by Rick Mofina
“I don’t see anything,” one detective said.
“I saw her! She’s there!” Nancy said just as GabrielleNunn appeared on the screen.
“Freeze it, Tucker!” Kennedy sat upright.
Nancy gasped, choking on her tears, pressing herfingers to the screen. It was not a clear frame, it did not betray details ofher face, mouth, or eyes, but it was Gabrielle. No question. A grainy, static-filledjerky frame of the soon-to-be six-year-old standing alone in the dress hermother had made for her birthday.
Sydowski studied the color Polaroids of Gabrielletaken at the party. Paul Nunn helped Nancy sit down and the tape continued inslow motion. Gabrielle vanished. The camera’s angle changed, and caught heragain, but she disappeared. Dark-light-dark-light-dark-light. She reappearedcompletely in focus as a shadow fell over her. A man. It was a man’s back. Theimage was jittery. A profile appeared, snowy, out of focus, void of details,but for a beard, ball cap, sunglasses.
“That’s him!” Sharon Cook, one of the teens, pointedat the TV.
“Definitely!” Brenda Grayson said.
The Nunns could not identify the man trapped byKreuger’s video camera for one second of real time. The stranger had somethingin his right hand and was showing it to Gabrielle before he was cut out of theframe. A postcard, or picture. Miraculously Gabrielle’s face focused as shetilted her head, accepted the picture, and spoke.
“Jackson! Where is he?” Janice Mason from theinstitute read Gabrielle’s lips, just as the tape ended.
Sydowski saw the veins in Paul Nunn’s reddened neckpulsing. He exploded. “He stole the dog for this! Planned it! Sonofabitch! I’llkill him!” Nunn buried his face in his large hands.
Earlier, Paul Nunn told the detectives he suspectedGabrielle’s pup was stolen from their backyard a month ago because he found thegate open and bits of raw hamburger in the pen. Now, more evidence mocked themfrom the big screen. They were hustling an IDENT unit to comb the Nunn’s yard.Sydowski thought as Officer Tucker cued up the best frame of the kidnapper forBeth Ferguson to sketch. Sydowski caught her attention. She gave her head asubtle negative shake that told him she had few attributes from the footage forcomposite. Sydowski knew it. So did the others. A fuzzy rear to near profile ofa baseball cap, dark glasses, and a beard wasn’t much to work with. But it wassomething, and if anyone could extract more physical detail about the guy fromthe teens, Beth could.
Sydowski turned to his copy of the telex from theRoyal Canadian Mounted Police, apologizing for the delay getting a file andphoto of the one possible suspect from the Canadian prison system. His name wasVirgil Shook, which fit with the “Verge” reference from Kindhart. Shook had theright kind of tattoos in the right spots. But they didn’t have his file, sheet,or pictures yet. They had absolutely nothing on Shook. It was a nationalholiday in Canada and the Mounties were having computer problems. Rust wasurged to use the FBI and State Department’s pull and call the U.S. Embassy inOttawa for action.
Sydowski studied the grainy contours of Gabrielle’sabductor on the TV screen, weighing and measuring every dancing photoelectron composinghis image. His heartburn flared; fear and anger raged in the pit of hisstomach. Was he now closer to the thing he had been hunting, the thing that hadscarred him? The tape clicked and whirred. The stranger with Gabrielle was justa man. Flesh and blood. Fallible. Conquerable. The suspect’s ghostly image onthe video was a solid break, but it came at a high price. He looked uponGabrielle Nunn’s mother and father being escorted away with the teens to helpBeth with a composite.
“We’ve got a shitload of work to do and no time to doit.” Leo Gonzales told the detectives at the table. Alerts had gone outstatewide, a grid-search of the playground at Golden Gate was underway, andexhaustive background checks with the Nunns, Beckers, and Angela Donner to finda common thread, anything that might link the families. And they’d go back tothem on Vigil Shook, once they had his damn file. Until then, absolutelynothing was to be made public about Shook. Not yet. He might run. But theywould find him. The FBI would dissect his crimes and compare them with the SanFrancisco cases. They would find his friends, climb his family tree, lean hardon Kindhart. Phone taps, mail monitoring, and surveillance for the Nunn home,canvass their Sunset neighborhood-they knew the drill. They would hold a newsconference, release the blurry footage, details of the kidnapping, and make apublic appeal for help.
“You all know what’s at stake here. Do whatever ittakes,” Gonzales vowed to the group.
THIRTY-SIX
Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
Nancy Nunn was overwhelmed. Where was Gabrielle? Whatwas he doing to her? Oh God. Please watch over her.
All my fault. It’s all my fault. Why wasn’t Iwatching her? What was he going to do to her? OhGod, would she ever see her again? Golden Gate Park. That’s where they foundthe baby girl last year. Murdered. Oh God. The accusing eyes of the carouselhorses.
I’m okay Mom, I’m just waiting at the door.
The man was a Caucasian, late forties to mid-fifties.He had a full beard, bushy blondish hair, medium build, about 170–190 pounds,six feet to six feet, two inches tall. Beth Ferguson estimated as she worked ina nose, ears, and mouth that might match those of the man the teens had seen.He wore a long-sleeve shirt; the girls couldn’t see any tattoos. They keptrepeating, reciting details. Nancy and Paul sat with them, studying the sketch,struggling to remember if they had ever encountered the man who took Gabrielle.Nancy prayed.
God please help me. Please don’t harm her. She’s justa little girl, an innocent little girl. We should be looking for her. My childhas been abducted. Why didn’t the world stand still? Why wasn’t everyonelooking for her? I have to find her-
Nancy bolted to the hall, where she was stopped by thethrong of detectives leaving the conference room, running square into one ofthem. He was calm, compassionate. She felt his large, strong hands steady hershoulders gently. He smelled of a trace of Old Spice. Nancy’s father wore OldSpice. The hall fell silent except for Nancy’s sobbing as she looked up at thedetective, her voice breaking.
“Bring her home to me. Please bring her home to me.”
Sydowski’s blue eyes watered with understanding. Heknew her suffering-he would carry it with him as a crusader carries an amulet.It was his solemn promise. She read it in his face, the face of a good man. Heembodied her hope. Her only hope.
“I promise you, Mrs. Nunn, we will do everything wecan on this earth to find Gabrielle.”
Tears rolled down Nancy’s face as her husband took herin his arms, comforting her. “If he asks for money, we will pay it.” Paul Nunnsaid. “Whatever he asks for. We’ll sell the house.”
Sydowski nodded.
Two other detectives ushered the Nunns away for morequestioning before taking them home.
Turgeon and Sydowski said nothing in the elevator orduring the walk to the car. Nothing anyone could say would be worth a damn.They were alone with their thoughts and the case. Turgeon started the Caprice,had slipped the transmission into reverse when Gord Mikelson ran up to them.
“CHiPS just locked on to a truck, could be our guy.”
“What?”
“Bearded man driving a battered pickup with a girlabout six or seven wearing a dress. They have a dog in the cab. Near thePresidio, northbound towards the bridge. CHiPS bird has got him and MarinCounty’s rolling. The guy hasn’t made us yet!”
“Punch it, Linda!” Sydowski switched on the policeradio.
The Chevy roared, leaving fifty feet of smolderingrubber at the hall, emergency lights wigwagging and siren screaming.
THIRTY-SEVEN
San Francisco’s skyscrapers and the surging whitecaps of the Bay wheel slowly underthe California Highway Patrol chopper approaching the south end of the GoldGate Bridge near the Presidio.
It had been assisting the San Francisco police in theabduction investigation, hovering over Golden Gate Park, the Sunset, andRichmond districts. It had returned to its Oakland base to refuel when itsradio crackled. An
off-duty CHiPS patrol car spotted a pickup matching thedescription in the Nunn kidnapping, northbound on 101 near the Palace of FineArts. The chopper lifted off within forty-five seconds of the call.
The suspect truck was a Ford, the driver Caucasian,bearded. Passenger was a girl, five to eight years old, her head barely visiblefrom the rear. A small dog was in the cab. The cruiser couldn’t get closer forthe truck’s tag without being noticed.
Traffic on 101 near the Golden Gate looked like a setof toy cars from the air. The CHiPS chopper nearly invisible, lingering aquarter mile or so south. The spotter locked onto the pickup throughhigh-powered binoculars. The truck was now on the bridge.
Police radios sizzled with dispatches as cars fromseveral jurisdictions headed to the area. No stop would be made on the bridge.Too risky. It would happen at the viewpoint exit on the north side. The suspectwas considered dangerous and possibly armed.
They would hold him for the SFPD.
Weaving through traffic on the Golden Gate, Turgeonand Sydowski monitored the takedown on their radio.
“Yeah, we’ve got him,” huffed a CHiPS officer. “Noproblem here. No weapons.”
Turgeon and Sydowski arrived minutes after the arrest,with Turgeon blasting the siren, jolting slow-moving rubberneckers out of theirway. Half a dozen officers were at the scene, four cruisers with front doorsopen, emergency lights pulsating, surrounded the pickup, radio calls competingwith the chopper above.
An officer was talking to a man in the backseat of onecar. In the front of another car an officer talked with a little girl, while ablond dog panted in the rear seat behind the cage. Motorists slowed to gawk. Afew tourists nearby watched with worried, puzzled faces as officers searchedthe interior of the pickup’s cab. Sydowski clipped his shield to his jacket andgroaned. Also watching were TV news crews and newspaper photographers.Reporters were talking to people, taking notes.
“Those guys are fast.” Turgeon shook her head.
The Chevy’s Michelin radials screeched as they skiddedto a halt next to the pickup. Sydowski had his door open before the car stoppedand a highway officer glanced at his shield.
“San Francisco PD?” The officer shouted over thechopper.
“That’s right,” Sydowski said, noticing the stripesand the name plate of Sergeant Marvin Miller.
“This is Inspector Turgeon,” Sydowski said. “Mind ifwe talk to these people?” Turgeon went to the car holding the driver, Sydowskiwent to the car with the little girl, opened the cruiser’s passenger door, andsquatted beside the girl. She was terrified.
“Excuse me, officer.” Sydowski did not take his eyesfrom the girl. “Hi there. I’m Inspector Sydowski. I’m a police officer, too.”
She nodded.
“I bet this has got you pretty scared, sweetheart?”
She nodded. Her chestnut brown hair was in a neatponytail, tied with a pink bow. Her face darkened. “Was Daddy driving too fast?He says police will stop you if you drive too fast.”
“Well, that’s true,” Sydowski said. “People shouldn’tdrive too fast. You’re a pretty smart girl to know that. Can you tell me yourname and how old you are?”
“My name is Jennifer Corliss. I’m seven years old andI live at 7077 Brownlington Gardens. Where’s my daddy?”
The dog barked. A retriever pup.
“This your dog, Jennifer?” Sydowski asked, reachinginto his jacket for the Polaroids of Gabrielle Nunn.
“His name is Sonny Corlis. He lives with me and mydaddy and mommy and my little brother, Ethan. Where’s Daddy? We have to go now.Mommy and Ethan are waiting at the cabin.”
Sydowski held up that morning’s birthday partysnapshot of Gabrielle for Miller. Not even close.
“Daddy’s right over there, Jennifer.” Sydowski noddedto his left. “We’re going to take you to him in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’twe let you sit with Sonny, while we talk to your daddy, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sydowski and Miller started for the second cruiserwhere Jennifer’s father was being questioned.
“Say, you Sydowski, from Homicide?”
“Yup.”
A smile grew on Miller’s face. “The legend himself. Ithought I’d recognized you from the news.”
Turgeon stopped Sydowski before he got to the car.
“I don’t think he’s our boy, Walt.”
“Uh-huh. Well that’s not Gabrielle Nunn back there.”
Turgeon’s face was taut. “Mr. Corliss is not thrilledwith this attention. He’s pissed off.” Turgeon looked at a business card.“Thoren J. Croliss, executive with a downtown investment group.”
Sydowski saw Corliss several yards away, out ofearshot outside the police car leaning against its front right fender, armsfolded resolutely across his chest, ignoring the officer talking to him.Corliss was in his late thirties, early forties. Trim build, thick sandy hair,and a beard, tanned chiseled cheeks. Faded jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren poloshirt. Wayfarers hung from his neck. A man who was always in charge. A man whosealed deals on squash courts, knew his way around most foreign capitals. A guywho carried a phone with him everywhere. Likely called his lawyer already,Sydowski thought.
“He’s demanding to speak to somebody in charge.”Turgeon said.
“Oh, is that right?” Sydowski said.
“We ran his name and made some calls,” Miller said.“He’s clean. Checks out. Just picked up his seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer,from school and they’re on their way to the mother and son at their cottage atBel Marin. That’s their dog, too, a retriever. They fit the damn descriptioncirculated. We told him that. Told him the situation.”
Sydowski rubbed his chin, told Miller his people madethe right call, then nodded to the reporters.
“Marvin, anybody here talk to the press yet?”
“No. It’s your show.”
Sydowski turned to Turgeon. “You up to it, Linda?”
“What have you got in mind?”
“What have you got in mind?”
“Talk to those guys and set the record straight. Tellthem we stopped a subject matching the description in the Nunn kidnapping.Don’t give Corliss’s name or any details about the abduction. We’ll give themmore at the press conference later.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Talk to the old man here. Send him on his way.”
Turgeon was uneasy. A few minutes ago, Sydowski washolding Gabrielle Nunn’s traumatized mother, staring into her eyes. She didn’tlike the way his jaw was fixed, the way he regarded Corliss.
“Don’t rough him up, Walt,” she joked.
Sydowski shoved a Tums into his mouth.
Thoren J. Croliss drew himself to his full height,standing nearly eye to eye with Sydowski.
“And who the hell are you?” Corliss snapped.
Sydowski handed him his badge and identification.
“Homicide?” Corliss stared at Sydowski. “What isthis?”
“We’re investigating the recent abduction of a littlegirl, Mr. Corliss. Unfortunately your truck, with yourself, your daughter, andyour dog, fit the description of the suspect’s vehicle.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I can only offer you our apology. You are free toleave now.”
“I cannot believe this has happened!” Corliss threw uphis hands. “Is this assuring police work? Arresting innocent people?”
He tossed Sydowski’s shield back at him. “I’m notleaving until I speak to my lawyer.”
“Why? You haven’t been charged with anything.”
“I’ve just been arrested. My rights have beenviolated.”
“You have been inconvenienced, sir. That is all.Again, I thank you for your cooperation and understanding of the gravity of thesituation. Please, Mr. Corliss, I suggest you leave.”
“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? I’m going to lodgea formal complaint over this matter. I’ll go to the media, and I’ll sue.”
Sydowski said nothing.
“Four po
lice cars pounced on us. My daughter saw herfather forced at gunpoint to step out of our truck with my hands in the air andlie on the ground. Like a low-life criminal. We were publicly humiliated. Therewas a goddamn helicopter hovering over our heads for Christ sake. We’reinnocent people. I’m a law-abiding taxpayer and I won’t stand for this kind ofharassment.”
Sydowski had enough and stepped closer to Corliss,invading his personal space. “I’ve eaten about as much of this as I can stand,sir. A few hours ago a little girl, about the same age as your daughter, waskidnapped from her mother by a man with a beard, like yours, driving a pickuptruck, like yours. He used a dog, like yours, to lure the girl away. A few daysago, a man kidnapped a boy from his father on the subway. These children aregone. Their parents are crazy with fear. The last time this happened, we foundthe child, a two-year-old girl. She was stuffed in a garbage bag.” Sydowskimoved closer to Corliss. “Her throat was cut. I know. I held her corpse.”
Corliss blinked.
“Now, why don’t’ you just trot over there to the pressand tell them how outraged you are. Tell them what a terrible injustice thishas been for you. I’m sure the parents of the kidnapped children will thankyou. And think what a hero you’ll be to everyone who knows you.”
Corliss adam’s apple bobbed as he absorbed Sydowski’sadvice.
They heard a child’s voice and saw Jennifer Corliss.
“Daddy!”
Corliss picked her up in a crushing hug.
“The police said it was a false alarm. We can go now,Dad.”
Corliss studied his daughter’s face, kissed her, thenhe turned to Sydowski. “Then I guess we’ll be on our way.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Four hours after Gabrielle Nunn was kidnapped, scores of reporters crammed into the Hallof Justice cafeteria, which was serving as a press room. Flanked by a number ofSFPD brass, detectives, and officers from various jurisdictions, the chief tookhis seat and prepared to tell San Franciscans a monster was preying on theirchildren. He sipped some water, cleared his throat, and leaned into themicrophones heaped on the table before him.