by Rick Mofina
SFPD Officer Don Turgeon was working Chinatown twenty years ago whenhe was shot and killed shielding a tourist in the cross fire of a gang war.Linda, his only child, was ten years old at the time.
She decided at his funeral to become a police officer.
“I knew Don. He was a good cop,” Rust said.
“From vice,” Ditmire said. “Then you don’t know the Donner file?”
“I haven’t read it yet, I just-“
Sydowski moved toe-to-toe with Ditmire. “What do you know about anything,Special Agent Ditmire, three years out of Club Fed?”
Ditmire stood his ground with Sydowski.
“I know the press is outside, probably chanting your name.”
Sydowski inventoried Ditmire top to bottom. “Picking up where youleft off, huh, voychik?”
“Fuck him, Walter,” Rust said. “Lonnie, don’t irritate theinspector. I told you he killed a man for doing that.”
Killed a man. Turgeon looked at Sydowski. Mikelson and Tillychuckled. Rust sent a stream of brown tobacco juice down the garbage disposal.“Now that we can feel the love here, let’s get humpin’:”
Mikelson had arranged through Pacific Bell to run a tap on theBeckers’ phone to immediately give them the address of any in-coming calls.Mikelson’s crew would also record all conversations. A phone tap was also setup at Nathan Becker’s Nor-Tec office in Mountain View where an FBI agent waitedto answer any calls. And Angela Donner, Tanita Marie’s mother, allowed policeto put a tap on her phone in Balboa, in case she received any suspicious calls.
The security cameras on the BART system did not keep tapes, sodetectives were interviewing BART station workers and BART Police from everystop from the Coliseum to Balboa. They had dozens of witness statements frompassengers to go through. The FBI was running down everybody at Nor-Tec, alongwith family friends, acquaintances, checking histories, criminal records. Theyhad searched the house and yard three times using canine units. Alerts withDanny’s picture went to Bay Area airports, bus and train depots, cab companies,and police departments. U.S. Postal inspectors monitored the Beckers’ mail andboxes in key areas. Bay Area courier services were alerted. Garbage pickup inBalboa and Jordan Park was halted. Summaries of abductions around the Bay andacross America over the last year were ordered.
After several separate interviews with Maggie and Nathan, they wereconvinced Danny had been taken by a stranger.
“Do you think Donner and Becker are linked?” Turgeon asked.
“It’s too soon to think anything,” Sydowski said.
“If nothing comes tonight,” Tilly said, “the Beckers will make aplea for Danny in a news conference tomorrow. The mayor’s office is consideringa reward. So is Nathan’s company. We’ll give the TV people some recenthome-video footage of Danny. It may kick something out for us.
The sketch artist arrived. Mikelson and Sydowski took him to the denwhere Nathan was waiting. Sydowski sat at the edge of Nathan’s oak desk, nextto a small, gold-framed picture of Danny on his mother’s lap. Both were laughing.Sydowski set it aside gently, then checked his watch. For more than an hourNathan Becker struggled for the sketch artist, trying to describe the face ofthe man who kidnapped his son. So far, it had been fruitless. Nathan wasgrowing angry.
“Try to relax, Mr. Becker,” Mikelson said.
So many faces. They flowed together. Nathan remembered few detailsother than the beard. The BART people hadn’t seen the man as clearly as Nathanhad. The kidnapper likely knew about BART’s security cameras and avoided them,Sydowski reasoned. He suspected that he was a stalker who had waited for hisgolden opportunity But why Danny Becker? From Nathan Becker’s account, everyoneconcluded that his glimpse of his son’s kidnapping had lasted half a second. Itwas a needle in a haystack. Nathan’s frustration and anguish increased.
The phone in the study rang.
“Okay, Mr. Becker, let’s go.”
They rushed to the living room. Additional phone lines had beeninstalled. Two were new numbers, two were extensions. Pacific Bell would havethe caller’s address in seconds. The phone rang again.
“Nob Hill!” Someone shouted the address of the call.
Tape recorders were rolling, a SFPD hostage negotiator put on aheadset to listen in. He had a clipboard and pen, ready to jot instructions toNathan. The room was silent. Nathan looked at the negotiator. He nodded, andNathan answered on the third ring.
“Hello…” He swallowed. “Oh. Hello Mr. Brooker.” Nathan shook hishead.
Sydowski went to the bank of telephones, slipped on a headset andlistened to the call. An officer, already listening in, had scribbled thecaller’s name on a pad: Elroy Brooker, Nor-Tec’s CEO.
“I just heard what happened, Nathan. Two FBI agents just left myhome. I’m so sorry. How are you and Maggie holding up?”
“We’re praying,” Nathan sniffed.
“Be strong, Nathan. Never give up hope.”
“Did the agents tell you anything?”
“They asked a lot of questions about you and the project. If youwere a gambler, or ran up debts you couldn’t repay, if you were capable ofselling information about the project.”
“Yeah?” His voice wavered between anger and disbelief.
“I told them to go to hell and find your boy. You’re one of our toppeople. Outstanding in every way.”
Nathan had regarded Brooker as a bumbling, spineless relic.
“Listen, Nathan, I won’t tie up your line. I’m going to call theboard now. I think we can pull thirty, maybe fifty thousand from our corporatedonations account. It’ll be at your disposal, a reward, ransom, whatever ittakes to see your son is returned safely. As you know, Ruth and I have ninegrandchildren. Our prayers are for Danny, Maggie, and you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooker.” Nathan hung up. The recorders stopped. Heput his face in his hands.
“Mr. Becker, we should work on the composite.” Mikelson said.
Nathan moved his jaw to speak, looking into his empty hand.
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I should have been watching him.He’s our little boy. He’s the same age as that murdered little girl. Whatif…what if… Oh please, I have to go and find my son.”
Nathan bolted for the door. Ditmire grabbed him. Sydowski helped,and they held Nathan until he finally broke down and wept.
During the night, an oppressive silence fell on the Becker home.Sydowski picked up a Giants’ ball cap he spotted peeking from under the sofa. Child-size.Danny’s cap? He noticed the fine strands of blond hair caught in the weave. InVictorian Europe, parents would cut and cherish locks of hair from their deadchildren before burying them.
One of the police phones rang. Ditmire grabbed it and said, “Onesecond,” then passed it to Sydowski.
“Give me the score, Walt.” It was Lieutenant Leo Gonzales. Sydowskitold him everything, while peering through the living room curtains at the halfdozen police cars, the unmarked surveillance van, and the news cruisers outfront.
“What about Donner, Walt? We got a serial here?”
“It’s too soon, Leo.”
“Probably. Can the father ID the bad guy?”
`Don’t know. We’re working on a composite.”
“We got people canvassing all night in Balboa and Jordan Park. We’llget vice and robbery to help,” Gonzales said. “We’ll shake down the registryand see what falls out. We’re also checking prisons and mental hospitals forescapees, walk-aways, recent discharges, and complaints. Halfway houses.”Gonzales promised a grid of the park and neighborhood at dawn and bodies to hitthe bars, porn, and peep clubs. “The mayor called the chief. We need this one,Walt.”
“You’re talking in obvious terms, Leo.”
“Sorry about your new partner. That was supposed to be official atthe hall on Monday.”
“Well, shit happens, Leo.”
“I love you too, dear. Keep in touch.”
Later, Ditmire was in the study with Nathan and the sketch artist.Turgeon was with Maggie up
stairs. Rust was reviewing reports. Sydowski borrowedhis cellular phone. The press outside could not monitor its scrambledfrequencies. He wanted a moment alone and went to the kitchen. He noticed itsblack-and-white-tile floor, skylights, lace curtained windows, French doors ledto the patio and backyard. The table looked like maple. On the refrigeratordoor, at eye level, was a newspaper clipping with tips on quake readiness. Whatabout kidnappings? Below it, tiny Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse magnets held upa colorful finger painting with a “D” scrawled at the bottom. There was aSmurf’s calendar next to it. Danny’s doctor’s appointment was next Friday attwo.
Sydowski called his old man’s unit at Sea Breeze in Pacifica.
“Hahllow.”
“Hey, Dad. You got home okay?” Sydowski said in Polish.
“Oh sure, no problems. Sixty dollars for the cab. Do you believethat? I remember when you could buy a house for that.”
“So, who won the game?”
“A’s, ten to eight.”
“It got interesting after I left?”
“You going to be working all night on this. I saw it on the TV. It’spretty bad. It breaks my heart.”
“The ones with kids always break my heart, Dad.”
“Why do people do this? What does it prove? It’s crazy. Crazy.Better to shoot the sonofabitch.”
“Listen, I’m going to be working hard time on this one, but I’llcome down and see you when I can.”
“Sure, sure.”
“What are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I got to cut hair for John. Remember Big John?”
“The retired bus driver.”
“Yeah, I’m to give him a haircut.”
“Good. Well, I got to get back to work, Dad.”
“Sure. You better catch the sonofabitch. Shoot him.”
“I’m doing my best, Dad. Good night.”
Sydowski was tired. He poured coffee and took a bite of a pastramion rye, delivered by a deli. Turgeon entered.
“So, you killed a man., did you? Who handled the file, Ditmire?” Shesat down next to him. “Going to tell me about it?”
“Maybe.”
She smiled, took some coffee, brushing back the hair that hadcurtained over one eye. She was pretty. Reminded him of his daughters. Hisheart swirled with warm, then sad thoughts.
“I’m sorry, I never knew your dad.”
“It was a long time ago, too. Look”-Turgeon shifted topics-“I’d liketo go to the hall tonight and read the Donner file.”
“Forget Lonnie. I’ll bring you up to speed. It’ll be a long night.”
“Fine, but while we’re speaking of Ditmire. I appreciate your help,Inspector, but you don’t have to protect me.”
A scolding. He bit into his sandwich.
Dad, please. You’re suffocating me with your loving concern. Hisoldest daughter would chide him whenever he offered misgivings on her dates.Sydowski understood.
“And,” Turgeon said, “for the record, I asked to be teamed with you.Insisted, actually.”
“Let’s hope you won’t regret it. Getting what you want can sometimesbe terrible.” Sydowski finished his sandwich and coffee. “I need some air. Tellthe Hoover boys I’ll be outside with this.” He left with the cellular phone.
Strolling through the backyard to the park helped Sydowski think.The cool night air invigorated him. At the edge of the pond, he watched theswans sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings.
It could be the same guy who murdered Tanita Marie Donner. Catchthis guy and you could clear both. That was the department thinking. Results wereexpected fast before it got out of hand.
Sydowski picked up two round pebbles, and shook them like dice. Itwas just a little too pat. Could’ve been planned to appear like the first one.Could be coincidence. He looked up at the darkened windows of Maggie Becker’sstudio.
Sydowski threw the pebbles into the pond, startling the swans.
EIGHT
“I visited my baby’sgrave this morning.” Angela Donner felt the eyes of her weekly bereavementgroup upon her. It was always hard when her turn came.
Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed or afraid. We’re here together. Thatwas the group’s philosophy. Still, it was difficult to face them. Angela waspainfully self-conscious. She was an overweight, twenty-one-year-old, living onwelfare with her father, who had lost both his legs below the knee to cancer.She couldn’t help being uneasy when it was her time to talk. She apologizedwith a smile.
“Poppa went with me. We brought fresh flowers. We always do.”
Angela fingered the pink ribbon, bowed around the folded,grease-stained, take-out bag she held on her lap, like a prayer book.
“Today, when we got to Tanita Marie’s spot-it’s pretty there in theshade of a big weeping willow-I started pushing Poppa’s chair, he points andsays, ‘Look, Angie. There’s something on her stone.’ And I could see it. Thewind blew this bag up against it. Poppa wanted to complain to the groundsman.But I said no.” Angela caressed the bag, then squeezed it.
“I took the bag and folded it. I took the ribbon from the flowersfrom our last visit and tied it nice round the bag and saved it. Because of allthe hundreds of stones in the children’s cemetery, this bag came to my baby’sgrave. It came for a reason. Just like all of the babies in this city, mine wasmurdered.”
The room’s fluorescent lights hummed. Angela stared at the bag inher plump hands. The group listened.
“But, what’s the reason? Why was my baby murdered? I was a goodmother. I loved her. Why did someone take her? How could somebody be so bad?Poppa says somebody who would kill a baby must be dead inside already. But whycan’t the police find my baby’s killer? He’s still out there. He could killanother baby.” Her voice grew small. “I know it’s been a year, but sometimes,at night, I can still hear her crying for me.” Angela held the bag to her faceand wept softly.
Lois Jensen left her chair, knelt before Angela, ad put her armsaround her. “Go ahead and let it out, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
Lois knew the hurt. Two years ago, her thirteen-year-old son Allanwas shot in the head while riding his bike through the park near their home.Lois was the one who found him. She knew the hurt.
Dr. Kate Martin made a note on her clipboard. Her group wasprogression. Manifestations of empathy, comfort, and compassion were nowcommon. Not long ago, Lois, who was married to a lawyer in Marin County, wouldrefuse to open up as each of the others articulated their grief. Now, throughAngela, Lois was healing. Death, the great equalizer, had taken a child from eachwoman. Now, like shipwrecked survivors, they were holding fast to each other,enduring.
Dr. Kate Martin had endured. Barely.
While writing, she tugged at her blazer’s cuffs, hiding the scarsacross her wrists. She watched Angela cherishing her take-out bag. For Kate, itwas leaves, saved from each visit to her parents’ grave.
Kate was eight when her mother and father were late returning homefrom a movie. Waiting and playing cards with their neighbor, Mrs. Cook. Apolice car arrived at the house. The old woman put an age-spotted hand to hermouth, Kate stood in her robe, barefoot, alone in the hall. Mrs. Cook talked inhushed tones with the young officer at the door, holding his hat in his hand. Somethingwas wrong. Mrs. Cook hurried to her, crushing her against her bosom, with asmell of moth balls, telling her there had been a horrible, awful car accident.
“You are all alone now, child.”
Kate was sent to live with her mother’s sister Ellen, her husband,Miles, and their three sons on their pig farm in Oregon.
She hated it.
They were strangers who treated her as the dark child who had broughtthe pall of human death into their home. She was given her own room andeveryone avoided her. Her only happiness came once a year, when, only for hersake they reminded her, they’d stop work and pile into the family wagon todrive to California to visit the cemetery where her parents were.
Uncle Miles loathed it. “It costs too damn much money and serves nopurpose, Ellen
.” He complained during their final trip together.
Throughout the drive the older boys taunted Kate.
“You never smile. Why don’t you stay in San Francisco. You piss usoff.” Quentin, the oldest, was fifteen and love killing pigs.
“Yeah. Why don’t you go and live in the stupid graveyard, you likeit there so much? Huh?” Lewis, Quentin’s sidekick, was thirteen.
Aunt Ellen told the boys to stop. At the cemetery, after Kate visitedher parents’ headstone and gathered leaves, they started back to the car. Theboys fell behind Kate and started up again.
“we’re going to leave you here.” Quentin grinned. His eye spottedthe dark earth of a freshly dug grave nearby. He nodded to his brothers. In aninstant they picked her up. Quentin held here ankles, his brother had herearms. “No Quentin, Please!” Her leaves floated to the ground. The boys carriedher to the open grave.
They dropped her into the grave and looked down on her from itsmouth, laughing and showering her with dirt. “Welcome home Kate.” She lay onthe cool dirt, watching them. Dead silent. Aunt Ellen screamed and screamed asUncle Miles lifted her out.
“You are all alone now, child,”
Uncle Miles had laughed it off. A joke, Kate, only a joke. She wasten. Aunt Ellen studied the horizon. When they got back, Kate took her sewingshears into the bathroom and sliced them across her wrists. She ached for hermother and father, wanted to be with them. She closed her eyes and lay in thetub, remembering the grave.
Quentin, who liked watching her through the bathroom keyhole, foundher. Just in time, Aunt Ellen knew Kate had to be rescued. So for the next fouryears, Dr. Brendan Blake had helped Kate climb out of hell. And at fourteen,she decided to become a beacon to those bereaved of light. There was enoughmoney in her parents’ estate for her to attend Berkeley.
Now at thirty-five, Kate Martin was a tenuredprofessor at San Francisco Metropolitan University’s Department of Psychiatry,where she was the focus of a small academic sensation. It was rumored that herresearch into the impact on parents bereaved of their children throughunnatural death could lead to a university bereavement studies center.
