by Rick Mofina
Turgeon, already angry at Sydowski for not telling herabout the hold-back note, barely concealed her surprise.
“All right.” Roselli gritted his teeth. “We’ll give ita couple days and make a full court press on the street to find Shook. We’llfreeze every undercover operation possible and we’ll hammer the streets untilthe fucker pops up. But if he goes to the press with this shit”-he nodded tothe intercepted note-“we’re fucked.”
“What’s the status on everything else?” Roselli said.
“We like Shook for Donner, but we have nothing to puthim to Becker and Nunn, except for the stuff today,” Mikelson said. “Nothingback yet on the blood on Nunn’s severed braids. Shook also matches the generaldescription of the suspect in Becker and Nunn. But it’s not enough.”
Inspector Randy Baker, a young, bright Berkeleygraduate, said they were using the bar code from the meat wrapper found at theNunn home to pinpoint the store where the hamburger used to lure Gabrielle’sdog was purchased.
“And we’re using the partial tag we have on thesuspect pickup, cross-referencing it with owner’s registration, driver’slicense pictures, and specifics to create a suspect pool,” Gonzales said.
“If that’s it”-Roselli rolled up his file on Shook andslapped it against the table-“Then make a goddamn arrest and clear this file.”
***
Turgeon was silent leaving the meeting. She didn’tutter a word, walking to the parking lot with Sydowski. But once he started theunmarked Chevy, something inside her ignited.
“Why, Walt?”
“I’m sorry, Linda.”
“But why? Do you know how humiliating that was? Do youhave any idea? I thought we were partners. I requested to work with you.”
“You weren’t my partner then. At the time, I waspretty well working Donner alone. I had to protect the integrity of the case. Inever meant to hurt you.”
“But you could’ve told me about the note in hermouth.”
Sydowski said nothing. What could he say? He was anarrogant Polish cocksucker and he knew it.
Turgeon turned away from him, letting the street andthe minutes roll by. “What the hell are your ‘hopeful leads,’ Walt?”
“Well, I’m still hoping for them.”
Turgeon smiled. “You are a son of a bitch.”
“I am.”
“Where you taking me, your prick?”
“We’re going to visit Kindhart, on the job in HuntersPoint.”
“Think we can squeeze anything more from him?”
“Maybe. If you offer him sex, he might give us VirgilShook.”
She rolled her eyes.
Kindhart was not happy to have two Homicide detectivesquestioning him at his job. He told them that Shook may be living in aTenderloin flophouse and hanging out at a shelter somewhere. Then he threatenedto call a lawyer if they didn’t stop harassing him.
“Either charge me, or stay the fuck out of my face.”
Sydowski and Turgeon returned to the Homicide Detail.The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had called with the names of two of Shook’sassociates in the Bay Area. They were new names that weren’t on his file. Theycame from a relative in Toronto.
As Sydowski talked on the phone with the Mountie fromOttawa, Turgeon read their messages. She went through them quickly. Routinestuff, so she set the batch down and opened Shook’s file. But something niggledat her. Did one message say something about evidence? Turgeon shuffled themagain. Here it was, from a Florence Schafer. Gaines had taken the call.
“Schafer says she has crucial evidence in one of yourmajor cases, Walt,” Gaines wrote. He ran Schafer’s name through the Task Forcehotline. Schafer had called three times before, according to the caller historyprintout Gaines attached to the latest note.
“Nutcase?” Gaines scrawled on the printout,underlining the passage where Schafer claims she heard Tanita Marie Donner’skiller confess to God at Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman CatholicChurch on Upper Market.
Hadn’t they just built a new soup kitchen there? Turgeonremembered something about it in the papers. She tapped Sydowski’s shoulder.And Catholics confess their sins. She should know. Turgeon tapped harder. Andthe FBI’s profile said the killer lived in a fantasy world that could bestimulated by religious delusions. Turgeon was now pounding Sydowski’sshoulder, forcing him to cover the telephone’s mouthpiece.
“Jeez, Linda, what is it?”
She held Florence Schafer’s messages before his face.
“Walt, I think we’ve got our lead.
FIFTY-ONE
The yellow ribbon affixed to Florence Schafer’s mailbox quivered in the Pacificbreezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her framehouse. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, theirgaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.
“Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.
“Yes.”
“I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “Thisis Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on acase?”
“May I see your identification?” Florence said. Shesaw their unmarked car parked on the street. None of her neighbors appeared atthe windows. Florence inspected their badges.
“Please come in.”
Turgeon took in the living room, raising her eyebrowsat Florence’s books. All were about crime. Sydowski went to Buster, who waschirping on his perch, preening his olive green plumage.
“He’s a beautiful Scotch Fancy,” he complimentedFlorence, accepting a china cup of tea and joining her on the sofa. She sat onthe edge so her feet could reach the floor.
“You know something about canaries, Inspector?”
“I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”
“It must be a relaxing hobby for a man in your line ofwork.”
“It can be.”
Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragranceof guest soap, reminding her of childhood visits to her grandmother’s home.Doilies under everything, even the King James Bible on the coffee table.Turgeon kept her tea on her lap. “Excuse me, Florence. I’m curious. Why so manycrime books?” she said.
“Oh yes, well crime is my hobby.” She smiled atSydowski. “May I please see your shield again, Inspector?”
Sydowski obliged her. It was obvious Florence washappy to have company. Too happy, maybe. Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged quickglances. They’d give this nutbar another five minutes.
Florence admired the shield with the city’s seal andmotto in Spanish. Oro en paz, fierro en Guerra. “Gold in peace. Iron inwar.” Florence said. “I know the city’s crest and motto. I’m a retired city taxclerk.”
“Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “Youcalled Homicide and said you heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess?”
“Yes, I did.” She returned Sydowski’s ID.
“You said you have evidence of that confession?”Sydowski said.
“Yes.”
“What sort?” Turgeon produced her notebook, but didn’topen it.
“He must never know it came from me. I’m afraid.”
“Who must never know?” Sydowski said.
“The killer.”
“We’ll keep it confidential,” he said. “What is yourevidence?”
“It’s on tape. I taped him confessing.”
Sydowski and Turgeon looked at each other.
“It’s on tape?” Sydowski was incredulous.
“I’ll play it for you. I have it ready.” Florence leftthe room to get it.
“Walt?” Turgeon whispered.
“I don’t fucking believe this.”
Florence returned with a micro-cassette tape recorder.She set it next to the Bible, turned the volume to maximum and pressed the playbutton. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices soundingotherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For thefirst few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he couldnot absolve him because
he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he wassorry, he should go to police and give himself up.
The killer remained lost in his own fantasy world.
“…we took her to a secret spot I know in theTenderloin. Oh how she screamed…Then we took her…”
Turgeon struggled with her composure as the killercheerfully detailed what he did to Tanita. She kept her head down, takingnotes, bile seeping up the back of her throat.
The priest was gasping, begging the killer tosurrender.
Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita MarieDonner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the detailsthe confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to therecounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Likethe missing pieces of a shattered glass doll, every aspect came together,matching the unknowns. This lead broke the case. But it came at a price. Thekiller’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy killGabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to thefamilies?
MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.
MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.
MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.
Was it a countdown? Were they going to find morelittle corpses?
The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him,her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years ofcynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought wasimpenetrable.
In death, she had become his child.
But sitting there in Florence Schafer’s living room,his face was a portrait of indifference, never flinching, never betraying hisbroken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that keptyou alive. The tape ended.
“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” hesaid.
I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his lastname.”
Turgeon was writing everything down.
“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snakeand flames. A white man, mid-forties, about six feet, medium build,salt-and-pepper beard, and bushy hair.”
“Where does he live?” Sydowski said.
“I don’t know.” Florence looked at Turgeon takingnotes, then at Sydowski. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she said,“Please, please, he must never know I’ve spoken to you. I’m afraid of him.”
“It will be okay, Florence,” Sydowski said. “Now, isthere anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch withVirgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”
Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the churchalmost daily, to the shelter.”
“At the shelter, does he mention the children, DannyBecker, Gabrielle Nunn? Talk about the news, that kind of thing?”
“Oh no.”
“Is he friends with anyone at the shelter?”
“Not really. He keeps to himself.” Florence sniffed.“Inspector, what if he has the other children with him? I pray for them. Youhave to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezedher tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around againsoon.”
Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was theright thing to do.”
Florence nodded. She was terrified.
“You are a good detective, Florence,” he whispered.
A warm, calm sensation came over her. Her search forthe meaning and purpose of her life had ended.
Buster chirped.
“May I use your phone?”
FIFTY-TWO
Some twenty-five miles south of San Francisco along Highway 1, Reed pulled into HalfMoon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling greenhills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochurefor heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gullsshrieking in the briny air.
He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippingsof Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratchedtheir heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half anhour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he hadtalked to earlier jogged up to him.
“Try Reimer,” she said.
“Who?”
“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter fordinosaurs. If anyone would remember that story, Reimer would.”
“Where do I find him?”
She glanced at her watch.
“Gloria’s on Main Street. Go there and ask for him.”
“Thanks.”
Reed was optimistic. He had to be on to something withKeller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to HalfMoon Bay, he had driven to Philo, where Keller’s wife, Joan, had grown up.After checking the old Keller mansion on Russian Hill and reading Joan’s diary,he figured it was a logical place to go. But no one he talked to in townremembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a clubsandwich at a Philo diner, it struck him that before heading for Half Moon Bay,he should stop at the cemetery. Maybe Joan was buried there.
The groundskeeper was a helpful gum-snappinguniversity student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into theduty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped throughthe cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CDheadset, it was quiet and soothingly cool. “All right.” He pulled a card,bobbing his head to his music and mumbling. “Section B, row two, plot eight. Farnorthwest edge, lots of shade.”
Keeping a vigil at the Keller gravesite was a hugewhite marble angel. Its face was a sculpture of compassion, its outstretchedwings protecting the polished granite headstone. Over Joan’s name and those ofher children Pierce, Alisha and Joshua, their birth and death dates, theepitaph read:
If angels fall,
I shall deliver them
And together we will
Ascend to Heaven
An icy shiver coiled up Reed’s spine. Inscribed nextto Joan and the children’s names was Edward Keller’s. His death date remainedopen. A fresh bunch of scarlet roses rested at the base of the headstone with anote reading: “Forever, love, Dad.”
Reed swallowed.
The ages of Danny Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Nunnmatched the ages of Joshua and Alisha Keller when they drowned.
Raphael and Gabriel were angel names.
If angels fall, I shall deliver them and togetherwe will ascend to Heaven.
This supported Molly’s theory. Had Keller carved hisplan in their headstone? Did Keller think Danny and Gabrielle were surrogateshe required for some twisted mission?
If he could just find Keller. Talk to him. Size up hisplace. He grabbed his cell phone and punched Molly Wilson’s extension in thenewsroom. He got her voice mail. He left a message.
They had to find Keller. And they didn’t have muchtime. Reed traced the gravesite roses to a Philo flower shop where Keller paidfor them. He was pulling up to Jack’s on Main Street in Half Moon Bay when hisphone rang. It was Wilson.
“Tommy, where the hell are you?”
“Half Moon Bay.” Trying to find a guy who may knowKeller. You have any luck locating Keller?”
“Zero. You’d better get back soon-something’s up onthe case.”
“What?”
“Nobody knows. It’s just the buzz going ‘round.”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got a small lead on Keller. Hebought flowers a few weeks ago for his family plot in Philo. He bought themthrough Elegant Florists in San Francisco. See if you can get an address forhim from the shop. Do it now, we’ve got to find him.”
“Sure, Tom. But you’d better get back here at warpspeed. The boss is wondering what you’re up to and I don’t think I can coverfor you much longer.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Gloria’s was a postcard-perfect seaside diner.Red-checked gingham covered the tables; the aroma of home cooking filled theair. Only a handful of customers
: two women, real estate agents judging fromtheir blazers, examined listings over coffee at one table; and a young coupleate hamburgers at another. Reed took the rumpled old salt, reading a newspaperalone at a window table, to be Reimer.
“Excuse me.” He stood before the man, keeping hisvoice low. “I’m looking for a gentleman named Reimer, who runs charter.”
“You found him.” Reimer had a friendly face. Reedhanded him his card, and explained that he needed help with an old drowningcase. He showed the old clippings to Reimer just as the waitress set amushroom-smothered steak sandwich and fries before him. After reading thearticles, Reimer removed his grease-stained cap and ran a hand through hiswispy white hair. “I’m listening, lad.” Reimer cut into his dinner.
Reed sat and was careful not to mention theabductions, telling Reimer how he met Keller for the bereavement group piece,and that it was vital he find him again for another story he was researching.
“’Fraid I can’t help you.”
“You don’t know this case?”
“Oh, I know it.” Reimer chewed. “Was here when ithappened. Terrible thing. They never found the children’s bodies and old EdKeller never got over it. Wife killed herself, you know.”
“How do you know that he never got over it?”
“Well”-Reimer chewed some more-“he comes here andhires me couple times a year to run him to the Farallons, the spot where theydrowned.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Reimer thought. “Couple months ago.”
“He say anything to you?”
“Never speaks.”
“Got any credit card receipts from him?”
“Always pays cash.”
“How long he been doing this?”
“Ever since it happened.”
“You know where he lives?”
Reimer shook his head.
“What does he do out there, when you get to the spot?”
“He drops a wreath of flowers and mutters to himself,things like how he’s going to bring them back. It’s sad.”
