by Rick Mofina
“How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”
John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightenedand he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around hisshoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cuthis hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’sunit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. Heloved the feel of his old man’s comb through is hair, the clip of the scissors.For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with therazor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so heclosed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into this skin again and again as hisfather scraped it across his face.
“See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when itwas over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping onthe Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.
“Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, goingto the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.
They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy andfell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered thekit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face indisbelief.
“Don’t’ ever give him his kit again,” he ordered,handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”
Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her deskdrawer and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was verytender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”
Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific CoastHighway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a leadfrom Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, butfound nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENTdissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checkedKindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to FranklinWallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed-a lost right-thumbprint screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.
“Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “Youhad absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker.”
“That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth LuckyStrike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice.Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to theprogram. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having tocharge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decidedagainst a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’tfunction in the morning.”
Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interviewroom, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’dstruck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, wascontrolling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfullycoaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat.Kindhart would roll over-all he needed was a little nudge. When the ramblingsof Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about hispassion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.
“How ‘bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgersand some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.
Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned,Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.
“Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order thoseburgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in thefile, sifting papers.
“What’s to clear up?”
“Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on yourcamera.”
“That’s a fucking lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.
“And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the labreports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace andthe hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”
“Bull-fucking-shit.”
“And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out anotherbluff.
“What note?”
“Wallace’s suicide note.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’msorry.”
Kindhart was dead silent.
Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhartlooked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’sstomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. Thewheels were turning.
Here it comes, Sydowski knew.
“Did that little fuck try to implicate me? After whatI did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is about?”
“Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker waskidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.
“Modesto. I told you.”
“Can you prove it?”
“People saw me there.”
“Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner wasabducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.
“I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhartdragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.
“Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studiedthe file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here,Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you knowthem.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone.“You have the right to remain silent-“
“Hold every-fucking-thing.”
Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Mirandarights?”
Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak becausethe room was wired, they were recording the interview.
“We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving yourrights?”
“I’m waiving my fucking rights because I was notinvolved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’snot what you think. It’s not the truth.”
“Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.
Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both ofthem. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him andhis new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for aday, then let her go.”
“When was this?” Turgeon asked.
“Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”
“What was the date?” Sydowski asked.
“I don’t know. I figured it was the Donner kid.”
“Why?”
“Franklin said it would be a little one who couldn’t ID anybody.”
“What happened?” Sydowski asked.
“I never went.”
“Why?”
“I had to see my parole officer that day.”
“What day?” Turgeon asked?
“The day Tanita Donner went missing. I know you cancheck it out. I know from the news reports the time she was grabbed, and I waswith my parole officer.”
“Convenient, Perry,” Sydowski said. “Ever call a guyby the name of Tom Reed?”
“Who’s that?”
“You just said you followed the news reports.”
“I’m supposed to know this guy?”
“How do we know you weren’t involved?” Turgeon said.
“Because I wasn’t. Franklin came to me that night andasked me if I wanted to come to their party. I said no. I didn’t like hisfriend. He scared me. An iceman.”
“The friend came to your place, too, that night?”Sydowski said.
“No.”
“So what happened?” Turgeon asked.
“I let Franklin borrow my camera, which was stupid. Hedropped it off the next day and that was the last time I ever saw him. Afterthe news on the girl and Franklin’s suicide, I wiped my camera clean.”
“Where were they holding her?” Sydowski said.
“All he said was that it was a safe place.”
“What about the mystery man, Mr. Tattoo?” Turgeonasked.
“I only met him the one tim
e at the bookstore about amonth before it happened. I swear.”
“Why didn’t you tell police this last year?” Sydowskisaid.
“Because with my record, I was afraid. And I wasafraid Franklin’s friend might come after me.”
“Can you tell me anything more about Franklin’smystery friend?”
“All I know, and I swear this is all I remember, isthat he is a skinner con from Canada and Franklin once called him ‘Verge’.”
They released Kindhart, put him under surveillance,then called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Correctional Service ofCanada. It was a government holiday in Canada and with only a first name as anidentifier, it was going to take several hours before the Canadians could runchecks and start faxing files on possible suspects. Sydowski used the break tosee his old man.
Sydowski was optimistic about the lead. It could bethe turning point. Usually he dismissed the mysterious-person-did-it alibi, butthere was a mystery man involved in this. Kindhart was in Modesto whenBecker was grabbed, that checked out. And Kindhart didn’t fit the suspect’sdescription. No tattoo. Not even close. Sydowski was driving north, passingSharp Park when his cell phone rang.
Maybe the Canadian faxes had arrived. “Sydowski.”
“Walt, it’s bad.” Turgeon said. “We’ve got anotherabduction.”
“Another one!”
“Five-year-old girl, from her mother in Golden GatePark. A man in a pickup. Bearded. Fits with the Becker case.”
“I’m on my way.”
Sydowski hit his emergency lights and siren.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Gabrielle.The girl’s name is Gabrielle. Her mother kept screaming her name,”seventy-three-year-old Fay Osborne from Ottumwa, Iowa, said as Tom Reed wrotequickly in his notepad.
He had taken Fay and Arthur, her seventy-five-year-oldhusband, a retired farmer, aside.
“This is a son-of-a-bitchin’ thing to do to a littlegirl.” Arthur repositioned his John Deere ball cap each time he patted hissweating head with his handkerchief. Reed hid the Osbornes from the otherreporters who swarmed Golden Gate Park.
The Star had sent Reed, Molly Wilson, and twophotographers to the park. Other staff were en route. Wilson was at thecarousel with the two teenage girls who saw the kidnapper, getting theiraccounts just before police took them away for statements.
Reed was having trouble hearing Fay and Jack Osborneover the TV news helicopters and satellite trucks roaring into the parking lot.Local stations were taking the story live. Shielding her eyes, Fay regarded ahovering chopper. The cradle-to-grave tribulations of a life bound to Iowa soilwere written in her face, eyes, and sturdy hands. Probably attended churchevery Sunday, Reed figured.
“Her mother kept saying that it was all her fault fornot watching her daughter more closely,” Fay said.
“You see anything strange in the parking lot beforethe mother ran up to you?”
“No. But this man approached us after seeing herupset.”
“Where is he now?”
“Gone. After helping the mother, he ran back to hiscar phone, called the police, then drove off, trying to follow the pickup truck.”
“Did he say anything before he left?” Writingfuriously, Reed stopped looking at the Osbornes.
“He had been talking on his car phone when he saw alittle girl come into the lot, and trot up to a parked pickup truck and talk toa man who had a dog in the cab. They only talked for a few seconds, then shegot in and they drove off.”
Reed never took his eyes from his notes as he wrote.“Did he get the truck’s plate number?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What did he say this man in the pickup looked like?”
“He said he had a beard, light-colored hair. In hisforties or fifties.
Reed froze, and stared at the Osbornes. “A beard andlight hair?”
Fay Osborne nodded. Reed’s mind spun with suspicion.
Beard. Light hair. Like the guy who took Danny Becker.Like the born-again kook from Martin’s bereavement group. He had a beard andlight hair. Right. And so did 100,000 other men in the Bay Area. Slow down. Whydid he think he was a detective? Didn’t he learn from the Franklin Wallacefiasco last year?
Reed finished with the Osbornes, went to the carousel,and took Wilson aside. “What’d you get?” he asked.
“Great stuff.” She flipped through her notes. “Hername is Gabrielle Nunn. From the description I got from the two girls who sawher talking to a man before she went missing. I’d say he’s the same creep whograbbed Danny Becker from BART.”
“Me, too.”
“Gabrielle was here for a friend’s birthday party, ahuge one, something like thirty kids. She’s waiting alone outside the washroomwhen she talks to this man in a ball cap and dark glasses. Nobody remembers theguy’s face, only that he was bearded with blondish hair.”
“Just like Becker on BART. Ball cap and dark glasses.”
“Gabrielle talks to the man, follows him to the lot.Her mom, Nancy Nunn, comes out minutes later. Can’t find her. The teens tellher about the man. Mom runs frantically to the lot. And get this! The wholething may have been caught on amateur video!”
“No shit?” Reed checked to ensure no other reporterswere eavesdropping. “How did you find out?”
“I overheard a guy tell a detective that he wasvideotaping his kids on the carousel about the same time. He said maybe hecaught the guy on tape.”
“He give the tape to the detective?”
“Yes, he took it before I could interview him.”
“Good stuff. See if we can get a print from it. Myguess is they’ll release it anyway.”
“Right. You get anything?”
Reed told her about Fay Osborne and the businessmanwho followed the pickup. Suddenly, Wilson remembered something and reachedexcitedly into her purse, pulling out a snapshot.
“One of the mothers from the party gave me thispicture of Gabrielle. Taken an hour ago. What an angel. Five years old. Herbirthday is next week. Her mother was freaked over Becker’s kidnapping, andwith Donner being found here, she was afraid to bring Gabrielle to the partytoday. Her mother made that dress. What a little angel, huh?”
“She’s cute all right. Anybody say anything about adog?”
“Yes, hold on.” Wilson handed Reed the snapshot andflipped through her notes. “Here, Jackson, Gabrielle’s cocker spaniel pup. Ranoff or something from their home about a month ago.”
“It fits.”
“What fits?”
“That this could’ve been premeditated. The guy tookher dog, then uses it today to lure her away.”
“Yeah, that would work.”
“Call the desk. We should send someone to the Nunnshome in the Sunset, talk to the neighbors.”
“Your house is in the Sunset, Tom.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of this family.”
“Excuse me!” A grim-faced SFPD officer was unreeling ataut yellow police line around the carousel area, as other officers clearedpeople from the scene. The plastic ribbon sealed off the carousel enclosure,then stretched along the path Gabrielle had taken to the parking lotencompassing the lot itself, protecting the entire scene.
“Shit, Tom. They usually do this for homicides.”
“Likely a grid search, in case the bad guy droppedsomething.”
Drew Chapman, one of the Star’s photographers,joined them, clicking off a dozen frames.
“Chappy. Where you been?” Wilson said.
“Deep in the west end. A group of suits were pokingaround the scene where they found the murdered baby last year. The Examinerand Merc were there, too. Not bad for pix.”
“Cops put on the white gloves?” Reed asked.
Drew shook his head. “I don’t think they found dick.”Drew nodded to a group of detectives nearing the area and raised a camera tohis face. “Those guys there.”
Reed recognized Rust and Ditmire, along with Turgeonand Sydowski, walking outside the tape at the far side, stopp
ing to talk withthe uniforms, instructing them to do something.
Drew fired off a few frames. “We overhead them saysomething about a press conference at the hall later. I don’t know about youguys, but I think it is all linked. I think we got some twisted, fucking,serial, child-killer.”
Maybe, Reed thought, considering the names as a connection.Danny Raphael Becker. Gabrielle Nunn. What an angel. Raphael. Gabrielle.The Angel Gabrielle. Gabriel. Raphael. Angels.
THIRTY-FIVE
In Room 400 at the Hall of Justice, a funeral mood descended upon those watching GabrielleNunn’s abduction over and over again. In color, slow motion and reverse. Theysaw it on the same big-screen TV the homicide dicks used to watch ball games, DirtyHarry movies, and Dragnet reruns.
Vaughan Kreuger, a mechanic from Buffalo, wasvideotaping his four-year-old twins on the carousel with their mother whenGabrielle was taken from the playground. He volunteered his tape to a detectiveat the scene. Given the circumstances, the Kruegers didn’t want it.
Nancy Nunn wept. For her, it was a perverse ballet-thehorses, the rocker, the chariots carrying laughing children, safe children.
Nancy’s husband, Paul, and her friend Wendy Sloanewatched with her. Sharon Cook and Brenda Grayson, the two teens who sawGabrielle talking to a stranger, were also there. Watching beside them wasJanice Mason, a lip reader from Gold Bay Institute for the Hearing Impaired.Next to her, Beth Ferguson, the sketch artist, was making notes and outlines.Turgeon, Rust, Ditmire, Gonzales, Mikelson from General Works, Kennedy fromInvestigations, Chief of Inspectors Roselli, and a guy from the districtattorney’s office were among the group, hoping for a break.
Give us a lead, something. Anything.
Kreuger and his camera were at the opposite side ofthe carousel from Gabrielle and the stranger. It was difficult to see anythingexcept the strobe-like glimpses of swimming, formless color.
“Wait! I see her!” Gabrielle’s mother pinpointed thespot on the screen. The officer operating the VCR halted the tape, reversed itin freeze-frame mode, one frame at a time. Thirty seconds went by. Nothing butblurry people. Two grandmothers. Then strobe-style nothingness.Dark-light-dark-light-dark-light.
