If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  “I know.” Exhausted, he placed his face in his hands.

  Wilson bit her lip and blinked. Her bracelets tinkledas she brushed her hair aside. She tapped a finger on the table thoughtfullybefore turning to him.

  “I’ll help you, Tom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s only one thing you can do.”

  “What?”

  “Check Keller out yourself, quietly. Take a few days,dig up everything you can about him, then decide whether or not to pass it tothe police. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  It would be risky. The paper would fire my ass if itfound out what I was doing.”

  “Nobody would have to know. I’ll cover for you. I’llhelp you.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Sydowski was wide awake. The numbers of his clock radio blazed 3:12 A.M. fromhis night table. He tugged on his robe, made coffee, and shuffled to the aviaryto be with the birds.

  He deposited himself into his rocker, a Father’s Daygift from the girls, running a hand over his face, feeling his whiskers as hesat in the dark, listening to the soft chirping.

  Turgeon had volunteered to stay with Mikelson,Ditmire, and the crew keeping an all-night watch at the Nunn home. For all thesleep he was getting, he might as well have stayed, too. He fingered hisbeeper. Linda would page him if anything popped.

  Damn. This was a ball-breaker.

  The out-of-focus video footage was good, but it wasn’tenough. They had squat. No good calls. No solid leads. Virgil Shook’s file wassupposed to arrive today. That should help. They had zip on Becker and Nunn.DMV was working up a list of all Ford pickups and the California partial tag.They were certain the severed braids they found were Gabrielle’s. Beyond thatand the footage, they had no physical evidence on Becker and Nunn.

  IDENT would hit the Nunn house and neighborhoods atdaybreak, concentrating on the dog’s pen, comb it for anything. More than twodozen detectives were dissecting each family’s background for a commondenominator. Why were these children selected? Was it random? Becker was stalked;Nunn was lured in a calculated plan. But the guy risked getting caught. If hewas fearless, he was on a mission, and when there was a mission, delusionfueled it. What kind? Nothing surfaced to lead them to terrorists. Nothing tolead them to a cult, or human sacrifice, according to Claire Ward with SpecialInvestigations. The families’ religious backgrounds varied. Angela Donner wasBaptist, the Beckers were Protestant, the Nunns, Anglican. No common thread,except their Christianity. And those faces.

  Angels faces.

  Tanita Marie Donner. Peering into that bag. What hedid to her was inhuman. Was it Shook? Was he their boy? Was he now out ofcontrol? Tanita may have been stalked. Taken in broad daylight. But he killedher, left a corpse, left pictures, left his mark, and called the press. Why? Tomock the police? Was he just practicing with Tanita?

  Practice makes perfect.

  Sydowski was alert now. Might as well go to the hall.

  In the shower, he thought of the children. What abouttheir birth months? Signs of the Zodiac. The Zodiac? He patted Old Spice on hisface after shaving, pulled a fresh pair of pants over his Fruit of the Looms.He chose the shirt with the fewest wrinkles, a blue Arrow button-down, ploppedon his bed, and laced up his leather shoes. The Zodiac had taunted police withhis mission. Sydowski took a navy tie from his rack, knotted it, then strappedon his shoulder holster, unlocked his Glock from the safe on the top closetshelf. He checked it, slipping it into his holster. He hated the thing, it wasso uncomfortable. He put on a gray sports coat, rolled his shoulders. Gave hishair a couple of rakes with a brush, reached for the leather-encased shield,gazing at his laminated ID picture and his badge. A lifetime on the job.Twenty-six years of staring at corpses. He looked at the gold-framed pictureson his dresser-his girls, his grandchildren, his wedding picture. Basha’ssmile. He slipped the case into his breast pocket and left.

  On the way to the hall, he stopped at his neighborhoodall-night donut shop. A few nighthawks huddled over coffee. Jennie, themanager, was wiping the counter with an energy that, at 4:30 A.M., was painfulto witness. Her face told him he looked bad. “You’re working too hard, Walt.You getting enough sleep? A growing boy needs his sleep.” She poured coffeeinto a large take-out cup. “You need a woman to take care of you.” She spoonedin sugar, a couple of drips of cream, snapped on a lid.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. You’re early today. Bert ain’t made nochocolate yet. I’ve got some fresh old fashions though. Warm from the oven.”

  “Fine.”

  She dropped four plain donuts into a bag. Rang up theorder. “It’s a shame about them kids, Walt.”

  A moment of understanding passed between them.

  “You’ll crack it, Walt. You’re a wily old flatfoot.”

  Sydowski slid a five toward her. “Keep the change,Jennie.”

  At the Hall of Justice, in the fourth-floor Homicidedetail, three faces watching him from the mobile blackboard in the middle ofthe room stopped Sydowski in his tracks. Poster-size blowups of Tanita MarieDonner, Danny Raphael Becker, and Gabrielle Michelle Nunn.

  Score: Three to fucking zero.

  A couple of weary inspectors were on the phone,pumping sources on the abductions. Files and reports were stacked next tostained coffee mugs. The Star’s edition was splayed on the floor, thefront-page headline blaring at him. The enlarged, city case map at one end ofthe room now contained a third series of pins, yellow ones, for Gabrielle Nunn.Someone was shouting in one of the interview rooms. A door slammed and amassive slab of Irish-American righteousness with a handlebar mustache, invogue for turn-of-the-century beat cops, stepped out: Bob Murphy.

  “Who you got in there Bobby?”

  Murphy had been up for nearly twenty-four hours. Heslapped a file into Sydowski’s hand. Sydowski put on his bifocals and beganreading.

  Donald Arthur Barrons, age forty-three. Five feet,three inches tall, about one hundred pounds. Red hair. No tattoos. No beard.Nowhere near the description of the suspect. He was the flasher pervert whoseprints were lifted from one of the stalls in the girls’ washroom at theChildren’s Playground after the abduction. Witnesses put Barrons at the parkearlier that morning.

  “Accomplice?” Murphy anticipated the question ofdescription. Barrons had molestation convictions. Worked downtown. Parking lotattendant.

  “Vice picked him up about midnight at his apartment.”

  “And?”

  “We got zip. Sweet dick, Walt. I jumped him too soon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He admitted right off to being there. Said he goesthere to play with himself in the girls’ can. But he’s alibied solid. Wasworking his lot well before Nunn was grabbed. It checks. He’s got clock-punchedparking receipts. Witnesses. And a hot dog vendor remembers selling him acheese dog. So nothing.”

  Sydowski went back to the file. Barrons worked forEE-Z-PARK, a company that owned several small lots in prime downtown locations.“Do you know if the Beckers and Nunns ever parked at his lot?”

  “No.”

  “Ask them. If they can’t be sure, get the company toshow you records. I know they computerize tag numbers of all cars. Check theFord and the partial tag with them, too. May be a common factor there.”

  Sydowski slapped Murphy on the back and handed him thefile. “I’d kick Barrons loose, go home, and get some sleep.”

  Murphy nodded. He was a good cop. The boys in Vice didjump Barrons too soon. Sydowski thought, starting a fresh pot of coffee in thecoffee room. He stared at the fading poster above the counter. A.38 Smith amp; Wesson with a steel lock through the action-“Keep it locked at home.”They may have blown it with Barrons. Damn. Too many divorced, heart-broken copsthinking like fathers instead of detectives here.

  Notice of a case status meeting was scrawled on theblackboard: 8:30 A.M. Sydowski eyed the fax machine. Nothing from Canada. Hesipped coffee and flipped through a basket of the most recent tips and leadsthat had been che
cked, or dismissed. He went through the E-mail printouts. Lotsof advice on how to conduct an investigation. Cyber advice from around theworld pointing them to suspicious websites and kiddie porn stuff. Most of thetips came from crazies. Most of it was plain useless stuff. Sightings acrossthe Bay Area of a man fitting the general description. “Suspect spotted on BARTlast year, caller can’t remember when.” Impossible to check. Psychics andanonymous kooks such as: “Caller says she was instructed to inform police bythe Lord.” Sydowski shook his head.

  One dismissed report came with a cassette recording.Sydowski rummaged through his desk for his machine, inserted the tape, rewoundit to the beginning, put on a headset, and pressed the play button.

  “We’ve been in love for more than a year…”

  The words hung in the air like a bizarre smell. It wasdifficult to determine the speaker’s gender.

  “Danny is with me now. It’s better this way. He lovesme. He’s always loved me. Our first meeting was so beautiful, so innocent. Ithink it was preordained. Shall I tell you about it?”

  Sydowski checked the accompanying report. The callerhad phoned in on the task force line, which was wired to record calls.

  “I was walking through the park when we saw eachother. Our eyes met, he smiled. Have you seen his eyes? So expressive, I’mlooking at them now. He is so captivating. I won’t tell you how we madecontact, that’s my little secret, but I will say he communicated his love to meintuitively. A pure, virtuous, absolute love…” The voice wept, rambling forfive minutes until the line went dead.

  Sydowski removed his headset, went over the accompanyingreport. The caller was Chris Lorenzo Hollis, a forty-year-old psychiatricpatient who called from his hospital room. The staff said he’d been mesmerizedwith the Becker kidnapping, and fantasized about being Danny Becker’s mother.He watched TV news reports, read the newspaper stories faithfully. He hadn’tleft the hospital in sixty days.

  Sydowski went to another cleared report, opening thethin legal-size file folder containing a single sheet of paper sealed in clearplastic and a two-page assessment. The piece of paper was left that night onthe counter of the SFPD station in Balboa Park. Nothing on the person whodelivered it. It was in a blank, white letter-size envelope. No markings.Sydowski read the document.

  Re: Kidnapping of Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn.

  Dear Sirs: This material was channeled spiritually so it is open tointerpretation. The kidnapper is Elwood X. Suratz, born Jan. 18, 1954. He is apedophile who was in the city recently for counseling. He cancelled hisappointment when he became overwhelmed by his urges. While in a semi-psychoticstate, he went XXXXXX hunting for prey on the subway where he abducted DannyBecker…

  The letter graphically described assaults on Danny,then detailed biographical material on Suratz. The accompanying two-page reportdismissed the tip as bogus. No such person existed. Every claim in the letterhas been double-checked. Not one item could be verified. The letter was typedon the same portable Olympia manual that was used for ten other similar letterssent to the police on ten different high-profile cases. Police suspect theletters came from somebody who thought they had psychic abilities. They didn’t.

  Sydowski gulped his coffee just as the fax machinebegan humming. The first of twenty-six pages, via the FBI liaison in Ottawa, onthe Canadian police, prison, and psych records of Virgil Lee Shook werearriving, including copies of the most recent mugs of Shook. He was aforty-eight-year-old Caucasian, six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds. Hehad light-colored hair. Put a beard on him and he fit the description in theBecker-Nunn cases. His tattoos matched those of the hooded man in the Polaroidswith Tanita Marie Donner.

  Sydowski felt his gut tighten and popped a Tums.

  Shook was born in Dallas and drifted to Canada afterhe was under suspicion for assaulting a four-year-old boy near La Grange,Texas. In Canada, he achieved a staggering record of assault on children. Inone instance, he claimed to be a relative and lured a seven-year-old boy and hisfive-year-old sister from their parents at a large park near Montreal. Shookkept the children captive for five days in a suburban motel room, where he tiedthem to the room’s beds, donned a hood, and repeatedly assaulted them. He tookpictures of the children and kept a journal detailing how he satisfied hisfantasies before abandoning them alive.

  Shook was arrested two years later in Toronto afterthree university students caught him molesting a five-year-old boy in asecluded wooded area. Shook had abducted the boy from his inattentivegrandfather hours earlier off the Toronto subway. In court, Shook detailed hisattacks on scores of children over the years. His actions were born out of hisown misery. He said he was sexually abused when he was a nine-year-old altarboy by his parish priest. Shook was ten when his father died. His motherremarried and he was beaten by his stepfather. Shook grew up envying andloathing “normal” children. He would never overcome his need to exact a toll,“inflict damage” on them. After earning parole three years ago, he vanished.

  A wolf among the lambs.

  Sydowski sat down and reread the entire file.

  Trauma as a child. Religious overtones. Need tore-offend. Fantasy fulfillment. A pattern of crime that fit with the Donner-Becker-Nunncases. Shook was lighting up the FBI profile like a Christmas tree. Sydowskireached for his phone and punched the number for Turgeon’s cell. They wouldbring the task force up to speed on Shook at the eight-thirty meeting.

  “Turgeon.”

  “It’s Walt, Linda.”

  “You’re up early.”

  “Get down here to 450 as soon as possible. We’ve gotShook’s file.”

  “Is it him, Walt?”

  “It’s him, Linda, and guess who his hero is?”

  “I couldn’t begin.”

  “The Zodiac.”

  FORTY-SIX

  At dawn, awhite van squeaked to a stop at Gabrielle Nunn’s home and four sober-facedmembers of the San Francisco Police Department’s IDENT detail got out. Dressedin dark coveralls, they talked softly, yawning, finishing off coffee, andtossing their cups into the truck. A second van arrived with six more officers.They went to homes on either side of the Nunn’s, waking owners, showing themsearch warrants. Yellow plastic tape was stretched the length of seven houses,sealing front and backyards with the message: POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS. TheNunn home was the middle house. Before the day’s end, every inch in thesectioned-off area would be sifted, searched, and prodded for anythingconnected to the case.

  It was no ordinary Sunday morning here. Something hadbeen defiled in the inner Sunset, where less than twenty-four hours earlierGabrielle had skipped off to Joannie Tyson’s birthday party, radiant in her newdress.

  Her neighbors knew the nightmare.

  They had seen the news crews, gasped for reporters,watched TV, and read the papers. This morning, they stared from their doors andwindows, shaking their heads, hushing their children, drawing their curtains.“I hope they find her. Her poor parents.” Something had been violated,something terrifying had left its mark, now manifest in yellow policetape-America’s flag of tragedy and death.

  Ngen Poovong knew death intimately. But you couldn’ttell by looking at the shy eleven-year-old, standing at the tape with the usualcluster of gawkers and children. The horrors of Ngen’s life were not evident inhis face, his T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. His secrets never left his home,which was two doors down from Gabrielle’s. Ngen did not know Gabrielle and Ryanwell. He had difficulty making friends, his English was so poor. His family hadbeen in San Francisco a short time. He watched the men in coveralls. Police.Never talk to police. He knew what the excitement was all about, but he wasfrightened. He glanced over his shoulder to this house and saw Psoong watchinghim from the window.

  Do not tell them what you know.

  Ngen said nothing. Just as he had done last night whenpolice came to their door, followed by the TV people. He remembered Psoongpeeking through the curtains, then turning to Ngen and his older sister, Min.“Something is wrong,” Psoong told them in their own tongue. “
Police are goingto every door.”

  Ngen and Min had not seen him this worried since theblack days when they were crammed on the boat, drifting hopelessly in the SouthChina Sea. “They are going to every house taking notes. They will be here soon.”

  “Maybe they know?” Min said, pulling Ngen close.

  “We must make no mistakes. Remember the rules.”

  The rules were simple: Listen to everything. Watcheverything. Know everything. Say nothing. You are ignorant. Trust no one.Without the rules there was no survival. And Psoong Li, and Min and NgenPoovong were survivors.

  Their families had met on a smuggler’s trawler,crammed with one hundred other people who paid 1,000 U.S. dollars a person forsafe passage from Laos to Manila. Four days out, pirates attacked. Ngen’sfather and mother were killed. So were Psoong’s parents. Min was raped. Psoongwas stabbed, but survived. Ngen wanted to jump to the sharks. Min became muteand stared at the sea. Psoong comforted the survivors, organizing the rationingof the little fresh water and rice that were left. He was especially kind toMin and Ngen, urging them to be strong to honor the memory of their families,to believe in their rescue. Psoong, Min, and Ngen became friends, forming asmall family, and Psoong shared the secret that his father had wisely sent hissavings to Psoong’s uncle in California, who had written that the bestcandidates for immigration to the United States were families with relativesliving there. Psoong had a plan.

  He proposed that Min act as his wife and Ngen as theirson. Psoong was thirty-one, Min was twenty. With no documentation on theirages, they would lie to make it work. Afterward, they could go their separateways, if they chose, but for now it was a matter of survival. Min stared at thesea and agreed. There was no other choice.

  “Good,” Psoong said. “No one will ever learn the truthif we follow our rules.” Failure would mean deportation and death.

  “Remember the rules,” Psoong whispered to Min and Ngenthree days later when a Hawaii-bound Swedish freighter picked them up. Aftereleven months in a refugee camp, an American official granted them life when hestamped his approval on their applications to enter the United States.