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“Well, it’s another thin one,” Bosch said. “So I don’t think I’ll take too long. You need to kick me out or something?”
“No, not at all. I just want to be nearby. I’m going to call over to personnel and see if I can find out about Swerdlow and… what was the other name?”
“Wyeth. Richard Wyeth and Bill Swerdlow.”
“Got it. I’ll be back.”
Tepps closed the door and Bosch started in on his second murder book of the day. Lorraine Henderson was found beaten to death on January 4, 1966. Her body was left next to the wall at the edge of one of the rec fields. Boys and girls were kept segregated for the most part at MacLaren. They ate meals together and Bosch remembered Christmas parties where they mixed, but usually there was a hard separation. A male ward found in the female section of the complex would be subject to significant disciplinary action. However, staff members of either gender were allowed to move freely between the separated sides.
Crime scene and autopsy photos were nothing new to Bosch, but the yellow-edged black-and-white shots of Lorraine Henderson’s body crumpled on the ground next to the wall got to the hollow in his heart. She wore a threadbare plaid dress that spoke to her being a societal throwaway. A child who had no one who would mourn her loss. She wore black tights that had been ripped at the crotch, presumably by her attacker. She lay on her back with her head at an odd angle against the wall. Her dress was pulled up, her eyes half-lidded, her nose and lips bloodied and split from multiple punches to the face. Four feet above her, there was blood and hair on the wall from at least one impact. The autopsy report concluded that the fatal attack had been part of an attempted rape that had not been completed, possibly because the victim had died during the assault.
The injuries sustained by Henderson made Bosch think about Charles Lamb and his fatal injuries. It made him think that both killings were possibly by the same set of hands.
10
BOSCH’S PLANS TO grill Vernon Bishop about his days at the Mac took a sharp turn when he pulled up to the address in Glendale to which he had traced him. He had come directly from the sheriff’s office. Bishop’s address wasn’t a house or an apartment building. It was a complex called the Memory Institute.
Bosch parked the car and went in through the main entrance. There was a counter with a receptionist who greeted Bosch with a smile she presumably reserved for prospective customers his age.
“Hello,” she said. “How can I help you?”
She wore a name tag on her blouse.
“Well, I hope you can help me, Gina,” Bosch said in a friendly tone. “I wanted to see if I could visit an old friend of mine who is being cared for here.”
“Who might that be?” Gina responded.
“His name is Vernon Bishop.”
“Okay, let me just check on Mr. Bishop.”
Gina swiveled her chair to a computer on her left and typed in the name. The screen was set under the countertop, so Bosch could not see what response came up.
“You say you’re an old friend?” Gina said.
“I’m afraid we go back to the sixties,” Bosch said.
“And what’s your name?”
“Bosch. Harry Bosch.”
“I’m not seeing it on the family-approved visitor list.”
“Yes, I didn’t know he was here until recently. I don’t live far, so I thought I would come by and maybe cheer him up.”
“You understand that he might not remember you. We deal with subjects who have significant memory deficits.”
“Subjects? What kind of institute is this?”
“Clients, I mean. If you’ll excuse me, I need to check with Dr. Gail to get an approval.”
“Uh, sure. I’d like to talk to Dr. Gail myself, if possible.”
“She’s very busy. But we’ll see.”
“Okay.”
Gina got up with the sheet of paper she had written Bosch’s name on and went through a door behind the reception area.
