by Rick Mofina
“We messed up there,” Rust jumped in. “We were going to surveil Wallace, wire his phone, watch his mail, hoping it would lead us to the masked man. Tom Reed got in the way.”
“What about Reed’s tip? Did he tape it?” Paley asked.
“No. It was cold, out of the blue,” Sydowski said.
“Reed’s tip had to be Wallace’s partner,” Sydowski said. “I think it was the killer. I think he panicked when he saw us discover his trophies and, fearing Wallace would finger him, tried to set him up. Something like that. Wallace’s widow told us Wallace got a call about an hour before Reed arrived. The call scared him, but he refused to tell her who it was, She thought it was Reed saying he was coming over, but Reed told us he never made an advance call. Wallace and the other guy likely plotted to grab Donner for a day or two with the aim of returning her. It’s been done before. But it goes wrong and she ends up in a garbage bag with her throat cut. Our tattooed guy is likely a hard-core skinner who manipulated Wallace, then trips up the case.”
“We never publicly said Wallace was a suspect?” Paley said.
“No. Wallace was dead,” Gonzales said. “We want to leave his partner in the dark. So we publicly doubt Reed’s story. It may not be nice, but we’re chasing a child-killer.” He paused. “Merle, Lonnie, you got anything?”
Ditmire leafed through his notes.
“Nathan Becker is a computer systems engineer with Nor-Tec in Mountain View, head of a project for the U.S. military. The CIA told us this morning that it would not rule out a terrorist act as one plausible scenario here.”
“But we have no demands,” Sydowski said. “And doesn’t tradition show that responsibility for acts of terrorism is usually claimed within twenty-four hours?”
“Not in every instance, Walt,” Rust said.
Ditmire continued with the results of a VICAP check. “Two recent child abduction-murder cases around Dallas-Fort Worth in the last three years. And for the same period, there has been one in Denver, Seattle, Detroit, Memphis, and Salt Lake City. We’re getting files on them. We’ve got our experts trolling the kiddie porn websites and chatting on the Internet for anything that might help. We’ve got agents posing as kids and agents posing as pervs, baiting whatever is out there. That’s it for now.”
Gonzales nodded. “Claire, any hint of cult, or human sacrifice?”
Inspector Claire Ward, an expert on cults, had been taking notes.
“Too soon to say, Lieutenant, I’d like to look at the evidence from the Donner case again.”
“Walt will help you there,” Gonzales said. “All right. We are going to chew up every shred we’ve got on this, understand? Every damn thing. The heat on this one is intense.” Gonzales stood up, looked at his watch, then ended the meeting. “You’ve got your assignments. You all know the words to the song. This is a green light. All overtime is approved. We go hard into the backgrounds. We re-create the day. We check and recheck every tip.” He tucked his unlit cigar in his inside breast pocket. “Questions?”
None.
“Turgeon, please see me in my office,” Gonzales said.
Papers and reports were collected as the investigators filed out of the room. Turgeon followed Gonzales to his office several doors away, where he fished through a top desk drawer, then placed her new identification in her hand.
“Sorry, Linda. I should’ve gotten this to you last week.”
Turgeon looked at the laminated photo ID which read: Inspector Linda A. Turgeon. San Francisco Police Department. Homicide Detail. She ran her finger over the shield bearing the city’s seal. It depicted a sailor, miner, and a ship passing under the Golden Gate. Above it, a phoenix rose from flames. Below was the city’s Spanish motto. Oro en paz, fierro en guerra.
“You know our jingle,” Gonzales said.
“Gold in peace. Iron in war.”
Turgeon’s heart swelled. Her father’s gold shield was at home in a jewelry box, with her favorite picture of him smiling in uniform at her. She was eight, wearing his cap, smiling up at him. She blinked several times. I did it, Dad. I did it, she thought.
“Welcome to the dark ride,” Gonzales said”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Gonzales cleared his throat. “I knew Don in the early days.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, we walked the Mission together. For a spell.”
Turgeon nodded.
“Linda?”
“Yes.”
“You done him proud, real proud.”
FOURTEEN
Vassie Liptak, the choirmaster for Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church, tapped his baton crisply on the podium’s edge, halting “The Lord is Risen.” He pushed aside his wild, maestro-like strands of ivory hair and studied his sheet music.
The North American Choir finals in San Diego were three months off. Our Lady was a contender and with God’s help they could win. Victory would mean an audience with The Holy Father in Rome. Vassie lay awake nights imagining how it would be. Our Lady’s singers were spiritually dedicated, but today his number-three contralto, the dwarfish spinster who cleaned the church, was off.
“Florence, dear, you are not feeling well today.” He reviewed his sheet music on the dais.
Florence Schafer flushed. “Why, I’m fine, Vassie. Really.”
Agnes Crawford, the choir’s star soprano, put her hand on Florence’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Flo? You look pale. Would you like some water? Margaret, fetch some water for little Flo.”
Florence loathed that name. Standing at four feet, six inches, she was, in the clinical sense, a dwarf.
“Please, don’t bother. I’m fine.”
Vassie regarded her sternly through his fallen locks.
“I wasn’t concentrating, I’m sorry.”
“Very well.” Vassie sighed, nodding for the organist to resume. Pipes and voices resounded through the stone church, but Florence’s attention wandered again.
She admired the statue of the Blessed Virgin in the alcove behind Vassie. The Queen of Heaven, in a white gown with a golden hem, arms open to embrace the suffering. She was beautiful, mourning the death of her child. As she sang, Florence recalled her own grief and the part of her that died so many years ago. Philip, the young man she was to marry, was killed in a house fire. She had wanted to die, too. The night of his death, she visited her parish priest. He helped her find the strength to live. She never loved another man. For years, she considered becoming a nun, but instead devoted herself to her church and her job as a city hall clerk before retiring after forty years.
Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She had Buster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detective stories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. On vacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devoured novels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To what end, she didn’t know, for each day of her life was marked by the three china cups and three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in the morning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as the steam plume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wondering what God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.
She now knew the answer.
And this afternoon she would act on it.
After choir rehearsal, Florence prepared to clean the pews. She went to the utility room at the rear of the church and tugged on the chain of a bare bulb. The room smelled of disinfectant. It had a large janitor’s sink, bottles of furniture polish, wax, rags, pails, all neatly organized. Florence closed the door, and checked inside her bag. Everything was set. If it happened again today, she was ready. She slipped on her apron, collected a rag, some polish in a pail, and went to work cleaning pews.
“And how are you this blessed afternoon, Flo? I heard the choir from the rectory. The gang sounds wonderful.” Father McCreeny smiled as she gathered old church
bulletins from the first pew.
“Very well thank you, Father. And you?”
“Tip top, Flo. Tip top.”
You may say so, Father, but I know you’re bearing a heavy cross.
Father William Melbourne McCreeny had been with Our Lady for years. A fine-looking man standing six feet, five inches tall, who, at sixty-two, still maintained the litheness of his seminary days as a basketball player. With the exception of crack dealers and pimps, he was loved by everyone. McCreeny was instrumental in establishing a new soup kitchen in Our Lady’s basement, using bingo proceeds to provide hot meals for the homeless. McCreeny checked his watch, then surveyed his empty church. “Five minutes before afternoon confessions. I’d best get ready.” He stopped near the altar on his way to the sacristy and turned to her. “By the way, Flo, I almost forgot. This weekend I’ll be asking for more help at the shelter. We’re getting more clients as the word on the street goes ’round. I know you already do so much, but please consider it.”
“I will, Father.”
He smiled his handsome smile.
Later McCreeny emerged carrying a Bible, wearing a cassock, surplice, and purple stole. He genuflected, crossed himself before the altar. He seemed taller. Florence’s heart fluttered. Seeing him like this emphasized that he was a Godly man, a human tower of strength. McCreeny lit some vigil candles at the alcove of the Virgin, then proceeded to one of the confessional booths, the rustling of his vestments echoing softly as he walked.
Overcome with fear, Florence wanted to cry out to him and gripped a pew to steady herself. Father, help me! The words wouldn’t come. What was happening? She had arrived at the church that morning confident she would do what was right. Now she was consumed by doubt. McCreeny entered the confessional. She needed his guidance. Father, please, turn around! The latch clicked. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. McCreeny was ready to perform the sacrament, ready to hear the confession of sins.
Florence went back to cleaning, touching her eyes with the back of her hand. For the next hour, she concentrated on her work. During that time nearly two dozen people trickled in and out of the church. Florence smiled at those she knew. The children held their tiny hands firmly together at their lips, prayer-like. Adults were less formal, clasping theirs loosely, letting them fall below their waists. One by one they entered the curtained side of the booth, knelt, and whispered their confessions to Father McCreeny. As she worked, Florence heard the shuffle of old tired feet, the smart snap of heels, and the squeak of sneakers as each person left the booth for an unoccupied pew where they could say their penance, some to the muted clicking of rosary beads.
Maybe it wouldn’t happen today, she thought, allowing herself a degree of relief. Maybe not today. Maybe not ever again?
Florence was calmer. She had nearly finished her work. Two more pews. Then she would go home, make some tea, and read. Moving to the last pew, she reminded herself to pick up some cream. That’s when she looked up and all the blood drained from her face.
He had come.
Her hand trembled. She dropped her bottle of furniture polish. It bounced and rolled, making a terrible noise.
He stood at the back, dipped his hand in the holy water basin, and took a place in line. Florence had little time. Suddenly he glanced at her. Florence had seen him occasionally at the soup kitchen.
A crepe-sole shoe squeaked. A woman entered the confessional.
He was next.
Florence collected her cleaning things into her pail, stepped into the main aisle, genuflected, crossed herself, and glanced at the huge crucifix behind the altar for inspiration. She went to the utility room, tugged on the light. She ran the faucet full force, gazing at the ventilation register near the ceiling. It was Mary Atkins who had discovered the register was part of the ductwork system for the confessionals on the other side of the wall. And that it was an excellent conductor of sound.
“It’s as clear as a bell. Like listening in on a telephone extension,” Mary giggled to Florence one afternoon. “You should try it, Flo.” Mary’s eyes grew. “It’s better than the soaps.”
For a few months after the discovery, they secretly compared the confessions they overheard. Soon they realized the sins of their fellow churchgoers were actually minor. For Florence, the thrill wore off. And she’d always felt uneasy about what they were doing. “I just don’t want to do it anymore. It’s not right,” Florence told Mary, who agreed, saying she felt ashamed and promised to stop. Florence tried to avoid the utility room when confessions were being heard.
Except for today.
Today she wanted to hear the confession of the man she recognized from the shelter. She had to hear it. But she was paralyzed, agonizing over whether to eavesdrop on his confession. Again.
The first time was some months ago.
McCreeny was hearing confessions when she had to go in the utility room for more polish. She was certain no one was in the confessional with McCreeny at the time. She was wrong. A man was confessing to him. Florence was trying to hurry, to get out, but she could not find the polish. She kept searching, unable to avoid the voices. At first she did not understand what she was hearing. Thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. A man was begging Father McCreeny to absolve him. A chill inched up Florence’s spine as she listened in horror, hearing him describe his sin in detail. She grew nauseous, and dabbed at her face with cold water. The man implored Father McCreeny to swear he would honor his vow and never reveal what he was hearing. McCreeny assured him. The man hinted he would return.
During the following weeks, Florence was tortured with indecision. She couldn’t tell Father McCreeny what she knew, nor any priest for that matter. She couldn’t. The man would return to confess. Without warning. Once Florence saw him leaving, and made a mental note of it. He had unique tattoos on his arms.
As days passed, her conscience screamed at her: tell someone!
She did.
When the three-year-old boy was abducted from the subway, Florence called the reporter at The San Francisco Star who had written about Tanita Marie Donner’s murder. But he didn’t believe her. She knew. She couldn’t blame him. But she didn’t know what to do. What if the man had abducted the boy? She looked for answers in the steam cloud of her kettle. She found one: she needed to provide proof. God showed her the way.
Now get going.
She had a few seconds. With the water still running, Florence opened her bag, removed a miniature tape recorder she had bought a month ago, should the man ever return. Now he was here and she was ready. Florence set the volume and pressed the record button, like the clerk showed her. The red recording light glowed and she stepped up on an old file cabinet near the wall and hung the recorder by its strap from a nail above the register. Then she locked the door and shut the water off.
Voices floated through the air duct, tinny and dreamlike.
“Go ahead,” McCreeny’s voice was encouraging.
Silence.
“Don’t be frightened. God is present.”
Silence.
“I’ll help you begin. Bless me Father--”
“It’s me, Father,” Tanita Marie Donner’s killer said.
FIFTEEN
Reed spotted Ann and Zach in the Star’s reception area.
“Could you cover for me?” Reed, standing to leave, said to Molly Wilson, who followed his attention to his wife and son.
“Sure.” She was typing. “But I’m leaving soon for an FBI interview about Becker.”
Passing a hand through his hair, tightening his tie, he was suddenly nervous.
“Hi, Dad.” Zach leapt up. He must’ve sprouted another inch. He was wearing a Giants’ ball cap backward, sweatshirt, jeans, Nikes, and a beaming smile.
“Hey, big guy.” Reed hugged his son.
“Are you sure you’ve got time today? You’re not too busy?” Ann observed the hectic newsroom.
“Naw.” He walked them to an empty room. “You look good, Ann.”
She was letting her chestnut hair grow out. Dressed in a pastel silk jacket, matching pants, and pearl necklace, she embodied a successful business woman. In her fresh-scrubbed face, her soft lips, her sculpted cheeks, and lovely brown eyes, Reed saw the woman he fell in love with--a love evinced in their son.
The glass walls of the office faced the Metro Desk and two dozen cubicles where reporters worked at their computers. The family sat at an empty round table. Reed gave Zach a brown envelope.
“What’s this?”
“A present.”
Zach pulled out an action color eight-by-ten of Giants’ left fielder Barry Bonds sliding into home. “Wow! Thanks, Dad.”
“It’s nice, Tom.”
“So, Zach, tell me how you’re doin’.”
“Well, I don’t like getting up so early so Grandma can drive me to school. I don’t like going over the bridge so much.”
“The school break’s coming fast, son.”
“And I miss playing with Jeff and Gordie.”
“Meet any new friends in Berkley?”
“Not really.”
“Zach, if there’s something you want to get off your chest, then now’s the time to tell us,” Reed said.
Zach put the picture down, keeping his eyes on it. “Know what the kids at school say?”
“Tell us what the kids at school say.”
“They say my mom left my dad because he was washed up as a reporter after making a man kill himself because of a screw up.”
Reed swallowed hard.
“That’s not true,” Ann lied.
“Is that what you think too, Zach?” Reed said.
Zach shrugged and met his father’s gaze. With his mother’s eyes, flawless skin, he emanated innocence. “I told them my dad found the guy who killed the little girl and the police didn’t like it. I told them I am going to be a reporter, too.”