He found it hard to concentrate on the computer screen as the song played, the band going on almost twenty minutes with it. He had “Patricia” on other records and CDs. It was one of Pepper’s signatures. But he had never heard it played with the same sinewy passion. He looked at his daughter, who was lying on the couch reading a book. Another school assignment. This one was called The Fault in Our Stars.

“This is about his daughter,” he said.

Maddie looked over the book at him.

“What do you mean?”

“This song. ‘Patricia.’ He wrote it for his daughter. He was away from her for long periods in her life, but he loved her and he missed her. You can hear that in it, right?”

She thought a moment and then nodded.

“I think. It almost sounds like the saxophone is crying.”

Bosch nodded back.

“Yeah, you hear it.”

He went back to his work. He was going through the numerous story links that Bonn had supplied in an email. They included Anneke Jespersen’s last fourteen stories and photo essays for the Berlingske Tidende as well as the ten-years-later story the newspaper published in 2002. It was tedious work because the articles were in Danish and he had to use an Internet translation site to piece them together in English two or three paragraphs at a time.

Anneke Jespersen had photographed and reported on the short first Gulf War from all angles. Her words and pictures came from the battlefields, the runways, the command posts, even the cruise ship used by the Allies as a floating R&R retreat. Her dispatches to the BT showed a journalist documenting a new kind of war, a high-tech battle launched swiftly from the sky. But Jespersen did not stay at a safe distance. When the battle moved to the ground in Operation Desert Sabre, she found her way into the action with the Allied troops, documenting the battles to retake Kuwait City and Al Khafji.

Her stories told the facts, her photographs showed the costs. She photographed the U.S. barracks in Dhahran, where twenty-eight soldiers died in a SCUD missile attack. There were no photos of bodies, but the smoking hulks of destroyed Humvees somehow imparted the human loss. She shot the POW camps in the Saudi desert, where Iraqi prisoners carried constant weariness and fear in their eyes. Her camera caught the billowing black smoke of the Kuwaiti oil fields burning behind the retreat of the Iraqi troops. And her most haunting shots were of the Highway of Death, where the long convoy of enemy troops as well as Iraqi and Palestinian civilians had been mercilessly bombed by Allied forces.