by Rick Mofina
If Angels Fall
( Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski )
Rick Mofina
Rick Mofina
If Angels Fall
ONE
Danny saw the girl again.
As the subway train eased out of the Coliseum station, he looked up,captivated by her frozen smile, her vacant stare, and the fact that she neverspoke.
Never.
She was dead.
Her throat had been cut and her body stuffed into a plastic garbagebag hidden in Golden Gate Park.
She was two years old and her name was Tanita Marie Donner. Twoeleven-year-old girls from Lincoln Junior High found her during a science classfield trip.
“She looked like a little naked doll,” Natalie Jackson, one of thegirls, told a San Francisco TV station.
That was a year ago. The nightmares were now less frequent for theschoolgirls. For most San Franciscans, Tanita’s murder was fading from memoryalthough her face still stared from bus shelters, store windows, and bumperstickers, an image as familiar to the Bay Area as the Gold Gate or theTransamerica Pyramid. For a time, it embodied San Francisco’s anguish. Ablurred, grainy blow-up of a color snapshot, Tanita timidly showing her tinymilk-white teeth as Mommy coaxed a smile. Two pink butterfly barrettes heldback her brown hair. She was wearing a cotton dress with lace trim, and crushingher white teddy bear to her chest. Her dark eyes shining like falling stars.
REWARD screamed in bold, black letters above her head. Below weredetails of when and where Tanita was last seen alive. Twenty-five thousanddollars was offered for information leading to an arrest in her murder. Notakers.
Tanita Marie Donner’s killer was still out there.
As the train worked its way through the transbay tunnel of the BayArea Rapid Transit system, three-year-old Daniel Raphael Becker remainedtransfixed by a poster of Tanita Marie Donner.
“Who’s that, Dad?” he asked his father.
“Don’t point, Danny. She’s just a little girl. Now please sit still.We’ll be home soon.”
Nathan Becker settled back in the seat, opened the business sectionof Saturday’s San Francisco Star, hoping to finish a story he began athome that morning before he and Danny left for the game. Nathan was a systemsengineer who commuted by CalTrain to Mountain View. The article was about hisfirm which was on the brink of a revolutionary breakthrough. The game was ayawner, the A’s were embarrassing the Yankees. Danny was bored, so they leftthe Coliseum after the fifth. Just as well, because now they had to go all theway to Daly City to pick up some artist’s brushes for his wife, Maggie. Nathanhad promised. It was a long ride, and he wished he hadn’t let Danny talk himinto taking BART. He got his fill of trains during the week. They’d cab it homefrom the shop.
***
The day started like a typical summer Saturday for Nathan and Danny,with one of their weekend-buddy excursions.
“Want to go to Oakland and see the A’s game today, Dan?” Nathan wasmaking scrambled eggs while Maggie slept upstairs.
“Can we do the wave, Dad?”
“You betcha.”
Danny laughed.
Nathan buffed his son’s hair and watched him eat. Danny’s eyesradiated innocence. Blood of my blood. Miracle baby. How he loved him. But hispromotion to department head meant longer hours and rationing time with Dannyto weekends, leaving him to survive the week with glimpses of his son asleep,glimpses stolen after tiptoeing into his room at the end of anotherpressure-cooker day.
Jordan Park was a sedate neighborhood sheltered with stands offeather-duster palms, a community of Victorian houses with billiard-table-greenlawns. An oasis for young professionals that was not quite as pretentious asPacific Heights. Today Nathan got to prove how unpretentious he was. Dannywanted to take BART to Oakland.
“Let’s take the Beemer, Dan. We’ll put the top down?”
“I want to ride the train like you do, Dad. BART goes right underthe bay.”
“I know it goes right under the bay.” Nathan sighed. “Okay.”
Before they went, Nathan left a note on the fridge and, reluctantly,his BMW in the garage. He and Danny walked to California, hopped a bus, then acable car to Embarcadero Station, where an escalator delivered them at afuneral pace into the subway system winding through the Bay Area.
***
After she heard them leave, Maggie Becker rose from bed, showered,put on her robe, then made a pot of Earl Grey Tea. She curled up on the sofa inthe living room with the Arts section of the newspaper, savoring an emptyhouse. Later, she dressed in faded jeans and a Forty-Niners sweater, thenclimbed upstairs to her studio. It was a large, bright room with hardwoodfloors, and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking their backyard rosegarden and the treetops, framing her view of a small park where trumpeter swansglided in a manmade pond.
This was Maggie’s sanctuary.
It was here she had mourned the miscarriage of her first child, lostafter she fell from a step ladder while wallpapering the nursery. Her uteruswas damaged, the doctors said. The chances of her carrying a baby to term werenow three in ten. They suggested adoption. A few months later, Nathan startedleaving her brochures from agencies. Maggie threw them into the trash. Sherefused to let a cruel, freak accident rob her of motherhood.
Nathan understood.
So it was here, while watching the swans, Maggie’s prayers wereanswered. It was here, when she became pregnant with Danny, she sat with herhands pressed to her stomach, begging God to let her keep this baby.
God had heard her.
Their healthy baby boy was delivered by caesarian section. Theynamed him Daniel after Nathan’s father, and Raphael for the Italian painter, whosework Maggie adored. Danny was her hope, her light, her angel. His birthreaffirmed the love between her and Nathan and resurrected the artistic dreamsshe had buried with the loss of their first baby. Here, in this refurbishedattic, Maggie produced a succession of inspired water colors, which soldregularly at a gallery down the peninsula.
Maggie pulled off the tarpaulin covering a landscape in progress,collected her brushes, and inhaled the fragrance of paints and freshly cutgrass wafting into her studio.
Her life was perfect now.
The train came to the next stop. The automatic doors opened. Dankair rushed into the car as Danny watched the people leaving jostle with thosegetting on. Then a short warning chime echoed. “Doors closing,” Danny said. Hehad picked up the routine. Three seconds later, the doors closed. The trainjolted forward, gathering speed, pulling them deeper into the tunnel system.
“How many more stops, Dad?”
“Uh-huh,” Nathan said, eyes locked onto his newspaper, oblivious tothe new passengers crowding the car. He had slipped comfortably into hiscommuter habit of losing himself in his newspaper.
Danny looked at his dad reading. He was bored, so he stared at hisown hand and counted his fingers. Remembering the hotdog he had at the game, helicked his lips and wished for another one. He yawned. He looked up across thecar at Tanita Marie Donner’s face, slid off of his seat, and stood next to it,facing the poster.
“I’m just going right here, Dad.”
“All right,” the newspaper said.
The train wavered. Danny steadied himself, noticing a tiny, silverchain dangling from the ear of a teenager down the aisle. It glintedrhythmically with the train’s rocking motion, like a hypnotist’s watch, biddingDanny closer. He stepped carefully around the outstretched, tanned legs of aboy studying a motorcycle magazine, head bobbing to music leaking from theheadset of his CD player. Suddenly a skateboard shot at Danny. He tensed beforeit was stopped by a scuffed Reebok worn by a girl in an oversized sweatshirt.Danny moved on, pa
ying no attention to the other passengers until he stoodbefore the teenager wearing the chain. His face was ravaged by acne. Hisjet-black mohawk hair was greased into six-inch spikes frozen in coiffuredexplosion. He wore black boots, torn black pants, a black T-shirt with adeath’s head that was partially hidden by his silver-studded black leatherjacket.
Danny pointed at the chain. “What’s that?”
The teenager ceased chewing his bubble gum, left his mouth open, andgiggled as if he had just been tickled. His girlfriend giggled, too. Althoughher hair was fuchsia and her chains smaller, her appearance mirrored herboyfriend’s right down to the gum chewing. They were holding hands. The teenleaned toward Danny, turned his ear to him, and shook the chain.
“This is my lucky charm.” He grinned. “You should get one.”
The girl playfully grabbed her boyfriend’s groin, pouting and askingDanny, “And what’s this?”
It was called a PEE-nus. Danny knew because his motheranswered the same question for him one night when he was in the tub. He’dforgotten the word, but he clearly recalled the function.
“Do you have to pee?” Danny asked, triggering the couple’s laughteras they stood to leave.
The train was slowing. Danny was bumped from behind, nearly knockedoff his feet. He was trapped in a forest of legs. The automated public addressbarked the station’s name. Danny tried to return to his dad, but was blocked bya skateboard, shopping bags, a briefcase, a knapsack. People crushed together,inching him closer to the doors. He panicked, clenched his tiny hands intofists, and pounded on arms and legs, but couldn’t break free. The trainstopped. The doors whooshed open. Danny was pushed out of the car with thecrowd, crying out for his father as he tripped, falling hard onto the cold,grimy, concrete platform. People swirled around him, drowning him. A ghettoblaster throbbed with a menacing beat. No one could hear Danny crying. Frantic,he struggled to get to his feet. A cigarette butt stuck to his hand. Hepinballed from one grownup to the next. Disoriented, his only thought was toget back on the train. He heard the warning chime.
Get back on the train! Get back on the train! Get back!
Danny felt a pair of large, strong hands lift him.
Nathan heard the chime, lowered the newspaper, and turned to Dannybeside him. Gone. Damn that little- He threw the paper down, threading his wayfrom one end of the car to the next looking between seats for Danny. What thehell-? He can’t be gone.
He can’t be gone!
The driver’s whistle bleated again. Nathan’s pulse quickened. He ranto the end of the car again, pushing people from his path, searching underneathevery seat.
“Hey, asshole!”
“Christ, pal-“
“M-my son, Danny…I’m looking for my little boy, he’s …”
The doors closed and the train jerked forward.
“No! Wait!” Nathan yelled for the train to halt.
The train gained momentum.
Where’s my son?
Bile rushed up the back of his throat. Gooseflesh rose on his skin.Through the window, on the platform, he saw Danny in the arms of a strangerdisappearing into the crowd.
Nathan knocked an old woman out of his way and lunged for thetrain’s emergency brake.
“No! Please! No, No!”
Tanita Marie Donner stared down at Danny’s father.
TWO
A skeleton crew was onduty in the newsroom of The San Francisco Star when Danny Becker waskidnapped.
Tom Reed, a crime writer, was finishing a short hit on a seventy-twoyear old rummy stabbed with a nail file by a fifty-two-year-old whore. Somedive in the Tenderloin. The whore was watching the A’s game on the tube abovethe bar. The rummy wanted her to work her break. She was feeling bitchy, andwanted to finish her beer and her nails. His fingers went where they shouldn’thave and he bled to death at her table. Nobody noticed for half an inning.Turns out the guy had helped build the Golden Gate. He was the seventiethhomicide of the year. Reed summed up his life in two tight graphs, then puncheda command on his computer terminal, sending the story to Al Booth, theassistant metro editor working in the bullpen.
Reed downed the remainder of his tepid coffee. Three hours into hisshift. Could he stick it out today? Hungover. Again. Rubbing his temples,surveying the crap pinned to the half wall of his cubicle: Police numbers, ayellowing article on his winning his second national award four years ago forinvestigative reporting, a photograph of his wife, Ann, and Zach, theirnine-year-old son who wants to be a report. Like my dad.
Here was his life, or the illusion of it. Reed’s sources rarelytalked to him these days. His award-winning work was forgotten. It was comingup on six months since Ann took Zach and moved to her mother’s. His life wasdisintegrating, and like an animal gnawing at a wound that refused to heal, hereturned to the clipping file and the story that initiated his disgrace. Thecase of Tanita Marie Donner.
Reed had led the Star’s coverage of her abduction and murder,right up until the suicide, the lawsuit, and his suspension. It was nearly ayear since he last wrote about Donner and the man he believed had killed her.The case was unsolved and the paper, stinging from the scandal andembarrassment, was now content with superficial coverage of it. But Reedcouldn’t leave it alone, exposing himself to the headlines he had virtuallymemorized.
POLICE SEARCH FOR ABDUCTED BABY … SCHOOL GIRLS FINDTANITA: MURDERED … FEW LEADS IN MYSTERY SLAYING …
Then he came to the grainy news pictures of Franklin Wallace. Thebeginning of the fuckup, and it all came back to him. Hard.
He had rushed to Wallace’s home and rung the doorbell. He waschasing San Francisco’s biggest story. He had found Tanita’s killer.
The door was opened by a pudgy little man with a candle white face,thinning blond hair, a wispy mustache. Mid-thirties. Five-six.
“Franklin Wallace?” Reed said.
“Yes?” his voice had a southern lilt.
Damn the tip was true, Reed thought.
“Mr. Wallace, I am Tom Reed. I am a report with the Star-“
“Reporter?” Wallace’s expression darkened subtly.
“Did you know Tanita Donner? She lived a few blocks away.”
Wallace’s lips did not move. He was measuring Reed, remainingsilent, frozen. Reed repeated the question.
“Yes, I knew Tanita.”
“I understand she attended your Sunday school day care?”
“Once or twice. She was not a regular. What is this about?”
“Mr. Wallace, may I come in? I have some questions, importantquestions, I would like to ask you.”
Reed caught it. A twitch in Wallace’s eyelid, an unconsciousreaction so slight he almost missed it.
“What questions?”
“May I come inside?”
“What questions? What is this about?”
Wallace’s hand tightened his grip on the door frame. Reed was losinghim; this might be his only chance. “Mr. Wallace, do you have a record forchild molestation in Virginia?”
“What? A record?”
“I have it confirmed, sir.”
Wallace swallowed, licking his lips. ‘You have it confirmed?”
“Yes, just now. I would like to talk to you about some otherinformation I have. It is very serious.”
“Why? No. Please. That was long ago. Please, I have a family, a job.You must not print anything. Please, I don’t know what you’re driving at cominghere with this.”
“I’ve been told your fingerprints have been found on items linked toTanita’s murder.”
“What? I can’t believe that!”
What little color Wallace had melted from his face. He was wan, hiseyes, revealing the truth. He was guilty. Guilty of something. Reed knew it. Hewas standing inches from a child killer.
Wasn’t he?
At that moment, Wallace’s daughter appeared, clinging to herfather’s leg, a tiny “Leave my-daddy-alone scowl aimed at Reed. Red jam wassmeared on her chin, reminding Reed of blood.
“I had nothing to do with
what you’re suggesting.”
Wallace slammed the door.
Reed cleared his throat and went to the next clipping:
SUNDAY SCOOL TEACHER COMMITS SUICIDE…“HE WAS INNOCENT”:WIDOW…REPORTER BLAMED FOR TEACHER’S DEATH…WIDOW SUES S.F. STAR…TANITA’SKILLER “IS OUT THERE”: POLICE…
Reed removed his glasses, burying his face in his hands.
The day after she buried her husband, Rona Wallace held a pressconference. It was on the same doorstep where Reed had questioned FranklinWallace moments before he locked himself in his daughter’s bedroom and firedboth barrels of a shotgun into his mouth.
“My husband was a decent man, and a loving father,” Rona Wallaceread from a prepared statement. “He took successful counseling for hisproblems, which occurred more than a decade ago when he was clinicallydepressed over the death of his mother. The San Francisco Police and the FBIhave told me today, to my face, that my husband was initially checked andquietly cleared as a possible suspect in the death of Tanita Marie Donner. Heknew and loved that little girl.” She sniffed.
“I attribute his tragic death to the allegations raised in theabhorrent and false reporting of The San Francisco Star and have beguncivil action. Thank you.”
Rona Wallace took no questions. When she finished, she asked if TomReed was present. “Right here.” Reed raised his hand.
Cameras followed her as she walked to him, her reddened eyes findinghis. Without warning, she slapped his face. “You know what you are and you knowwhat you did.” She said, then walked away.
Reed was stunned.
Reporters pelted him with questions. He was speechless. The TV gangloved seeing him get his comeuppance. The networks picked it up. Publiccriticism from police made him a pariah. The incident ignited editorials andcolumns across the country about press ethics. Reed couldn’t sleep withoutdrinking-he doubted everything in his life. He argued with Ann, screamed atZach, and was once on the brink of hitting him, squeezing his arm until heyelped in sheer terror.
