Michael Connelly - The Wrong Side of Goodbye

“That’s great,” he said into the phone. “I feel the same way about it too.”

The man on the other side pushed open the gate to exit. Bosch mumbled a thank you and entered. He preserved the message from his daughter one more time and put his phone away.

Signs along the stone pathway directed him to the building he was looking for and he found Abigail Turnbull’s apartment on the first floor. As he approached he saw that the front door was open behind a screen door. He heard a voice from within the apartment.

“All done, Abigail?”

He stepped closer without knocking and looked through the screen. He could see down a short hallway into a living room, where an old woman was sitting on a couch with a folding table in front of her. She looked old and frail and had on thick glasses and an obvious wig of brown hair. Another woman, much younger, was clearing a dish off the table and gathering silverware. The woman Bosch assumed was Abigail was just finishing a late breakfast or early lunch.

Bosch decided to wait to see if the caregiver would be leaving after cleaning up. The apartment fronted a small courtyard where the water tumbling down a three-level fountain masked most of the freeway noise. It was most likely the reason Turnbull was able to leave her door open. Bosch took a seat on a precast concrete bench in front of the fountain and put the stack of birth certificates down next to him. He checked his phone for messages while he waited. No more than five minutes later he heard the voice from the apartment again.

“You want the door left open, Abigail?”

Bosch heard a muffled reply and watched as the caregiver stepped out of the apartment, carrying an insulated bag for transporting meals. Bosch recognized it as belonging to a charitable meal delivery service for shut-ins that his daughter had volunteered for while she was a senior in high school. He realized that she might have delivered meals to Abigail Turnbull.

The woman followed the path toward the front gate. Bosch waited a moment and then approached the screen door and looked in. Abigail Turnbull was still seated on the couch. The folding table was gone and in its place in front of her was a walker with two wheels. She was staring across the room at something Bosch could not see but he thought he could hear the low murmur of a television.

“Ms. Turnbull?”

He said it loudly in case she had hearing loss. But his voice startled her and she looked fearfully toward the screen door.

“I’m sorry,” Bosch said quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

She looked around her as if to see if she had anyone with her as backup if needed.

“What do you want?” she said.

“I’m a detective,” Bosch said. “I want to ask you about a case I’m working on.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t know any detectives.”

Bosch tried the screen door. It was unlocked. He opened it halfway so that she could see him better. He held his SFPD badge up and smiled.

“I’m working on an investigation and I think you could help me, Abigail,” he said.

The woman who had delivered her meal had called her by her full first name. He thought he would try. Turnbull didn’t reply but Bosch could see her hands ball into nervous fists.

“Do you mind if I come in?” he said. “This will only take a few minutes.”

“I don’t have visitors,” she said. “I don’t have any money to buy anything.”

Bosch slowly entered the hallway. He kept the smile on his face even though he felt bad about scaring the old woman.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything, Abigail. I promise.”

He stepped down the hallway and into the small living room. The TV was on and Ellen DeGeneres was on the screen. There was only the couch and a kitchen chair set in the corner of the room. Behind it there was a small kitchenette with a half-size refrigerator. He put the birth certificates under one arm and pulled his SFPD ID out of his badge wallet. She reluctantly took it from him and studied it.

“San Fernando?” she said. “Where is that?”

“Not too far,” he said. “I—”

“What are you investigating?”

“I’m looking for someone from a long time ago.”

“I don’t understand why you want to talk to me. I’ve never been to San Fernando.”

Bosch pointed to the chair against the wall.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Go ahead. I still don’t know what you want with me.”

Bosch pulled the chair over and sat down in front of her, her walker between them. She wore a loose-fitting housedress with a faded pattern of flowers on it. She was still looking at his ID card.

“How do you say this name?” she asked.

“Hieronymus,” Bosch said. “I was named after a painter.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“You’re not alone. I read the article that was in the paper a few years ago about St. Helen’s. It had the story you told at the anniversary party. About your daughter coming there for answers and finding you.”

“What about it?”

“I’m working for a man — a very old man — who is looking for answers. His child was born at St. Helen’s and I’m hoping you could help me find him or her.”

She leaned back as if to remove herself from the discussion and shook her head.

“So many children were born there,” she said. “And I was there for fifty years. I can’t remember all of the babies. Most of them got new names when they left.”

Bosch nodded.

“I know. But this I think was a special case. I think you’d remember the mother. Her name was Vibiana. Vibiana Duarte. I’m talking about the year after you got to St. Helen’s.”

Turnbull closed her eyes as if to ward off a great pain. Bosch knew instantly that she knew and remembered Vibiana, that his journey back through time had found a destination.

“You remember her, don’t you?” he said.

Turnbull nodded once.

“I was there,” she said. “It was an awful day.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Why? It’s a long time ago.”

Bosch nodded. It was a valid question.

“Remember when your daughter came to St. Helen’s and found you? You called it a miracle. It’s like that. I’m working for a man who wants to find his child, the child he had with Vibiana.”

Bosch could see the anger work into her face and immediately regretted his choice of words.

“It’s not the same,” she said. “He wasn’t forced to give up his baby. He abandoned Vibby and he abandoned his son.”

Bosch quickly tried to repair the damage, but he noted that she had said the child was a boy.

“I know that, Abigail,” he said. “Not the same at all. I know that. But it’s a parent who is looking for his child. He’s old and he’s going to die soon. He has a lot to pass on. It won’t make up for things. Of course not. But is that our call or the son’s call to make? Do we not even allow the son to make that choice?”

She remained quiet while considering Bosch’s words.

“I can’t help you,” she finally said. “I have no idea what happened to that boy after the day they took him.”

“Just, if you can, tell me what you do know,” Bosch said. “I know it’s an awful story, but tell me what happened. If you can. And tell me about Vibby’s son.”

Turnbull cast her eyes down toward the floor. Bosch knew she was seeing the memory and that she was going to tell the story. She reached out both hands and gripped her walker as if reaching for support.

“He was frail, that one,” she began. “Born underweight. We had a rule, no baby could go home until it weighed at least five pounds.”

“What happened?” Bosch asked.

“Well, the couple that was there to take him couldn’t. Not like that. He needed to be healthier and heavier.”