Michael Connelly - The Wrong Side of Goodbye

The other question that hung over the theory was why Santanello would keep his relationship and fatherhood secret from his family, most notably his sister, back in Oxnard. Bosch knew that family dynamics were almost as unique as fingerprints and it might take several more visits with Olivia to get to the truth of the relationships within the Santanello family. He decided that the best use of his time would be to prove or disprove that Santanello was Whitney Vance’s son and that he may have produced an heir — the baby in the Hotel del Coronado photos. The other explanations could come later, if they still mattered at that point.

He closed the folder and snapped the attached elastic band back around it.

Before starting the car, Bosch pulled out his phone and called Gary McIntyre, the investigator at the National Personnel Records Center. The day before, Olivia Macdonald had written an e-mail to McIntyre granting Bosch permission to receive and review records of her brother’s military service. He now checked with McIntyre on the status of his search.

“Just finished pulling everything together,” McIntyre said. “It’s too big to e-mail. I’ll drop it on our download site and e-mail you the password.”

Bosch wasn’t sure when he would get to a computer terminal to download a dense digital file, or if he could even figure out how to do it.

“That’s fine,” he said. “But I’m on the road today heading to San Diego and I’m not sure I can access it. I’d love knowing what you came up with during his training — since I’ll be down there.”

Bosch let that hang in the air. He knew a guy like McIntyre would be slammed with records requests from all over the country and needed to move on to the next case. But Harry hoped that the intrigue involved in the Santanello file — a soldier killed forty-six years earlier — would win the day and push McIntyre toward answering at least a few questions on the phone. The NCIS investigator probably spent most of his days pulling files on Gulf War vets accused of drug- and alcohol-infused crimes or locked up in Baker Act wards.

Finally, McIntyre responded.

“If you don’t mind hearing me eat the meatball sub that was just delivered to my desk, I can go through the stuff and answer a few questions.”

Bosch pulled out his notebook.

“Perfect,” he said.

“What are you looking for?” McIntyre asked.

“Just so I have it right, can we start with the short version of his postings? You know, where and when?”

“Sure.”

Bosch took notes as McIntyre, between loud bites of his sandwich, read off the record of Santanello’s military assignments. He had arrived at boot camp at the San Diego Naval Training Center in June 1969. Upon graduation he received orders moving him to the hospital corps school at Balboa Naval Hospital. His training was then continued at the Field Medical School at Camp Pendleton in Oceanside and in December he was ordered to Vietnam, where he was assigned to the hospital ship Sanctuary . After four months on the boat, he received a TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) to First Medical Battalion in Da Nang, at which point he started accompanying Marine recon units into the bush. He remained with First Med for seven months, until he was killed in action.

Bosch thought of the Zippo lighter with the Subic Bay chevron that he had found among Santanello’s belongings in Olivia Macdonald’s attic. It was still in its box and appeared to be a keepsake.

“So he was never in Olongapo?” he asked.

“No, not on here,” McIntyre said.

Bosch thought maybe Santanello had gotten the Zippo in a trade with a medic or soldier who had previously been assigned to the base in the Philippines. Possibly someone he had served with or cared for on the Sanctuary .

“What else?” McIntyre asked.

“Okay, I’m trying to find people I can talk to,” Bosch said. “People he was tight with. Do you have the orders for his TAD from basic to Balboa?”

He waited. He was about to ask McIntyre to go further than he probably anticipated when he agreed to answer questions while eating. From his own experience, Bosch knew that because of the random nature of a soldier’s training and assignments in the military, few relationships lasted. But because Santanello was on a trajectory of training as a combat medic, there might be one or two other corpsmen who made the same journey, and it was likely they would have bonded as the familiar faces in a sea of strangers.

“Yeah, got it,” McIntyre said.

“Does it list all personnel transferred on the same orders?” Bosch asked.

“Yes. Fourteen guys from his basic training class went to Balboa.”

“Okay, good. Now what about the orders from Balboa to Field Medical at Pendleton? Is there anybody on that list who he went through all three steps with?”

“You mean basic to Balboa to Pendleton? Shit, that could take all day, Bosch.”

“I know it’s a lot, but if you have the lists there, is there anybody on that list of fourteen that went with him to Pendleton?”

Bosch thought the request was less involved than McIntyre was indicating but he wasn’t going to suggest that.

“Hold on,” McIntyre said gruffly.

Bosch was silent. He didn’t want to possibly say the wrong thing and halt the cooperation. Four minutes went by before he heard any sounds, including eating, from McIntyre.

“Three guys,” he finally said.

“So three guys were in all three training classes with him?” Bosch asked.

“That’s right. You ready to copy?”

“Ready.”

McIntyre recited and spelled three names: Jorge Garcia-Lavin, Donald C. Stanley, and Halley B. Lewis. Bosch recalled the name Lewis being stenciled on the shirt that Santanello was wearing in the photo Olivia had shown him. He took it as a sign that the two were tight. He now had a direction.

“By the way,” McIntyre said. “Two of these guys were KIA.”

The air went out of Bosch’s hope of finding someone who could help him identify the woman and baby in the del Coronado photograph.

“Which ones?” he asked.

“Garcia-Lavin and Stanley,” McIntyre said. “And I really need to get back to my work, Harry. All of this is in the file you can download.”

“I’ll grab it as soon as I can,” Bosch said quickly. “One last quick question and I’ll let you go. Halley B. Lewis. You have a hometown or DOB to go with that name?”

“Says here Tallahassee, Florida. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Then that’s what I’ll take. I can’t thank you enough, Gary. Have a great day.”

Bosch disconnected, started the car, and headed west toward the 170, which would take him up to San Fernando. His plan was to use the SFPD computer to track down Halley B. Lewis and see what he could remember about his fellow corpsman Dominick Santanello. As he drove he thought about the percentages. Four men go through basic training, preliminary medical training, and then combat medical school together. They then get shipped to Vietnam together and only one out of four makes it back home alive.

Bosch knew from his own experience in Vietnam that corpsmen were high-value targets. They were number three on every VC sniper’s list, after the lieutenant and radioman on a patrol. You take out the leader, then you take out communications. After that, take out triage and you have an enemy unit in complete fear and disarray. Most of the corpsmen Bosch knew wore no markings indicating what their role was in a recon mission.

Bosch wondered if Halley B. Lewis knew how lucky he had been.

Bosch called Whitney Vance’s private number on his way to San Fernando and got the straight-to-message beep again. He once again asked Vance to call him back. After disconnecting he wondered what Vance’s status was as a client. If he was no longer communicating with Bosch, was Bosch still working for him? Harry was well into the case and his time was paid for. Either way he wasn’t stopping what he had started.