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Ballard typed it in and waited while the database was searched for matches.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“Sheila Walsh’s son,” Bosch said. “Probably a son from an early marriage and she changed her name when she divorced or remarried.”
“And you never ran him before?”
“I did back in the day and he was clean. It’s in the murder book. But right now I want to see if he stayed clean.”
“And what makes you think he didn’t?”
“Because yesterday was the first time I got a look at the incident report on that burglary at Sheila Walsh’s house. McShane’s prints were found, and it was assumed that he was the one who broke in. I was retired by then and Devonshire handledit. I heard about it from Lucy Soto and even I took it as a sign that McShane was alive and still local. I changed my mind yesterday.”
“Why?”
“The incident report. It says food was taken from the refrigerator, a purse was emptied, a cell phone and a collection of old record albums were stolen. It was amateur hour. Like the work of a hype making a quick hit: getting food and cash and something he could sell for a fix.”
“The albums. I remember there were shops all over Hollywood that would buy vinyl. Amoeba and few others.”
“The son’s prints were found but dismissed because the mother—Sheila Walsh—said he was a regular visitor to the house.”
“I see where you’re going with this. Drug addicts usually rip off their families before they get into serious crime, because they know the family won’t prosecute. At least at first.”
“Right.”
“So if the son committed the burglary, McShane’s prints being there take on a whole new meaning.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Plus, the call she made after I left yesterday. I was hoping it might be McShane, but her son might make better sense.”
“But why would she report the burglary if she thought her son might have done it?”
“Maybe she didn’t realize it was him till later. A lot of people in that position don’t want to believe their son or their daughter would do such a thing.”
The search results started printing out on Ballard’s screen.
“Boatman’s got a history now,” Ballard said.
Bosch put a hand on her desk for support as he leaned down to read the screen. Jonathan Boatman had a record for drug possession, DUI, loitering, and disorderly conduct. All the arrests came after the murders of the Gallagher family, when Bosch would have routinely run his name, as well as after the burglary. Since then, Boatman had gone down the path of addiction and crime. The drug possession charge led to a plea agreement in which he escaped jail time by entering a six-month drug rehab program at County-USC Medical Center. The NCIC report came complete with mug shots from the arrests, and in them it was clear that Jonathan Boatman had been on a downward spiral. His face grew thin across the array of photos to the point of gauntness. The last shot showed skin blotches and a festering sore on his lower lip and, most telling of all, a dead-eyed look that showed no reaction to the fact that he was being sucked into the criminal justice system.
“Looking at the mug shots. I’m guessing meth,” Ballard said.
“Yeah,” Bosch said, pointing at the screen. “All the arrests came after the break-in. Maybe if I was still working the case back then, I would have picked up on it.”
“But you weren’t. You were retired. So don’t beat yourself up about it. Maybe it leads to something now.”
“Maybe.”
But Bosch still felt like he had somehow dropped the ball and let the Gallagher family down. If he had stuck with the case instead of retiring, he would have seen that the burglary and McShane were not linked and there was another reason for his prints to be on the glass paperweight.
As if reading his thoughts, Ballard tried to give Bosch further absolution.
“Just remember,” she said. “Sheila Walsh didn’t see it for what it was and called the police. So you’re not alone.”
“She’s a mother,” Bosch said. “I’m a cop. Was a cop.”
“I’m telling you not to—”
“Can you just send that report to me? Including mug shots.”
