Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“It’s about a story you wrote several years ago. A boy named Eddie Huckstadt-”

“Eddie? Has the poor boy done something-I guess he’d be a man by now. Is he in trouble?”

“His name came up as a witness in an investigation. When we backtracked we came across your articles.”

“Investigation into what?”

“A homicide.”

“A homicide? You’re not saying because-”

“No, ma’am, he’s just a witness.”

“Oh,” she said, “Okay… but has he become a criminal? Because that would be tragic.”

“How so?”

“The mistreatment he got turning him bad.”

“Juvenile detention and the foster system?”

“Yes, but even before that,” said Cora Brown. “That mother of his. So much of life is pure damn luck, isn’t it? Poor Eddie never had much. If you want to know my opinion, he got railroaded from the get-go. That boy he pushed was the son of a rich rancher. The whole family were bullies, used to having their way, no questions asked. They were rough on their migrants, treated them like slaves. Raise a child in that environment, what do you think you’re going to get?”

“Are the Chenures still around?”

“ Oklahoma, last I heard. Sold out years ago to an agribusiness firm and went into raising Black Angus.”

“How many years ago?”

“Right after what happened to Jeff. Sandy -the mother-was never the same.”

“Rich family,” I said. “Eddie, on the other hand-”

“Lived in a trailer with a lunatic lush of a mother. What happened that day was one of those schoolyard things, happens all the time.” Pause. “Not that children die from schoolyard things. That was tragic. Jeff was a mean boy, but he was still a child. He must’ve had something wrong with his heart to pass out like that.”

“Eddie didn’t shove him that hard.”

“Nope. That didn’t stop him from going into juvenile lockup and being forgotten until he got liberated.”

“By who?”

“You said you read the articles, I figured you meant all of them.”

I read off the dates of the three pieces.

“No, there’s more, I did a follow-up piece a year later.”

“Follow-up on what?”

“Eddie’s redemption. A public defender from L.A. got interested in the case, what was her name… Deborah something… hold on, let me get on the computer, my grandson’s one of those technical geniuses, his science project was scanning and cataloging fifty years’ worth of our issues for an online base, going back to when my dad was the publish… okay, here it is. Debora with no ‘h’ Wallenburg.” She spelled the surname. “Give me your e-mail and I’ll send it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Pleasure. I do hope Eddie hasn’t turned bad.”

When Milo returned, I waved the attachment I’d printed. “Here’s the part Fox left out. A PD was handling the appeal of another ward at the youth camp and one of the counselors told her about a kid who was being brutalized, had received several concussions.”

“Huck’s neurological symptoms.”

“Quite likely. The guard said Eddie didn’t belong there in the first place. The lawyer-Debora Wallenburg-looked into Eddie’s conviction, agreed, and filed an emergency writ. A month later, Eddie was released and the charges were expunged, he got sent to foster care because his mother was unfit. I looked Wallenburg up on the bar association website and she’s private now, practices in Santa Monica.”

“Do-gooder lawyer actually does some good,” he said.

“Maybe Fox never found the follow-up. Or he did and chose to withhold. What kind of guy is he?”

“Don’t know him that well. He worked Wilshire Division for a while, had a rep as a hotshot, smart, ambitious. He transferred to West L.A. maybe… four or so years ago, but quit soon after.”

“Quit or asked to leave?”

“I heard quit.”

“Not much family resemblance to Reed,” I said. “And I’m not talking about race.”

“Tortoise and hare,” he said. “No business like sib business. Fox sure loved goading ol’ Moe. And Reed responded exactly like he was supposed to.”

“Showing up Reed was a side benefit for Fox. Now he can go back to his client and say mission accomplished.”

“Someone’s paying to get us focused on Huck.”

I said, “Paying well. Fox wears custom-made duds and a ten-thousand-dollar watch.”

“Maybe someone in the Vander household knows we were sniffing around the manse and wants to make sure we look in a certain direction.”

“Huck comes across odd, so he’d be a natural. On the other hand he really could be your guy. The first thing Cora Brown asked was whether poor little Eddie had become a criminal. Because of what he went through.”

Shoving black hair off his brow, he read the articles. “Railroaded and vindicated, but he got stuck in the same place as serious delinquents and had his brains scrambled.”

“Toss in maternal deprivation and drifting around the foster system and all kinds of things can happen.”

“He stays under the radar until three years ago… yeah, that adds up to what you guys call high risk for deviant behavior.”

“What do you call it?”

“A lead.”

The press conference aired on the eleven o’clock news.

Milo stood by woodenly as D.C. Weinberg made love to the cameras during a steely-eyed request for public participation.

The public facts were thin: Selena Bass and three unidentified bodies in the Bird Marsh, no mention of amputated hands. All four network affiliates topped off fifteen seconds of public-interest sop with rehashed coverage of the progressive billionaires’ attempt to buy the land followed by stock footage of egrets, herons, and ducks.

Milo knew what was going to happen, and he pulled Moe Reed back from the trip to San Diego. The two of them split the phone chores. By one a.m. sixty-three tips had come in. The next half hour earned five more. By three a.m., every call but one naming Sheralyn Dawkins’s “main man” had been classified as worthless.

Reed’s request for surveillance on Travis Huck had been sent to Pacific Patrol. No answer, so far. He said, “Guess we should start with this guy, Duchesne.”

“Pimp in the morning,” said Milo. “Something to wake up for.”

Joe Otto Duchesne rejected the job description.

“Think of me as a human resources manager.”

Duchesne’s stats put him at forty-three as of March. Emaciated, gray-skinned, white-haired, and gap-toothed, he looked old enough to be his own father. Vice said he worked four or five women along the LAX stroll, had high turnover.

Duchesne sat comfortably in the interview chair. Surprisingly articulate. Surprisingly shabby clothes. His record was a mundane twenty-year paean to heroin addiction, though he claimed “seven months of utter sobriety.” Despite a hot morning, his shirt cuffs were buttoned at the wrist.

He’d come in voluntarily and Milo gave him plenty of space, pushing the table into a corner, keeping the whole thing low-key. Moe Reed and I watched on closed circuit from an adjoining room. The young detective followed every word, like a paid attendee at a get-rich seminar.

It was Reed who’d found Duchesne after six hours of grunt work: questioning local patrol, hookers working the periphery of the airport, other low-grade pimps loitering near hourly rate motels.

It was one of the women who remembered Sheralyn Dawkins and confirmed that the missing woman had worked for “that skinny white boy, Joe Otto, you gonna find him on Centinela.”

Reed showed her a San Diego mug shot.

“Yeah, Sheri, the limp,” she said. “Good for business.”