounded the basketball court. Ballard moved quickly to them and redirected them away from the body.
“Honey, you don’t want to go over there,” she said. “Come this way.”
They walked down the sidewalk to the end of the encampment.
“What happened?” the woman asked.
Ballard studied the girl as she answered.
“Somebody got burned,” she said. “Did you see anything? It happened about an hour ago.”
“We were sleeping,” the woman said.
The girl had still not said anything.
“Why aren’t you in a shelter?” Ballard asked. “This is dangerous out here. That fire could’ve spread.”
She looked from the mother to the daughter.
“How old are you?”
The girl had large brown eyes and brown hair and was slightly overweight. The woman stepped in front of her and answered Ballard.
“Please don’t take her from me.”
Ballard saw the pleading look in the woman’s brown eyes.
“I’m not here to do that. I just want to make sure she’s safe. You’re her mother?”
“Yes. My daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
Ballard leaned down to talk to the girl. She had her eyes cast down.
“Mandy? Are you okay?”
“Would you want me to try to get you and your mother into a shelter for women and children? It might be better than being out here.”
Mandy looked up at her mother when she answered.
“No. I want to stay here with my mother.”
“I’m not going to separate you. I will take you and your mother if you want.”
The girl looked up at her mother again for guidance.
“You put us in there, and they will take her away,” the mother said. “I know they will.”
“No, I’ll stay here,” the girl said.
“Okay,” Ballard said. “I won’t do anything, but I don’t think this is where you should be. It’s not safe out here for either of you.”
“The shelters aren’t safe either,” the mother said. “People steal all your stuff.”
Ballard pulled out a business card and handed it to her.
“Call me if you need anything,” she said. “I work the midnight shift. I’ll be around if you need me.”
The mother took the card. Ballard’s thoughts returned to the case. She turned and nodded toward
the crime scene.
“Did you know him?” she asked.
“A little,” the mother said. “He minded his own business.”
“Had he been here a long time?”
“A couple months. He said he had been over at Blessed Sacrament but it was too crowded.”
Ballard knew that Blessed Sacrament over on Sunset allowed the homeless to camp on the front portico. She drove by it often and knew it to be heavily crowded at night with tents and makeshift shelters.
“Did he have any trouble with anybody here?” she asked.
“Not that I saw,” said the mother.
Ballard looked at Amanda to see if she had a response but was interrupted by a voice from behind.
Ballard turned around. It was one of Dvorek’s officers. His name was Rollins.
“The guys from arson are here.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
The men from arson were named Nuccio and Spellman. Following LAFD protocol, they were wearing blue coveralls with the LAFD badge on the chest pocket and the word ARSON across the back. Nuccio was the senior investigator and he said he would be lead. Both men shook Ballard’s hand before Nuccio announced that they would take the investigation from there. Ballard explained that a cursory sweep of the homeless encampment had produced no witnesses, while a walk up and down Cole Street had found no cameras that might have had an angle on the fatal fire. She also mentioned that the M.E.’s Office was rolling a unit to the scene and a criminalist from the LAPD lab was en route as well.
Nuccio seemed uninterested. He handed Ballard a business card with his email address on it and asked that she forward the incident report she would write up when she got back to Hollywood Station.
“That’s it?” Ballard asked. “That’s all you need?”
She knew that LAFD arson experts had law enforcement and detective training and were expected to conduct a thorough investigation of any fire involving a death. She also knew they were competitive with the LAPD in the way a little brother might be with his older sibling. The arson guys didn’t like being in the LAPD’s shadow.
“That’s it,” Nuccio said. “You send me your report and I’ll have your email. I’ll let you know how it all shakes out.”
“You’ll have it by dawn,” Ballard said. “You want to keep the uniforms here while you work?”
“Sure. One or two of them would be nice. Just have them watch our backs.”
Ballard walked away and over to Rollins and his partner, Randolph, who were waiting by their car for instructions. She told them to stand by and keep the scene secure while the investigation proceeded.
Ballard used her cell to call the Hollywood Division watch office and report that she was about the leave the scene. The lieutenant was named Washington. He was a new transfer from Wilshire Division.
“LAFD has no need for me here, LT,” she said.
“What’s it look like?” Washington asked.
“Like the guy kicked over his kerosene heater while he was sleeping. But we’ve got no wits or cameras in the area. Not that we found, and I’m not thinking the arson guys are going to look too hard beyond that.”
Washington was silent for a few moments while he came to a decision.
“All right, then, come back to the house and write it up,” he finally said. “They want it all by themselves, they can have it.”
“Roger that,” Ballard said. “I’m heading in.”
She disconnected and walked over to Rollins and Randolph, telling them she was leaving the scene and that they should call her at the station if anything new came up.
The station was only five minutes away at five in the morning. The rear parking lot was quiet as Ballard headed to the back door. She used her key card to enter and took the long way to the detective bureau so that she could go through the watch office and check in with Washington. He was only in his second deployment period and still learning and feeling his way. Ballard had been purposely wandering through the watch office two or three times a shift to help establish the relationship.
Technically her boss was the division’s detective lieutenant, but she almost never saw him because he worked days. In reality, Washington was her boots-on-the-ground boss and she wanted to solidly establish the relationship.
Washington was behind his desk, looking at his deployment screen, which showed the locations of every police unit in the division.
“How’s it going?” Ballard asked.
“All quiet on the western front,” Washington said.
His eyes were squinted and holding on a particular point on the screen. Ballard pivoted around the side of his desk so she could see the screen.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’ve got three units at Seward and Santa Monica,” Washington said. “I’ve got no call there.”
Ballard pointed. The division was divided into seven geographic zones called reporting districts.
“You’ve got three RDs that are contiguous there—sixty-three, sixty-seven, and seventy-seven,” she said. “And that’s where an all-night mariscos truck parks. They can all code seven there without leaving their zones.”
“Got it,” Washington said. “Thanks, Ballard. Good to know.”
“No problem. I’m going to go brew a fresh pot in the break room. You want a cup?”
“Ballard, I might not know about that mariscos truck out there, but I know about you. You don’t need to be fetching coffee for me. I can get my own.”
Ballard was surprised by the answer and immediately wanted to ask what exactly Washington knew about her. But she didn’t.
“Got it,” she said instead.
She walked back down the main hall and then hooked a left down into the hallway that led to the detective bureau. As expected, the squad room was deserted. Ballard checked the wall clock and saw she had ninety minutes until the end of her shift. That gave her plenty of time to write up the incident report on the fire death. She headed to the cubicle she used in the back corner of the room. It was a spot that gave her a full view of the room and anybody who came in.
She had left her laptop open on the desk when she got the call out on the tent fire. She stood in front of the desk for a few moments before sitting down. Someone had moved her computer to the side, and a faded blue binder—a murder book—had been left front and center on the desk. She flipped it open and there was a Post-it on the table of contents.
Don’t say I never gave you anything.
Ballard took the Post-it off because it was covering the name of the victim printed at the top of the standard-form table of contents.
John Hilton—DOB 1/17/66—DOD 8/3/90
She didn’t need the table of contents to find the photo section of the book. She flipped several sections of reports over on the three steel loops and found the photos secured in plastic sleeves six to a page. Back in 1990 they used Polaroids. In 2019 they were faded almost white but Ballard was able to make out the body of the young man slumped across the front seat of a car, a bullet hole behind his ear.
She studied the photos for a moment and then flipped the binder closed. She pulled her phone, looked up a number, and called it. She checked her watch as she waited.
A man answered quickly and did not sound to Ballard as if he had been pulled from the depths of sleep.
“It’s Ballard,” she said. “You were in here at the station tonight?”
“Uh, yeah, I dropped by about an hour ago,” Bosch said. “You weren’t there.”
“I was on a call. So where’d this murder book come from?”
“I guess you could say it’s been missing in action. I went to a funeral yesterday—my first partner in homicide way back when. The guy who mentored me. He passed on and I went to the funeral, and then afterward at his house, his wife—his widow—gave me the book. She wanted me to return it. So that’s what I did. I returned it to you.”
Ballard flipped the binder open again and read the basic case information above the table of contents.
“George Hunter was your partner?” she asked.
“No,” Bosch said. “My partner was John Jack Thompson. This wasn’t his case originally.”
“It wasn’t his case, but when he retired he stole the murder book.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say he stole it.”
“Then what would you say?”
“I’d say he took over the investigation of a case nobody was working. Read the chrono, you’ll see it was gathering dust. The original case detective probably retired and nobody was doing anything with it.”
“When did Thompson retire?”
“Shit, and he had it all this time? Almost twenty years.”
“That’s the way it looks.”
“That’s really bullshit.”
“Look, I’m not trying to defend John Jack, but the case probably got more attention from him than it ever would’ve in the Open-Unsolved Unit. They mainly just work DNA cases over there and there’s no DNA in this one. It would have been passed over and left to gather dust if John Jack hadn’t taken it with him.”
“So you know there’s no DNA? And you checked the chrono?”
“Yeah. I read through it. Why do you think I dropped it off at four a.m.? I got home from the funeral and started going through it.”
“And why did you bring it here?”
“Because we had a deal, remember? We’d work cases together.”
“So you want to work this together?”
“Well, sort of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ve got some stuff going on. Medical stuff. And I don’t know how much—”
“What medical stuff?”
“I just got a new knee and, you know, I have rehab and there might be a complication. So I’m not sure how much I can be involved.”
“You’re dumping this case on me.”
“No, I want to help and I will help. John Jack mentored me. He taught me the rule, you know?”
“To take every case personally.”
“Yes. Take every case personally and you get angry. It builds a fire. It gives you the edge you need to go the distance every time out.”
Ballard thought about that. She understood what he was saying but knew it was a dangerous way to live and work.
“He said every case?” she asked.
“Every case,” Bosch said.
“So you just read this cover to cover?”
“Yes. Took me about six hours. I had a few interruptions. I need to walk and work my knee.”
“What’s the part in it that made it personal for John Jack?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it. But I know he found a way to make every case personal. If you find that, you might be able to close it out.”
“If I find it?”
“Okay, if we find it. But like I said, I already looked.”
Ballard flipped the sections over until she once again came to the Polaroids held in plastic sleeves.
“I don’t know,” she said. “This feels like a long shot. If George Hunter couldn’t clear it and then John Jack Thompson couldn’t clear it, what makes you think we can?”
“Because you have that thing,” Bosch said. “That fire. We can do this and bring that boy some justice.”
“Don’t start with the justice thing. Don’t bullshit me, Bosch.”
“Okay, I won’t. But will you at least read the chrono and look through the book before deciding? If you do that and don’t want to continue, that’s fine. Turn the book in or give it back to me. I’ll work it alone. When I get the time.”
Ballard didn’t answer at first. She had to think. She knew that the proper procedure would be to turn the murder book in to the Open-Unsolved Unit, explain how it had been found after Thompson’s death, and leave it at that. But as Bosch had said, that was probably a move that would result in the case being put on a shelf to gather dust.
She looked at the photos again. It appeared to her on initial read that it was a drug rip-off. The victim pulls up, offers the cash, gets a bullet instead of a balloon of heroin or whatever his drug of choice was.
There’s one thing,” Bosch said.
“What’s that?” Ballard asked.
“The bullet. If it’s still in evidence. You need to run it through NIBIN, see what comes up.”
“What’s that, a one-in-ten shot? No pun intended.”
She knew that the national database held the unique ballistic details of bullets and cartridge casings found at the scenes of crimes, but it was far from a complete archive. Bullet data had to be entered for it to be part of any comparison process, and most police departments, including the LAPD, were behind in the entering process. Still, the bullet archive had been around since the start of the century and the data grew larger every year.
“It’s better than no shot,” Bosch said. “No pun intended.”
Ballard didn’t reply. She looked at the murder book and ran a fingernail up the side of the thick sheaf of documents it contained, creating a ripping sound.
“Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll read it.”
“Good,” Bosch said. “Let me know what you think.”
Bosch quietly slipped into the back row of the Department 106 courtroom, drawing the attention of the judge only, who made a slight nod in recognition. It had been years, but Bosch had had several cases before Judge Paul Falcone in the past. He had also woken the judge up on more than one occasion while seeking an approval for a search warrant in the middle of the night.
Bosch saw his half brother, Mickey Haller, at the lectern located to the side of the defense and prosecution tables. He was questioning his own witness. Bosch knew this because he had been tracking the case online and in the newspaper and this day was the start of the defense’s seemingly impossible case. Haller was defending a man accused of murdering a superior court judge in a city park less than a block from the courthouse that now held the trial. The defendant, Jeffrey Herstadt, not only was linked to the crime by DNA evidence but had helpfully confessed on video to the murder as well.
“Doctor, let me get this straight,” Haller said to the witness seated to the left of the judge. “Are you saying that Jeffrey’s mental issues put him in a state of paranoia where he feared physical harm might come to him if he <em confess to this crime?”
The man in the witness box was in his sixties and had white hair and a full beard that was oddly darker. Bosch had missed his swearing in and did not know his name. His physical appearance and professorial manner conjured the name Freud in Harry’s mind.
“That is what you get with schizoaffective disorder,” Freud responded. “You have all the symptoms of schizophrenia, such as hallucinations, as well as mood disorders like mania and depression and paranoia. The latter leads to the psyche taking on protective measures such as the nodding and agreement you see in the video of the confession.”
“So, when Jeffrey was nodding and agreeing with Detective Marston throughout that interview, he was what—just trying to avoid being hurt?” Haller asked.
Bosch noticed his repeated use of the defendant’s first name, a move calculated to humanize him in front of the jury.
“Exactly,” Freud said. “He wanted to survive the interview unscathed. Detective Marston was an authority figure who held Jeffrey’s well-being in his hands. Jeffrey knew this and I could see his fear on the video. In his mind he was in danger and he just wanted to survive it.”
“Which would lead him to say whatever it was Detective Marston wanted him to say?” Haller asked, though it was more statement than question.
“That is correct,” Freud responded. “It started small with questions of seemingly no consequence. ‘Were you familiar with the park?’ ‘Were you in the park?’ And then of course it moved to questions of a more serious nature. ‘Did you kill Judge Montgomery?’ Jeffrey was down the path at that point and he willingly said, ‘Yes, I did it.’”
Haller let that hang in the air for a few moments while he pretended to check the notes on his legal pad. He then went off in a different direction.
“Doctor, what is catatonic schizophrenia?” he asked.
“It is a subtype of schizophrenia in which the affected person can appear during stressful situations to go into seizure or what is called negativism or rigidity,” Freud said. “This is marked by a kind of stupor, a resistance to instructions or attempts to be physically moved.”
“When does this happen, Doctor?”
“During periods of high stress.”
“Is that what you see at the end of the interview with Detective Marston?”
“Yes, it is my professional opinion that he went into seizure unbeknownst at first to the detective.”
Haller asked Judge Falcone if he could replay this part of the taped interview conducted with Herstadt. Bosch had already seen the tape in its entirety because it had become public record after the prosecution introduced it in court and it was subsequently posted on the internet.
Haller played the part beginning at the twenty-minute mark, where Herstadt seemed to shut down physically and mentally. He sat frozen, catatonic, staring down at the table. He didn’t respond to multiple questions from Marston, and the detective quickly realized that something was wrong.
Marston called EMTs, who arrived quickly. They took Herstadt’s vitals through a finger-clip oximeter and determined he was in seizure. He was transported to the County-USC Medical Center, where he was treated and held in the jail ward. The interview was never continued. Marston already had what he needed: Herstadt on video, saying, “I did it.” The confession was backed up a week later when Herstadt’s DNA was matched to genetic material scraped from under Judge Montgomery’s fingernails.
Haller continued his questioning of his psychiatric expert after the video ended.
“What did you see there, Doctor?”
“I saw a man in catatonic seizure.”
“Triggered by what?”
“It’s pretty clear it was triggered by stress. He was being questioned about a murder that he had admitted to but in my opinion didn’t commit. That would build stress in anyone, but acutely so in a paranoid schizophrenic.”
“And Doctor, did you learn during your review of the case file that Jeffrey had suffered a seizure just hours before the murder of Judge Montgomery?”
“I did. I reviewed the reports of an incident that occurred about ninety minutes before the murder in which Jeffrey was treated for seizure at a coffee shop.”
“And do you know the details of this incident, Doctor?”
“Yes. Jeffrey apparently walked into a Starbucks and ordered a coffee drink and then had no money to pay for it. When confronted by the cashier about this, he became threatened and went into seizure. EMTs arrived and determined he was in seizure.”
“Was he taken to a hospital?”
“No, he came out of seizure and refused further treatment. He walked away.”
“So, we have these occurrences of seizure on both sides of the murder we’re talking about here. Ninety minutes before and about two hours after, and both of which you say were brought about by stress. Correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Doctor, would it be your opinion that committing a murder in which you use a knife to stab a victim four times in the chest and torso would be a stressful event?”
“More stressful than attempting to buy a cup of coffee with no money in your pocket?”
“Yes, much more stressful.”
“And yet have you seen any report indicating that Jeffrey Herstadt had any seizure during the commission of this murder?”
“No, I have not.”
“To your knowledge, when he was arrested in Grand Park less than one hundred yards from the murder scene, was he in seizure?”
“No, not to my knowledge.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Haller advised the judge that he reserved the right to recall the doctor as a witness and then turned over the witness to the prosecution. Judge Falcone was going to break for lunch before cross-examination would begin but the prosecutor—Deputy District Attorney Susan Saldano—promised to spend no more than ten minutes questioning the doctor. The judge allowed her to proceed.
“Good morning, Dr. Stein,” she said, providing Bosch with at least part of the psychiatrist’s name.
“Good morning,” Stein replied warily.
“How long had you been treating the defendant before his arrest in this murder?”
“On and off for four years.”
“When was the last time you saw and treated him before this murder took place?”
“About four weeks.”
“Do you know if upon his arrest and subsequent treatment at County-USC whether a blood sample was taken from him and scanned for drugs and alcohol?”
“Yes, it was. That would’ve been routine.”
“And when you reviewed this case for the defense, did you review the results of the blood test?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Can you tell the jury what, if anything, the scan revealed?”
“It showed low levels of a drug called paliperidone.”
“Are you familiar with paliperidone?”
“Yes, I prescribed it for Mr. Herstadt.”
“What is paliperidone?”
“It is a dopamine antagonist. A psychotropic used to treat schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder. In many cases it allows those afflicted with the disorder to lead normal lives.”
“You said you prescribed it for Mr. Herstadt?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How is it administered?”
“It is an injection given every two weeks.”
“And prior to the murder, when had you last injected Mr. Herstadt with paliperidone?”
“About four weeks before.”
“So then, he missed an injection two weeks before the murder?”
“Uh, yes, but the residual—”
“Just answer yes or no, Dr. Stein. Did he miss an injection?”
“Would the effects of paliperidone begin to wear off after a month since the last injection?”
“To some extent but this was a long-running therapy.”
“Are you saying that there would be no fall-off in the effect of the drug?”
“So then, if a paranoid schizophrenic stopped taking his paliperone, could symptoms of agitation begin to return?”
“They could, yes.”
“What about aggression, Doctor? Could aggressive behavior return in a month’s time since the last injection.”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but in Jeffrey’s—”
“Just a yes or no answer, Doctor. Could aggressive behavior return, yes or no?”
“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.”
Bosch watched Haller stand up quickly and tell the judge he would be quick. The judge nodded his approval.
“Doctor, how long did you say you had you been treating Jeffrey before this incident?”
“When did you put him on paliperidone?”
“Four years ago.”
“Did you ever see him act aggressively toward anyone during that time?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you ever hear of him acting aggressively toward anyone?”
“Before this…incident, no, I did not.”
“Were you ever concerned at all that he might be violent toward you or any member of the public.”
“No. If that had been the case, I would have prescribed a different drug therapy.”
“Had he missed his paliperone shot before?”
“Yes, on a few occasions.”
“More than one time in a row?”
“Yes, there was one occasion when he did not come in for two months.”
“Any reports of aggressive behavior during that time?”
“So, is it your opinion that the effect of the prescribed dosage of paliperone would last longer than the two-week intervals between shots?”
“Yes. I believe four years of this therapy would have allowed him to coast, if you will, for several weeks. The residual effects of the drug would be in play.”
“Are you saying there could be several weeks where he would not act out or be aggressive.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Saldano said she had no further questions. Before the judge could tell the jury to take a lunch break, Haller addressed the court.
“Your Honor, I expected Ms. Saldano to spend most of the afternoon on cross-examination of Dr. Stein,” he said.
“I thought I would take the rest of this afternoon on redirect. This is quite a surprise.”
“What are you telling me, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked, his tone already set with consternation.
“My next witness is my DNA expert coming in from New York. She doesn’t land until four o’clock.”
“Do you have a witness you can take out of order and bring in after lunch?”
“No, Your Honor.”
The judge was clearly unhappy. He turned and addressed the jury, telling its members that they were finished for the day. He told them to go home and avoid any media coverage of the trial and to be back in the morning at nine.
Everyone waited until the jurors had filed into the assembly room and then the judge turned his frustration on Haller.
“Mr. Haller, I think you know, I don’t like working half days when I have scheduled full days.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You should have brought your witness in yesterday so that she would be available no matter how things progressed in the case.”
“Yes, Your Honor. But that would have meant paying for another night in a hotel and, as the court knows, I’m handling this case pro bono.”
“Then maybe you should have chosen a local DNA expert. Court is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow. Have your witness ready at that time, Mr. Haller, or there will be consequences.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge got up and left the bench.
Pre-Order the Book:
Harry Bosch and LAPD Detective Renee Ballard come together again on the murder case that obsessed Bosch's mentor, the man who trained him---new from #1 New York Times bestselling author Michael Connelly
Back when Harry Bosch was just a rookie homicide detective, he had an inspiring mentor who taught him to take the work personally and light the fire of relentlessness for every case. Now that mentor, J.J. Thompson, is dead, but after his funeral his widow hands Bosch a murder book that Thompson took with him when he left the LAPD 20 years before -- the unsolved killing of a troubled young man in an alley used for drug deals.
Bosch brings the murder book to Renée Ballard and asks her to help him find what about the case lit Thompson's fire all those years ago. That will be their starting point.
The bond between Bosch and Ballard tightens as they become a formidable investigation team. And they soon arrive at a worrying question: Did Thompson steal the murder book to work the case in retirement, or to make sure it never got solved?