If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  They needed more of their father, not more money.

  Reed thought of Ann and Zach.

  He flipped ahead to the tragedy, and was stunned byher final entry.

  “I can no longer live. The investigators say thechildren never had life jackets on, that Edward took them out, despite beingwarned of a storm coming. I blame him. I can never forgive him. Never. Itshould have been a joy for him, not a chore. He killed them! And he killed me!I hate myself for not realizing how vile he is, for trusting him with mychildren. They were never his! The bastard should have drowned, not them. Itshould have been him. Not my children. They are gone. They never found theirtiny bodies. He promises to bring them back. Rescue them. The fool. All hismoney cannot bring them back. I can’t live without my children. Pierce. Alisha.Joshua. I must be with them. I will be with them. I love you my littledarlings!”

  Those were her last words. Probably written in theattic.

  Reed closed the book. Stunned. It was Gothic.

  They never found their tiny bodies.

  He promises to bring them back.

  “Is the material helpful, Tom?”

  Eloise was sitting in a chair, patting her moist brow,drinking lemonade. Half in shadow, half in light, she looked like some kind ofsoothsayer oracle. Reed had been too engrossed to notice the half hour that hadpassed. “Uhm, sorry, yes! Eloise. It’s very helpful. Sorry to take so much ofyour time.” He stood.

  “Glad this old stuff is of use to someone.”

  “May I borrow this diary?”

  She cast her hand about the Kellers’ belongings. “Takewhatever you need and just call me if you want to look at anything again.”

  In thanking her, Reed gave her another business card.They laughed. He jotted down her number and left, clutching the book.

  Joan Keller’s diary contained a few revelations thatcould lead him to Keller. But it wouldn’t be easy and there wasn’t much time towork on them. The anniversary of the drownings was only days away.

  Once out of sight of the mansion, he trotted to hisold Comet.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Keller was following the path of his exalted mission.

  Pursuing the third angel. The conqueror of Satan.

  Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Snip. Snip. Snip.

  The doubters were closing in. Snip. Snip. And he stillfaced many obstacles in his final step to the transfiguration.

  He remained calm.

  I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

  The time has come to transform himself. Snip. Thedoubters had photographed his face and were searching for him. But he did notworry, trimming his hair, his beard, lathering his face. Soon all would knowhim as the enlightened one, the chosen one, anointed to reveal the celestialpromise of reunion with his children.

  Along his glorious path, he never challenged themysterious ways of deified love. Michael Jason Faraday was the third angel, orso he thought, until the nine-year-old Oakland boy had moved to London with hisfamily a few months ago. At first Keller could not understand it. He wascertain Faraday was the third angel. The signs were correct. His age, his birthday.Keller had studied him, kept a vigil. But before he could make contact, he wasgone.

  On the eve of the transfiguration, the third angelhad vanished.

  What was the message?

  It had to be a divine test of faith.

  Keller had remained steadfast. Like Christ in thedesert. He did not succumb to temptation, to doubt. God would light his path todestiny.

  And he did.

  A couple of weeks from the transfiguration, the mortalidentity of the true third angel was revealed to him. It took Keller some timeto absorb the holy sigh. It became crystalline a few days ago, during hismorning reading of the Scriptures. He now knew who the third angel was. He hadlittle time to find him.

  Keller finished shaving, then made a few phone calls,talking politely, jotting down notes. He put on a white shirt, tied, and suit,checked his old leather briefcase. It was empty except for one businesscard-that of Frank Trent, of Golden Bay Mutual Insurance. Trent was the man whohad handled the death claims for his children twenty years ago. Keller tuckedthe card in his breast pocket and took the briefcase with him before looking inon Gabriel and Raphael.

  Mid-afternoon. They were sufficiently sedated. Helocked the basement door, then the house, and walked into the brilliantsunlight, a well-dressed, respectable-looking businessman on a Holy Mission.After twelve blocks, he hailed a cab.

  Veronica Tilley yearned for her family and friends inTulsa.

  “I am a fish out of water here. A stranger in astrange land,” she would tell her husband, Lester.

  His face would crease into a smile. “Now, now, Ronnie.Just make an effort to experience the city, gather some memories. It’s only fortwo years. Hang on.”

  “Of course, I’ll hang on, Lester. What choice do Ihave? I am just telling you I miss Oklahoma. It doesn’t shake like California.”

  Lester’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll be home soon.”

  Veronica had agreed to Lester’s two-year transfer toSan Francisco because she realized he had to satisfy some deep-seated manlyneed. He’d devoted twenty-three years to his company, all of them in Tulsa. Theboys had gone off to college, and the middle-age jitters were getting to him.Younger managers did well by taking out-of-state postings. Lester had to provehe could run with the young bloods.

  But Veronica was lonely in San Francisco. She missedher position as secretary-treasurer of Tulsa’s Historical Society. She longedfor their house in Mapleridge, hated that they had to lease it and rent in SanFrancisco. For her, coming here was like going to outer space. Earthquakes.Weirdos. The other day on the Mission Street cable car, a man wearing a printdress, pearls, and rouge on his cheeks, sat beside her.

  Gawd. And now this. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled.

  Veronica was miffed. The couple who owned the housethey were renting had just informed them that they were going to move backafter ninety days. Ninety days! People didn’t do things like in Tulsa. Afterjust settling in, she and Lester had to find another house to rent. And in thismarket! Here she was running around, checking with agencies, newspapers,searching for a suitable place. Oh, she was glad the young couple hadreconciled. There was a little boy involved. But Veronica was also ticked. Shetold Lester they should talk to a lawyer, but he insisted it would be best ifthey found another place and let the young couple get on with their lives.

  Veronica circled one of her choices in theclassifieds: “Furnished. Alamo Sq. Restored 12rm Vict. Hot tub. View antiques,3 frplcs.” Must be heavenly because it sure was expensive. $3900.

  The doorbell rang.

  Veronica peeked through the curtain. A salesman ofsome sort was standing on her doorstep. He seemed harmless. She opened thedoor.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Frank Trent from Golden BayMutual.”

  “Yes…?”

  “I’m here for Mrs. Ann Reed.”

  “Ann Reed? Boy they don’t waste any time.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Talking to myself. Sorry, they haven’t moved backyet.”

  “I’m confused. This is the address for Ann Reed?”Keller knew the family had moved. And he knew the Lord would help locate the thirdangel. “The policies for her and her son, Zachary, have lapsed.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “I’m a new agent. I’ve yet to meet her and it’simperative I get her signature today on clause changes.” He tapped hisbriefcase.

  “We’re only renting their house. They’re moving backin ninety days. Why don’t I take your card and have her call you?”

  “That’s kind of you, but I will be out of town onbusiness for three weeks by this afternoon and I fear I may miss her. It’svital that I get her signature today.”

  Veronica studied the stranger. He seemed okay.

  “Do you have a card?”

  Keller reached into his breast pocket and handed herFrank Trent’s card. Veronica held it thoughtfully.

  “
Come in.”

  She went to the telephone table in the hall, flippedthrough her address book, punched in a number. The line rang and rang,unanswered.

  “Nobody’s home,” she said.

  “Well I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” Kellerfrowned.

  Veronica didn’t really want to give out Ann Reed’saddress in Berkeley, but she didn’t exactly feel beholden to her either. Whatthe hell? She copied Ann Reed’s address and number from her book.

  “There you go. Maybe you can reach her yourself, Mr.Trent.”

  Keller accepted the piece of paper and looked at itfor the longest time. Strange, Veronica thought, the way he just stared at it,like it was a winning lottery ticket. Finally, he looked her in the eye andsmiles with disturbing intensity.

  “God bless you,” he said. “God bless you.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Florence Schafer sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning papers. Herface turned ashen.

  The families, friends, and supporters of Danny Beckerand Gabrielle Nunn displayed yellow ribbons across the city on doors, carantennas, in shop windows, on trees, billboards, and in schools. Volunteers whoanswered phone tips and went door to door with MISSING-REWARD flyers wore themas arm bands. When they came to her house. Florence agreed to hang one from hermailbox. A group of mountain climbers affixed a giant yellow bow on the southspire of the Golden Gate. It was the manifestation of collective anguish andhope the children would come home alive. Consequently, the San Francisco presscalled the investigation “The Yellow Ribbon Task Force.”

  Days after Gabrielle’s kidnapping, the case remained frontpage news and the lead or second item of every local newscast. And when thePresident and First Lady offered sympathy to the families of “San Francisco’stragedy,” during a presidential visit to the city, Tanita Marie Donner, DannyBecker, and Gabrielle Nunn became household names across the country. Thenational press gave the story strong play.

  Florence placed The San Francisco Star flat onthe table and sighed. Her reading glasses fell from her face, catching on herchain, and she massaged her temples. The kettle screamed to a boil. Feeling theweight of the world on her shoulders, she made a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea.What was she going to do? She had to do something. The faces of Tanita MarieDonner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn beckoned from the paper. Buster, her budgie,chirped from his perch in his cage by the kitchen window.

  “What should I do, Buster? I’ve called the policethree times and no one has come to see me.”

  What had she done wrong? She had told the police sheheard Tanita Donner’s killer confess to God that he murdered her. She left hername and number. The last officer she talked to was like the others. He didn’tbelieve her, she could tell. He kept asking how old she was, did she livealone, and as a devout Catholic how often did she go to church, what kind ofmedication did she use? He thought she was an old kook. She knew. He doubtedher because she wouldn’t give him details or proof she heard the killerconfess.

  Now she had proof.

  Florence’s Royal Doulton teacup rattled on the sauceras she carried it to her book-lined living room. She found comfort in this roomwhere she enjoyed her crime books, but nothing in them had ever prepared herfor this. The real thing. She was scared.

  Time to check it, once more. She could only stand tohear a little bit. Florence picked up the cassette recorder, and pushed theplay button. The tape hissed, then Father McCreeny cleared his throat.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” heurged the person in the confessional.

  “It’s me again,” the killer said.

  “Why haven’t you turned yourself in? I implore you.”

  The killer said nothing.

  “Are you also responsible for the kidnappings of DannyBecker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

  Silence.

  “I beseech you not to harm the children, turn yourselfin now.”

  “Absolve me, priest.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You took an oath. You are bound. Absolve me.”

  “You are not repentant. This is a perverted game foryou. I do not believe you are truly sorry. There can be no benediction.”

  Silence. A long moment passed. When the killer spokeagain, his voice was softer. “Father, if I am truly repentant, will I receiveabsolution and the grace of Jesus?”

  McCreeny said nothing.

  “I need to know, Father. Please.”

  Silence.

  “Father, you do not understand. I had to kill her. Ihad to. She was an evil little prostitute. I had to do the things I did to herand the others. Their faces haunt me, but it is God’s work that I do. Franklinhelped me with Tanita. He was a Sunday school teacher. He knew the magnitude ofmy work. That’s why he helped me.”

  “God does not condone your actions. You misinterpretHis message and that is what brought you here. Please, I beg you, surrenderyourself. The Lord Jesus Christ will help you conquer your sins and preparedyou for life everlasting.”

  “We had to cleanse the little harlot of her impurities.We took her to a secret spot I know. Oh how she screamed. Then we-“

  Florence snapped the machine off and clasped her handsin her lap. She couldn’t bear another word. She had heard every horrifyingdetail before. She knew what she had to do now.

  She went to her clipping file and retrieved theyear-old article of Tanita Marie Donner’s case, staring at one of the newsphotos of SFPD Inspector Walt Sydowski. He was in the TV news footageyesterday, a member of the Yellow Ribbon Task Force. His face was warm,friendly, intelligent. He was a man who would understand. A man who knewTanita’s case, knew people. A man she could trust. She went to the phone andthis time, instead of calling the Task Force Hotline, she called the SanFrancisco Homicide Detail and asked for Sydowski.

  “He’s out now. Like to leave a message?” some hurriedinspector told Florence, taking her name, address, and telephone number.

  “Tell him I have crucial evidence in one of his majorcases.”

  “Which case? What kind of evidence?”

  “I will only talk to Inspector Sydowski.”

  Florence enjoyed a measure of satisfaction at being incontrol of her information. At last, she was being taken seriously.

  “He’ll get your message.”

  She sat in her living room, staring at the tape andsipping her tea. Again, she studied the news pictures of the children, theircherub faces. Florence now understood the purpose of her life and no longerfelt alone.

  FIFTY

  “They are mine, just like Tanita is mine in paradise. My little NUMBER ONE.” Theprinted words bled in blue felt tip across a news feature on theNunn-Becker-Donner case torn from The San Francisco Star. “MY LITTLENUMBER TWO”, covered the article’s photo of Danny; “MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE”,obscured Gabrielle’s face. The note was signed “SON OF THE ZODIAC” and wasaccompanied by a Polaroid of Tanita Marie Donner on his lap. A picture no onehad seen before.

  The items were sealed in a plastic evidence bag whichSpecial FBI Agent Merle Rust slid to Sydowski at the top of the emergency taskforce meeting at the Hall of Justice.

  Sydowski slipped on his glasses; his stomach waschurning.

  “It was intercepted this morning by U.S. PostalInspectors,” Rust said. “We just got word they caught an identical one forNunn’s parents an hour ago.”

  “We’re lucky the families haven’t seen these,” Turgeonsaid.

  “He send copies to the press?” Inspector Gord Mikelsonsaid.

  “We suspect he hasn’t,” Special FBI Agent LonnieDitmire said. “No confirmation calls.”

  Rust watched Sydowski crunch on a Tums tablet.

  “What do you make of it, Walt? You know the file-is ithim?”

  “It’s him.”

  “What makes you certain?” Ditmire said.

  “the hold-back is a neatly folded note in bluefelt-tip pen that he left in Tanita Marie Donner’s mouth. I told nobody aboutit.

  “Gonna tell us what it said, Walt?
” Rust opened hisnotebook.

  “’My little number one.’”

  Someone at the table muttered: “Fucking serial.”

  “Any trace evidence on the note, Walt?” Rust asked.

  The note was clean.

  “Tanita Marie Donner’s mother got one of these Son ofZodiac things?” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales unwrapped a cigar.

  “So far, no,” Ditmire said. “It was mailed three daysago at a box near the BART station at the Coliseum in Oakland.”

  “Ain’t that a fucking coincidence?” Gonzales lit hiscigar.

  “We’ll send this stuff to the lab for prints and saliva.”Rust tapped his Skoal canister on the table. “I would say it’s Virgil Shook.We’ve all read his Canadian file. His history gives him a pattern and hematches the profile. You agree, Walt?”

  Sydowski nodded. The new Polaroid, the reference to“ MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE,” the article from the Star. It was Shook.

  “Why haven’t we found him?” Nick Roselli, chief ofInspectors, closed his folder of Shook’s file.

  “We’ve got people on that; we’re pushing streetsources hard. We’ll get him, Nick.” Gonzales clamped hard on his cigar.

  “Better be goddamn now, Leo. The mayor’s office andthe commission are chewing new assholes for us.” Roselli’s gaze went round thetable. “If he grabs another kid before we have him, this city will neverforgive us.”

  “Why don’t we splash him? Call a news conference andsplash Shook’s face to the world,” Ditmire suggested.

  “He’ll disappear if we do that,” Sydowski said. “Hewants to play games like his hero. He’s going to stick around to see what wedo. If we can buy a few days, just a few days to find him-I’ve got a fewhopeful leads.”