by Rick Mofina
“Tom,” McDaniel said, “is Driscoll in any way familiar to you?”
Reed shook his head.
“And the voices on the dispatcher’s recording, they ring any bells?” Sydowski said. “Want us to play the tape again?”
“No. I keep telling you. Why do you keep pushing this on me? You guys have said this is random. Why do you keep asking me this stuff? Do you really think there is some connection to me? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No,” Sydowski said. “It’s procedural. You know that, Tom. We’re checking all possible links.”
“Sounds like you got jack. Sounds like you’re desperate.”
“Take it easy. We’re doing everything we can.”
“What about his prison and parole records? Find out who his friends are? Fingerprint the store, the van? Find out where he lived? Did you fingerprint his gun, trace it, the shell casings? Anything like that? Or you just going to ask me stupid questions?”
“Keep it down, Tom. We’ve got people doing all of those things and more. We’re going to need a little time.”
“Ann doesn’t have any time! It could be too late! You know it. I know it! Hell, they murdered a cop and their getaway man and took my wife. Now you tell me, how much time does she have?”
Reed felt hands on his shoulders pushing him back down into his chair.
“Keep it down, Tom,” McDaniel said. “You got to think of your son.”
“Tom, we’ve got no evidence to indicate anything right now,” Sydowski said as his cell phone sounded. He took the call, listening, then saying, “No, I haven’t told him yet. Just hang on.” Then to Reed. “Molly Wilson and Henry Cain from the Star are out front. They want to see you.”
“Let them in,” Reed said.
“Aren’t they press?” McDaniel was shaking his head. “No, Tom, we’ve already given a press briefing today.”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Tom, we need to all be on the same page on releasing information.”
“They’re friends. They were there. I’ll talk to them.” When Reed saw Wilson and Cain, something swelled inside so he nearly lost the little control he had as Wilson hugged him tight and Cain shook his hand, squeezing it firmly. Hours ago the three of them were covering the thing. Now, it was as if he were receiving them at Ann’s wake. “Tom, all the photogs send their best, man,” Cain said. Wilson and Cain sat on the sofa. Reed sat in the adjacent chair, circled by detectives.
“You’ve got ten minutes, Ms. Wilson,” McDaniel said. She kept her head down, opening her notebook, flipping past used pages, stopping at a fresh one. She uncapped her pen. Her hand quivered slightly, waiting to write.
“Tom, how—” She stopped. Started again. “How did you learn it was Ann?”
Reed struggled as he recounted everything, answering Wilson’s questions while the FBI counted down the time. Ann’s mother joined Reed, standing next to him, taking his hand.
“We’re praying,” she told Wilson, as Zachary slipped between his dad and his grandmother, telling Wilson that he wanted the bad guys to “please just let my mom go.” Cain’s Nikon flashed repeatedly on them, capturing Reed’s anguish, Zach’s young heartbroken face, Ann’s mother dabbing her eyes.
Ten minutes passed and McDaniel said, “Time’s up.”
“One last thing, Tom.” Wilson stood. “You said you learned it was Ann from the receipt. What did she buy at the jewelry store?”
“I don’t know. A surprise gift for our anniversary.”
“We’re going to hold that information back for now,” McDaniel said.
At the door, Wilson searched Reed’s eyes, embracing him again, whispering to him. “I’m so sorry, Tom. They wanted us to do this.”
“It’s okay,” he said. Reed understood. Maybe better than anyone else.
Hours passed without any contact from Ann or her abductors. Reed went to the window looking out at the street, feeling nothing.
Bob Shepherd, Reed’s editor from the Star, called. “Everyone at the paper sends their prayers, Tom. The publisher’s setting up a reward fund for information, or for anything you might need. If there’s anything I can do, call, no matter what. Call.”
“Thanks, Bob,” was all Reed could manage.
Night came and police told Reed they were following scores of tips from the news conference. Sightings and police stops involving cars and women fitting the descriptions. But nothing concrete. Detectives continued working quietly as Reed gazed at the satellite trucks, unable to count the stories where he had pursued anguished relatives and friends of crime victims.
Reed had lost track of the time. Zach had refused to go to his bedroom, falling asleep on the sofa, his head in his grandmother’s lap. Eventually, she drifted off too. Reed ached from exhaustion, lack of eating, then grappling with the sudden strange hum of his nerves being strained as the phone jangled, jolting everyone from the quiet.
The agents were instantly alert.
It was 2:35 A.M.
“Call is coming from San Francisco,” the FBI agent at the computer said.
It rang a second time.
“A residence in the Mission area.”
SFPD dispatch was alerted. The negotiator nodded to Reed, who swallowed, then answered.
“Hello.”
No response. But the line was open. The sound-level needles on the recorders did not move.
“Hello,” Reed repeated.
Nothing.
Zach sat up, rubbing his eyes, watching his father, reading his face as he spoke into the silence at the other end of the line.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
Agents and detectives were making notes, whispering, consulting their computer screens. Digits of the computer clock timing the call blurred by as exhaustion and grief overcame Reed.
“Annie?” Reed said.
More silence passed. Reed squeezed his temple with his free hand. “This isn’t funny!” he shouted into the phone.
A male voice responded. “No, it’s not funny, Mr. Reed.”
“Who is this? Where’s Ann?”
“She had to pay.”
The negotiator stared hard at Reed, gesturing for him to keep the conversation alive, keep the guy on the phone while the PD scrambled cars.
“Pay?” Reed said. “Pay for what?”
“You’ll have to figure it out, Mr. Ace Reporter.”
“Where is she? Let me talk to her. Jesus, please! I’m begging you!”
Silence.
“Please don’t hurt her. Just let me talk to her. Please.”
“That’s not possible.”
“What do you want? Please let me talk to my wife.”
“You won’t be speaking to her tonight.”
“Where is she? Please let me talk to her. What have you done?”
“You won’t be speaking to her ever again.”
The line went dead in Reed’s hand.
FOURTEEN
The FBI locked on to the exact location of the call within seconds.
“A residence in the Mission off of South Van Ness.” The agent at the computer read the address from his screen to the SFPD dispatcher. “Advise them no sirens.”
They had three black-and-whites and two ghost cars in the zone. It took four minutes for them to hit the location.
One of the unmarked cars drove by the address, a neglected bungalow, its paint peeling, the yard a jungle of wild grass, entwining weeds, shrubs, trash, patches of an overgrown hedge. It had a small ramshackle garage with swing-out doors shut tight and secured by a heavy padlocked chain.
The SFPD tactical team was rolling. ETA was thirty minutes.
More police vehicles converged on the area establishing an outer perimeter to choke off all traffic in and out. The late hour was an advantage. Residents in houses in the line of fire were awakened and evacuated.
As the TAC team moved into position, the commander was informed that the house had no complaint history and the rez, Ray Ar
cher, aged sixty-four, did not come up in anyone’s system.
“We’ve got a white male, lying on a bed in a bedroom in the southwest corner. Watching TV. No weapons. No other occupants,” one of the TAC scouts reported.
After weighing all scenarios, the commanders decided that surprise was critical given that a hostage could be used as a shield in a protracted standoff.
“Everyone set,” he said. “Go in hard. Go.”
Entry teams came in from the front and the rear, clearing the small two-bedroom house, within seconds coming upon the sole occupant.
A disheveled man, wearing dark pajamas and a white robe, lying in his bed watching TV. The air in the place had the hospital smell of disinfectant.
The man was not alarmed seeing four heavily armed TAC team officers, their weapons trained on him, standing in his bedroom. Unshaven, mostly bald, save for the foot-long strands of gray-white hair writhing wizard-like from the sides of his head, the man seemed pleased to see the officers.
“Book ’em, Dano,” he said, raising his hands, palms open.
One officer looked at the man’s wallet on the table near the bed.
“You’re Ray Archer?”
“I am and I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”
The officers surveyed the room. The tables and dressers were cluttered with scrapbooks bulging with news clippings. On one, the San Francisco telephone book was splayed open. One of the white pages was folded back to the listings for Reed. Tom Reed’s number was in the book, but no address. His listing was underlined in red. Another officer flipped through the scrapbook. Clippings of Bay Area crime stories, some of them Star stories with Reed’s byline. The TV was tuned into Dragnet.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Ray Archer was told.
Several empty medication containers were among the newspapers. The name of the doctor listed on the prescription was read over Archer’s bedside telephone to a police dispatcher.
The doctor was awakened, the call patched through. It took a few moments to absorb what was happening with Ray Archer, her outpatient from Golden State Coastal Psychiatric Institute.
“He suffered a head injury from a motorcycle crash years ago,” she explained to the TAC team leader standing in Archer’s bedroom.
“Ray used to be a scriptwriter in Hollywood. Cop shows. I’m sorry. He does this from time to time when he’s off his meds. Calls real people he learns about from the news and assumes a role. He’s harmless.”
“Who loves ya, baby?” Ray Archer grinned.
The TAC team officers exchanged looks.
Some of them had been friends with Rod August. Two of them would be pallbearers at his funeral.
FIFTEEN
Details of the call were immediately relayed to Reed’s home.
“False alarm. It came from a psychiatric patient,” Sydowski repeated into his phone, turning to Reed, who acknowledged the report by closing his eyes and shaking his head wearily.
He went to the window, unsure if he could hold up much longer. Ann’s mother, Doris, joined him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know what you’re fearing, Tom. I fear it too.”
Reed put his arm around her and they comforted each other.
“Ann’s a fighter,” she said. “You know that. She’s smart. We can’t give up. We have to be strong for her now and keep praying.”
Nodding, Reed tried to smile. Doris squeezed his hand.
“Zachary’s sleeping in his room,” she said. “I’m going to lie down with him. I don’t want him to wake up alone,” she said. “Promise me you’ll try to get some rest, Tom.”
Reed promised but lingered at the window staring at the street, convinced at times he saw Ann’s silver Jetta approaching. His heart rose. He wanted to run into the street, take her into his arms. But when he blinked he saw satellite trucks and police vehicles.
It was coming up on 4:30 A.M. Sydowski stood beside him.
“You should try to get some rest, Tom,” he said. “McDaniel left to change. I’m going to do the same. We’ve got to get ready for a major case meeting in a few hours at the Hall.”
Reed gazed into the night. He had covered so many crimes, he knew the odds in cases like Ann’s. He knew he had to prepare for the worst.
“It looks bad for her, doesn’t it, Walt?”
Sydowski stared out the window.
“Each case has its own circumstances, Tom.”
“Don’t bullshit me. Not now.”
“We don’t know the details on this one. Where it’s headed. We’ve got no evidence to suggest she’s been harmed.”
“You’ve got two corpses.”
“Tom. You’re exhausted.”
“Why would they keep her alive? Why?”
“This doesn’t help.”
“You take her car, you kill her. I mean maybe you rape her first, you know; then you kill her, dump her body.” Sydowski had seen this in victims before, near hysteria and exhaustion.
“Tom. Stop it. You need to think of Zach, of Doris.”
“Why? That’s what I can’t figure.” Reed ran a hand through his hair. “None of it makes sense. Why take her? They could’ve just taken her keys, her car, her wallet.”
“Likely they didn’t trust her saying she had a car, and also needed her as a shield. Remember, August was all over the van, ruined their getaway plans, they panicked, improvised.”
“So what now? They were disguised, you’ve got no sketches, no security tape. Nothing.”
“Tom, we’ve got their dead partner. We’ve got some of the stuff they left behind. We got a start. They’re not going to get away with this.”
“Right, you’ll get your vengeance for August, but will I ever see Ann again?” Reed searched Sydowski’s face. “Will I?”
It was a question no one could answer.
Sydowski took Reed’s shoulders. “Get some rest.”
Reed nodded.
But when Sydowski left, Reed anguished over his fear that Ann was already dead. It made him too afraid to face the bedroom alone. This can’t be real. It can’t be. You just don’t wake up to another day, go along living your life then—bang—without warning, without a chance to prepare, in a heartbeat, everything changes.
Now, more than ever, Reed sensed Ann’s fragrance, pulling him into their bedroom, beckoning him to face the inevitable. He swallowed and entered, feeling himself floating in the darkness.
He took her pink bathrobe from the chair. The one she wore every morning when she stepped from the shower after belting out a Springsteen song. He pressed its terry cloth to his face, saw the glint of the framed family photo she kept on her side of the bed, next to the bracelet she decided against wearing.
He stood over their bed, which she’d made that morning, as she did every morning. He could see the comforter’s floral pattern that she had adored. He stood there in the darkness holding her robe, pretending she was in it, scolding him about something.
He swallowed hard, reluctant to roll back the sheets, knowing there were more traces of her there. He settled for lying on top of them, staring at her side of the bed, imagining her there, seeing the curve of her back, hearing the rhythm of her breathing. Hearing her voice from the tape.
“Oh God, please let me go!”
Here it comes. He couldn’t stop it. Image upon image swirled in his mind. The dead officer, the bleeding suspect. They took Ann.
"Oh God, please let me go!”
They could rape her. Kill her. Dump her. A thousand fears preyed upon him, feasted on his soul.
Stop. Please. ‘‘Oh God, please let me go!”
Reed was beyond exhaustion but could not sleep. Because if he slept he would lose her. He ran a hand over his face, now stubbled with whiskers.
“Dad?”
Zach stood in the darkened doorway like an apparition. “What is it, son?”
“Can I sleep with you?”
“Sure, buddy.”
Zach climbed onto Ann’s side. Reed draped her
robe over him and put his arm around him.
“Dad, are you scared?”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking about the tape when we heard Mom.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it means she’s still okay, right? That’s why the police played it, right?”
“They played it for lots of reasons, but that’s right.”
“Well, I know that she’s thinking of us and she’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I asked God to take care of her and the little boy whose dad got killed.”
Reed took a moment.
“That’s good, son. Get some sleep now, okay?”
Reed pulled Zach to him. Zach, warmed by a prayer to heaven, warmed by his mother’s robe, warmed by hope, Reed drawing strength from him, lying there in the same clothes he had put on that morning to quit his job, the same clothes in which he’d salivated for the story that had become his tragedy. Was this punishment for breaking his promise to her? Reed said a prayer for Ann, feeling Zach stir. Then he noticed something fall out of his son’s relaxed hand. Reed retrieved it, held it up to the light.
A small photograph of Ann smiling at him from the darkness.
Reed covered his face with his hand holding her picture and wept.
Ann. Forgive me.
SIXTEEN
Ann Reed felt the car stop.
The engine was switched off. Doors creaked open, the vehicle sprang with the shifting weight of two people stepping from it and walking off.
Ann’s heart jumped. The ringing in her ears resumed as she struggled against the dull pain that enveloped her. What are they going to do to me?
Her face and hands were slick with sweat. Her clothes were drenched in the stifling air. She held her breath. Her skin prickled. She could hear murmuring but couldn’t distinguish a word. She flinched at the sudden clank-clank of heavy metal objects tossed to the ground nearby. Then she heard grunting, thudding, and scraping, repeated over and over.
What are they doing?
Ann was blind in her darkness where she tasted the salt of her sweat and tears that had seeped through the duct tape covering her mouth. They had bound her hands and feet too.