by Rick Mofina
He was on his own now. They didn’t need him around inBerkeley anymore. Zach sniffed as he waited for the light to change at anintersection. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a white van a few carlengths away. Funny.
Looks like the same doof that was hangin’ out near hisgrandma’s place earlier. So what? Zach shrugged off his curiosity.
SIXTY-ONE
One cherry had tumbled into place.
Two more and they had a jackpot.
Sydowski loosened his tie as everyone settled aroundthe conference table in Room 400 at the hall. Most had to stand. Gonzaleswheeled a new chalkboard into place, in front of its predecessor bearing theblown-up faces of Tanita Marie Donner, Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn, and themap with its color locator pins. The new board had enlarged color photos of theFord pickup, the boat, and trailer.
They were on the bad guy’s trail.
The next cherry would be his identity.
And the next would be finding him with the kids.Sydowski sipped his coffee, bit into his chicken sandwich. He and the othershad returned from Calaveras in time to grab stale food from the cafeteriabefore the meeting. The pickup truck lead kicked it all into overdrive. Morepeople had been brought in.
“We’ve got new information, so listen up, we’ll behanding out assignments.” Gonzales stood at the new board, examining the newmaterial in his file folder. “The IDENT team left behind in Calaveras justlifted two latents from the new bills left over in the buy of the suspectpickup. They match the single latent we found on the wrapping of the hamburgerused to lure Gabrielle Nunn’s dog. We pumped them through the system. Zilch.”
“We are also checking all prints of anyone who hasever been bonded in the state — private investigators, armored car guards,state and federal workers, just to make sure we’ve covered everything.”
Adam McCurdy, chief of Investigations, interjected.“The chief will hold a press conference this afternoon to make a public appealfor information on the pickup and the boat and trailer, reiterating the reward.He will say that we believe Virgil Lee Shook is responsible for the murder ofTanita Marie Donner, but that we have nothing linking him to the abduction ofBecker and Nunn. He will state that the suspect in those kidnappings is stillat large. We’ll add whatever new information is pertinent.”
Gonzales nodded.
“We’re sending out alerts on the truck and the boat,targeting marinas.” Gonzales flipped through his file. “Treasury’s stillworking on the serial numbers of the new bills to determine point ofcirculation. So far they have narrowed it to a San Francisco bank. And, on thehamburger…” Gonzales found another data sheet. “A brick wall. Because thelabel was damaged, we could only confirm it as a purchase in the city. And, onthe boat and trailer: same as the pickup, no change in registration. Stillcomes up to Urlich.”
As Gonzales summarized the case, Sydowski finished hissandwich, slipped on his glasses, and made notes, his theories and hunchespercolating, extracting the essence of a vital angle he knew he had overlooked.It tried to surface during the chopper flight back from West Point, flailing inhis subconscious as the patchwork of vineyards, pastureland, orchards, towns,and urban sprawl rolled below. It was difficult to converse through thehelicopter’s intercom, leaving each person alone with his thoughts as theythundered back to San Francisco. Now, sitting in Room 400, Sydowski replayedthem, trying again to catch the key, hidden aspect that had been gnawing athim.
It had been so long since he talked with hisdaughters. He was consumed with the case. It was national news. The girlscalled him regularly, the red message light blinking at him from his machinealmost everything night when he got home. “Saw you on TV, Dad, hope you’retaking care of yourself.” Geneva, his firstborn daughter, sounded like hermother.
Then came his second daughter, Irene, forever the babyof the family. “Hey, Pop, I know you’re busy, call us when you get a chance.Oh, Louise wants to leave a message, go ahead, honey.”
“Hi, Grandpa! I saw you on TV, I love you.”
It was always too late for him to call back. He rarelyhad a free moment to check on his old man. And he was likely going to miss theSeattle bird show.
Sydowski glimpsed Turgeon taking notes intensely. Shewas wearing a powder-blue pullover sports shirt, navy Dockers, and glasses. Herhair was up in a bun, accentuating her pretty face, her youth. She could passfor a Berkeley grad at a lecture. But she was a veteran cop, a goodinvestigator with good instincts, and although he hadn’t known her very long,he was glad she was his partner. He found a degree of paternal comfort in herpresence.
Sydowski chided himself for drifting, the key aspectescaping him stemmed from the Donner file … a common denominator with Donner …Christ, it was at the forefront of his memory, sitting there slightly out of focus.Something Angela Donner had told him.
Gonzales moved the review along. “Now I’ll turn itover to Bob Hill of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Heflew in this morning. Bob.”
A self-conscious smile of acknowledgement flashed acrossthe long face of the lanky soft-spoken supervisory agent. Hill was in his lateforties and had a gently cerebral air about him.
“As you know, I’ve been assisting on the profile inthis case since Danny Becker’s abduction, when the unit was contacted. I’d liketo caution you about putting all your eggs in one psychological basket. Theprofile is only a tool, as you know.” Hill was acutely aware many case-hardenedinvestigators view psychological profiling as mumbo jumbo. “But eachdevelopment helps us to sharpen it. May I use the board, Lieutenant?”
Gonzales helped reposition the board so everyone couldsee. Then Hill took a finger of chalk, and summarized the profile.
“Based on our reading of everything so far, you have aprofoundly wounded Caucasian, late forties, early fifties, traumatized by somehorrible life-altering event involving children. He either caused it, witnessedit, or was close enough to it to be affected. We could assume it involved hischildren. And given his age and the ages of the kidnap victims, it likelyhappened twenty to twenty-five years ago. He has likely sought some kind oftherapy, or help which failed to ease whatever psychological pain he hassuffered.”
A detective had a question. “Could this guy have beensexually abused as a child, and is grabbing the children as a form of payback?”
“Traditionally, that is the case inabduction-sexual-homicides with children. In fact, based on what we know of theDonner-Shook matter, I would say that’s what happened there. Predatory pedophilesusually seize their prey when no one is watching. Tanita Donner was stolen fromher home when nobody was around to see. But what you have with Becker and Nunnis rare, bold daylight abductions of young children from their parents incrowded, public places. Your guy is on a mission, he feels protected. He’s sofar gone in his fantasy that he thinks nothing can touch him. Andrei Chikatilo,the Russian serial killer who murdered fifty-three boys, girls, and young womenbetween 1978–1980, told police after his arrest that during his killing spree,he felt at times that ‘he was concealed from other people by a black hood.’Well, I believe our guy here is similar in that he thinks he is on a righteousmission.”
“What kind of mission?” someone asked.
“A religious one.”
“What makes you think so?”
“A couple of things. What we heard today from the manwho sold him the pickup and boat.” Hill glanced at his file folder of notes.“Mr. Urlich described the buyer as a ‘holy man’ who muttered about it being‘destiny’ that he found the boat, and rambled about ‘life, death andresurrection.’ That he needed the boat to ‘find his children.’”
The room fell quiet.
“And there is one other element that may or may not beanother indicator of your guy being driven by a religious fantasy and that’sfound in the full legal names of the children.” Hill printed them on thechalkboard: Daniel Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Michelle Nunn. “Raphael andGabrielle, if spelled this way” — Hill printed “Gabriel” on the board — “arethe names of
angels.”
“Angels?” someone repeated.
Hill heard the comment as he placed the chalk in thetray.
“In Christian theology, angels are supernaturalintercessors for God. Our guy may think the children are angels of some sort. Ibelieve he looked for these children because they have ‘angel’ names, that hismission is directly connected to his personal tragedy, which he has eitherrelived or plans to relive with Becker and Nunn.”
Hill brushed chalk dust from his hand.
“If you find out who this guy is and learn hisbackground, you have a shot at learning what he has done, or plans to do.”
At that moment the elusive lead hit Sydowski fullforce.
You know, Inspector, I’ve been participating in theuniversity bereavement group.
Reed wrote about it in the Star. And Reed cameto him after the press conference on Gabrielle’s abduction, after seeing theblurry video!
Walt what if I recognize this guy? He looks likesomeone I met.
Reed had met Angela Donner’s study group, but no onein the task force had thought to investigate those people — people who hadsuffered traumatic psychological pain involving children!
SIXTY-TWO
“Zach?”
Why didn’t he answer her? Ann Reed pulled herselftogether, taking stock of the woman staring back from her dresser mirror.Tousled hair, tearstained eyes, the lines of her face.
“Zachary?”
She concentrated on hearing a response. Nothing. Giveit time.
What a pathetic sight she was. A grownthirty-three-year-old woman, mother of a nine-year-old son, a universitygraduate with her own business. And where was she? Living in the same roomwhere she played with Barbie dolls, looking into the same mirror she lookedinto when she was a child, dreaming of how perfect her life would be.
How had this happened? How had it all turned to shit?
“Zach, please come in here, we have to talk.”
No answer. Must be angry at her and his father. Couldshe blame him? They had put him through hell. Maybe he was jet lagged afterthis morning’s flight from Chicago and was napping. That was fine. She cravedsleep herself. But she had too much to do. She had to put this mess on a backburner and check her stores. She needed a shower.
Her mother was right, she thought, as the hot watersoothed her. She came down hard on Tom. She had overreacted. He was workinghard. The kidnappings were a big story, out of the ordinary. And the paperputting him on probation didn’t make it any easier for him.
The taps squeaked as she turned off the water.
Tom must be in agony.
Let him stew for awhile. She would call him tonightand they would decide where to go from here. She still loved him and waswilling to attempt a salvage operation. If he was.
“Zachary?”
Ann pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a fresh T-shirt,brushed her hair, then knocked softly on her son’s bedroom door.
No answer. Ann opened the door.
“Zach — ” Ann stopped dead. He was gone. “Where ishe?”
Calling his name, she searched upstairs, thebathrooms, the other bedrooms. Not a trace. Strange. He must’ve slippeddownstairs. “Zachary!” Where the hell could he be?
Ann stomped through the house. “Zachary Michael Reed!”He hated his middle name. She only used it to telegraph anger to him. No Zach.
She went outside, slamming the door behind her. He wasstarting to piss her off. Didn’t she tell him to go upstairs and stay in hisroom? She checked the garage. His bicycle was untouched. The front andbackyards. Nothing. Hands on her hips, she exhaled her irritation. She didn’tneed this. Not now.
Zach wasn’t in the street, or at the corner store withthe pinball machines he loved, or in the small vacant lot where theneighborhood kids played a half-block away. Two boys there, about twelve,clothes streaked with grease, were struggling to replace a chain on anoverturned bike. “Hi fellas.”
They traded glances, then sized her like she was an invader. Parents neverentered this realm looking for kids. Beckoning was done by little siblingmessengers. Reading Ann’s face, defense shields went up. Whoever Zach was, hewas in serious shit. One of the pair moved his foot stealthily, nudging a packof Lucky Strikes under a jacket lying on the ground. Ann pretended she didn’tnotice.
“You sure you haven’t seen him a little while ago,guys? His name is Zach Reed. He’s nine-years-old, blondish hair, wears newsneakers, uh, Vans, and a Giants ball cap, uhmm — ”
“Zach? The little kid from across the Bay living withGranny down the street?” asked the bigger kid. He possessed the aura of abully.
“That’s right! Did you see him?”
“Yesterday, but not today.”
She studied these boys — strangers to her but known toher son, realizing she had opened a secret door to Zach’s life, that she nolonger knew every detail of the child she had brought into this world. Nineyears old and he knew older boys who smoked, boys who were practiced liars. Itscared the hell out of her.
The smaller boy squinted up at her. “Is he in bigtrouble?”
Ann covered her mouth with her hand, eyes watering.
“No. I just want to find him.”
After calling his name and searching a three-blockradius around the house, it enveloped her: the cold fear that Zach was missing.
Ann grabbed the phone and began punching the numbersfor her mother at the library. No. She sniffed and hung up. He didn’t know hisway on campus. But maybe he did? But Mom would call if he suddenlymaterialized. Ann returned to his room. Maybe he was back?
“Zachary?”
His room was empty.
Defeated, she sat on his bed, shaking as she wept. Whereare you? Why are you doing this to me? Zach’s black nylon travel bag yawnedfrom the foot of the bed, opened, but not unpacked. It appeared as if hestarted unpacking, and took a few things out before changing his mind. Shelooked around his room. Where was his portable computer game? His CD player?His little knife? He treasured those things. She went to the dresser and liftedit slightly. His stash of cash, savings from his allowance, was gone. Shelooked around again. So were his jacket and school backpack. He’s run away.
She called Tom’s place, letting the phone ring. Hismachine clicked on. She left a message, urging him to call her immediately. Shehung up and dialed another number. She had an idea.
“San Francisco Starnewsroom,” said a hurried voice.
“I’d like to talk to Tom Reed. This is his wife. It’surgent.”
Her request was met with an unusually long silence.
“Hello?” Ann said.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, uh. Tom was, uh — ” the voice dropped to aconfidential whisper. “He … as of yesterday, he no longer works here. I’msorry.”
She hung up and sat down. That was what he was tryingto tell her. It explained why he missed them at the airport, why he had beendrinking. He was fired. She buried her face in her hands.
Time to get it in gear, Annie. Where was the mostlikely place Zach would go? To his father’s.
Okay. She would drive across the Bay to Tom’s roominghouse. She stood. Wait! What if Zach returns? She should wait here.
She brushed her tears away, grabbed the phone, andpunched Tom’s number in again, letting it ring and ring and ring.
She would keep calling until she broke that freakingmachine.
SIXTY-THREE
God was present .
Edward Keller felt the intoxicating heat of His love.It was overpowering — he was swirling in it, as he hurried through Berkeleyfor San Francisco, delighting in the celestial trumpeting that melted into hornhonking, waking him to the fact that his rental van was drifting towardoncoming traffic. Keller shrugged it off.
He had found Michael the Archangel. He had gazed uponhim.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
The transfiguration was near, brushing against hisfingers. All he had to do was obtain Micha
el, the last angel.
The Lord would illuminate the way.
For God will send His angels to watch over them.And they shall embrace them and carry them to Heaven.
Waiting for the light to change at an intersectionwest of the campus along Center, Keller feasted obsessively on a thumbnail. Hewas planning his route to the Bay Bridge, when a miracle blazed like aprophet’s comet before his eyes.
“Sweet Jesus!” He couldn’t believe it! It was Michael!
Heaven’s warrior!
Keller managed only a glimpse, a mind-searing glimpseof nine-year-old Zachary Michael Reed, wearing a bulging backpack and crossingCenter. He was walking.
He was alone.
Alone!
Keller drove ahead for a block and tucked his van intoa parking space ahead of a larger cargo truck, out of sight. He adjusted hispassenger-side mirror, catching Michael’s distant reflection.
And behold the earth shook and God’s angeldescended from the skies. His eyes were like lightening, and any who opposedhim were struck dead.
The boy’s image grew with each step, quickeningKeller’s pulse. He was sweating. What should he do? What if Michael spotted himand became suspicious? He had to remain calm. In control, as he was with theothers.
I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.
The final challenge.
Michael stopped at a store, less than three carlengths away. Had he noticed the van? He couldn’t have. Keller adjusted themirror again. It looked like a hobby store. Michael peered into the window,then went inside. Where were the adults? Was he allowed to go into the storealone? Keller waited. No one else appeared. The boy was alone.
It was a sign.
He must act on it.
Dominus Deus sabaoth.
Keller scurried to the back of the van, watching thestorefront from its tinted rear windows. He quickly changed into a shirt, tie,dress pants, and suit jacket. The same outfit he used for his insurance man. Heknotted the tie, combed his hair neatly, and slid on a pair of dark aviatorglasses.