by Rick Mofina
“What do you make of it all?”
Reimer scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble, hisleathery, weather-weary face creased. “Tom, I’ve run charter in the Pacific allmy life and I’ve seen a lot of strange things. But I never seen anything likeEd. Can’t let go of the past, can’t accept that what’s done is done and ain’tnothing he can do. But you know something?”
“What’s that?”
“He thinks otherwise. Thinks he can change history. Ithink he’s got some kind of plan percolating in his mind.”
“What makes you believe that?” Reed’s cellular phonetrilled. “Excuse me.” He fished it from his pocket.
“Tom, hustle your ass back here!”
“Molly, did you get Keller’s address?”
“He bought the flowers with a check through a Fargobank. I’m outside the branch across from the paper. I went in, said I was hisdaughter, making a fifty-dollar deposit into his account for his birthday. Theytook the money. I asked if their records showed his ‘new’ address. Teller saidthe address they had was a P.O. box.”
“Nice try.”
“Wait, the teller said I should check Keller’s branch,which is near Wintergreen Heights. At least we can put him there. But it mightnot matter now.”
“Why?”
“Rumors are flying that the task force has a suspect.”
“Is it our guy, Molly?”
“Damned if I know. No one has a name or anything. Justget back here! Something’s going to break on this, I can just feel it!”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
“One more thing, your wife called from Chicago. She andZach are arriving earlier then she planned. She wants you to pick them up.American, ten A.M., tomorrow.”
Reed thanked Reimer as he slipped the phone into hispocket and stood to leave. Then he remembered something. He reached into hisbreast pocket for two small stills of the blurry home video of suspect inGabrielle Nunn’s abduction.
“You recognize that guy?”
“These are from those kidnappings in the city. Seen‘em on TV.”
“Look like anybody you know?”
Reimer studied the pictures, shaking his head.
“Does it look like Keller?”
“Could be anybody.”
Reed nodded and took the pictures back. “I’m sorry,you mentioned something about Keller having a plan.”
“Right, well, Ed is drowning in his grief and guilt.It’s obvious. Well, when we return from the charter, he told me the time hadcome to buy his own boat.”
“Why?”
Reimer sucked through his teeth and shrugged. “Ifigured it was so he could take himself out there whenever he wanted like Itold him. You know, he’s never driven a boat since that night?”
“That’s it?”
“I guess. ‘Cept he kept muttering about destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“Yup. Said he needed a boat for destiny.”
“That’s all he said?”
Reimer nodded, staring hard at Reed. “You think hegrabbed those kids from the city, don’t you?”
Reed put two five-dollar on the table. “Who knows?Thanks for your time. I’ve got to get going.”
Reed barely noticed the drive to downtown SanFrancisco. The epitaph from the Kellers’ headstone was stuck in his head, likea nursery rhyme…If angels fall.
FIFTY-THREE
Molly Wilson stood at The San Francisco Star Building’s side entrance,tapping her notebook against her thigh, watching the parking lot until shespotted Reed and ran to him.
“Tom! Don’t go upstairs! It’s Benson.”
“What about him?”
“I’ve never seen him like this. He’s pissed at you.”
“Where’s the news in that? The man hates me.”
“He’s white hot like he was last year over Donner.”
Reed stared at her. “What going on up there, Molly?”
“He wants to know what you are working on, where youare.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No. I did the best I could to cover. I told him youwere checking a lead on a suspect in the kidnapping. It seemed to work. Henever asked about you after that. That was yesterday.”
“You didn’t mention Keller?”
“No, I told you.”
“Okay, then what?”
“Today the rumors are flying from the hall that thetask force definitely has a suspect and Benson asked me about it. I didn’t knowanything, nobody at our place knew anything. You know anything?”
Reed knew nothing new. He was busy chasing EdwardKeller.
“When I told Benson we didn’t know about the suspectrumors, he went ballistic. He was furious that no one knew where you were. Hetried to find you, started calling people. When he got nowhere, it wasstraitjacket time. He wants to see you.”
Reed swallowed.
“Tom, I did the best I could. I’m sorry.”
“Where are you going now?”
“He’s kicked me over to the hall to chase the suspectrumors.”
Wilson removed her keys from her bag, then touchedReed’s shoulder. “Remember, Tom, he’s not like us. He’s not human. Keep repeatingthat to yourself and don’t let him get to you.”
Reed glanced up at the building. “He wants me fired,Molly.”
Myron Benson gestured sharply at Reed through theglass walls of his office. He wanted Reed to enter.
“Shut the door.” Benson said.
Reed sat at the round polished table across fromBenson. The table, like Benson’s office, was clutter free. He was studying afile, his clean-shaven face was like silly putty, and his fine web of vanishinghair accentuated his huge ears. The edges of his mouth curled into a smirk ashis rodent-like eyes fixed on Reed.
“Your recent personnel file is a horror story. You arejust not the reporter you used to be, Tom.”
Benson’s condescending tone brushed over Reed’spent-up animosity, like a hair caressing a detonator.
Benson was bureaucratic ballast who, years ago, walkedinto the Star off the street and passed himself off as an up-and-comingreporter to an old editor, who hired him and died two weeks later. Benson hadto ask other reporters how to spell words like “sheep”, “equal”, and “idiot”.One day he could not find Seattle on a U.S. map and wondered aloud if anyoneknew San Francisco’s area code.
Facts that could never be confirmed began surfacing inBenson’s copy. When he learned the paper was going to fire him, he stole a tipcalled in for another reporter and broke a major story about police corruption,to which the other reporters were assigned to help. The Star’spublisher, Amos Tellwood, congratulated Benson personally on his “fine, finework”. Benson parlayed the old man’s favor and was soon a regular guest at theTellwood estate in Marine County. He began dating Tellwood’s only child andheiress, his daughter, Judith. She was an awkward woman, so neglected by herfamily that she immediately fell in love with Benson. He acknowledged herexistence and she guaranteed his at the Star by marrying him. He hadthree children and several promotions by her.
Every newsroom has at least one Myron Benson, aneditor who not only knows little of what is happening on the streets of hiscity, but would be lost on them. Benson rarely read his own product; it taxedhis attention. Often, he suggested story ideas that he unconsciously took fromoverheard newsroom conversations about pieces the Star had already run.And when he came up with an original story angle, it was a jaw dropper.
Life for Benson was a daily commute in his Mercedesfrom his seven-bed home in Marine, across the Golden Gate, to the paper.
The only thing looming over his blissful existence wasthe Star’s shame over the Tanita Marie Donner-Franklin Wallace story.That shame was embodied in Tom Reed, but to fire him over Wallace would bepublic admission that Benson had mismanaged the matter and that the Star’sstory was wrong. It would be detrimental to the paper’s credibility. But tofire Reed for another reason, one solid enough for which he had no grounds fora wrongful dism
issal suit, would eliminate the storm clouds over Benson’s sunnylife and please the old man.
In the few seconds Benson eyed Reed, he realized thathe might finally have him by the balls.
“Where have you been for the last two days, Tom?”
“Researching the Becker-Nunn kidnappings.”
“Have you?”
“You assigned me to it. You wanted to see where ‘theabduction thing was going,’ remember?”
“I did. And I specifically said I wanted straight-upreporting from you. So where have you been and what kind of research have youbeen doing?”
“Chasing down leads.”
Benson looked at Reed, letting the seconds pass.
“I understand that you’ve been all over NorthernCalifornia on the paper’s time following a tip.”
“Yes. That’s what you pay me for.”
“Is it the suspect the task force has in its sights?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know because you haven’t been around.”
“I believe the lead I have is solid.”
“Do you? Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I needed to check a few things first.”
“Sounds like you were enterprising, Tom, following atheory.”
“No, I just needed to check-“
Benson’s fist came down on the table. “Enoughbullshit!”
A few people near enough to hear stopped working,staring briefly at Benson’s office.
“I told you that I don’t give a good goddamn aboutyour hunches on this story!”
Reed said nothing.
“I told you I want nothing more from you thanstraight-up reporting, yet you go off like some rogue contravening my orders.Now tell me right now why I should not fire you!”
Reed did not answer him.
“We know what happened that last time you followed oneof your goddamn theories on an unsolved case, don’t we? It cost this paper aquarter of a million fucking dollars! You are just not worth it, Reed. Now tellme why I should not fire you.”
“Because I think I know who took Danny Becker andGabrielle Nunn.”
“You think you know?” Benson rolled his eyes. “Justlike you knew who murdered little Juanita Donner.”
“Tanita.”
“Who?”
“Her name was Tanita Marie Donner.”
“What the fuck do you know, then? Who is your suspect,Reed? Tell me!”
“I’m not absolutely certain yet that he’s the-“
“Tell me now, or I’ll fire you on the spot!”
Reed digested the threat.
He was tired. So tired. Tired from driving to Philoand Half Moon Bay. Tired of fighting the Bensons in this world. Tired of thebusiness. Tired of his life. He reached into his worn briefcase and pulled outhis dog-eared file on Edward Keller. He told Benson everything he knew aboutKeller and showed him the photos the paper secretly took at the bereavementgroup. Benson compared them to the blurry stills from the home video atGabrielle Nunn’s Golden Gate party. After Benson took in everything, he leanedback in his chair and set his plan in motion.
“Give me a story saying Edward Keller is the primesuspect.”
“What?”
“I want it today.”
“You can’t be serious. We’re still trying to findhim.”
Benson was not listening. “We’ve got those grief grouppictures. We’ll run them against those blurry police-suspect photos. It’ll bedramatic for readers.”
“But those pictures were taken surreptitiously.”
“What the fuck do we care? You’ve got him pegged as achild-killer. For all we know, he’s the prime target of the task force.”
“But I need more time.”
“You’ve wasted enough. Now get busy. I want thirtyinches. You send the story to me and see me before you leave. Is thatunderstood?”
“I think this is wrong.”
“You don’t think. You do what I fucking tell you.”
He struggled to keep from telling Benson what aworthless little man he was. The words seethed on his tongue, but he clampedhis jaw firmly and left the office.
Resign, he toldhimself.
Reed sat before his computer terminal and logged on. Quiton the spot. Benson was making him walk the plank, setting him up to befired. End it all now. But conflicting emotions pinballed in his brain.Keller was the guy, wasn’t he? What about the two abducted children? Maybe heshould call Sydowski. Right, if he needed more abuse, Sydowski was the man tocall. Reed kicked everything to the back of his mind and began writing whatBenson ordered.
Two hours later, he knocked on Benson’s open officedoor. Benson was on the phone and clamped his hand over the mouth piece.
“Done?”
“You have it on your desk now.”
“Wait right there, I’ve got Wilson at the Hall ofJustice.”
Reed waited.
“Okay, Molly, yes…” Benson scribbled on a notepad.“Yes, anything beyond that?…Uh-huh. Okay good, keep us posted.”
Benson hung up. “Wilson’s sources at the hall say thetask force has a prime suspect under surveillance somewhere right now.”
“You want me to help?”
“No. I want you to get the hell out of here and don’tcome back until I call you personally. You are now on indefinite suspension.”
Reed said nothing, and turned to leave.
“By the way,” Benson said. “Your employment herehinges on the integrity of the story you just wrote.”
Walking to his old Comet in the parking lot, itoccurred to Reed that he had a few things to be grateful for. Edward Keller didnot have a widow to slap Reed’s face, nor any children to scowl at him.
On his way to the rooming house at Sea Park, he wouldstop at Harry’s Liquor Store for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee SippingWhiskey.
He realized he had just been fired.
FIFTY-FOUR
The smell of hot food wafted from the basement windows of Our Lady Queen ofTearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on Upper Market. Turgeon was talking onher cellular phone to an SFPD dispatcher who was directing four marked radiocars to the area.
“Tell them to take up compass points a block back, outof sight of the church.” She trailed Sydowski and Florence Schafer down thestairs through a rear metal door.
They came upon the kitchen, steamy and noisy with adozen volunteers grappling trays of food, dodging each other.
“Louey!” Florence called over the din. “He’s thekitchen boss.” Louey wiped a cleaver on his stained apron. He was in histhirties, had a three-day growth of beard, and the bleary eyes of an A.A.candidate. Florence introduced the inspectors saying they were looking forsomebody and everything was fine.
“How many exits to the basement here, Louey?” Sydowskisaid.
Three: the back, the front,”-Louey pointed to a farcorner with the cleaver-“and that stairway to the sacristy.”
“Thanks.”
“Anybody I know?” Louey said.
“Who?”
“The guy you are looking for.”
Sydowski glanced at Florence, who put her hand onLouey’s arm.
“You don’t know him. He’s one of my old friends. Theinspector just wants his help.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“We’ll let you in on it a little later,” Sydowski toldhim. Louey went back to work.
Sydowski went to the kitchen door to check the layout.It was like a bingo hall with two sections of row upon row of long tablesdivided by a middle aisle. A fire marshal’s certificate near the door put thecapacity at four hundred. Supper had begun. Less than two dozen people wereseated and eating. A few hundred more were queued at the serving tables at thekitchen end of the hall. Volunteers dished up meals and encouragement.
Sydowski decided to give it some time. He and Turgeonknew Virgil Shook’s general description and his tattoos. In a few minutes theywould join the volunteers casually walking the hall.
“If
he’s out there today, we’ll have the uniformscover the exits. Linda and I will take him quietly while he’s eating.” Sydowskiremoved his tie and suggested Turgeon let her hair down. “We don’t want to looktoo obvious.”
Barney Tucker, a retired diesel mechanic and devoutCatholic, greeted the shelter’s “guests” at the door, his stomach expanding thewords: JESUS IS LOVE on his T-shirt. Barney clasped his big hand warmly overVirgil Shook’s as Shook passed by with the others making their way to theserving table.
“Nice to see you friend,” Barney said.
Shook ignored him, breathing in the aroma of turkey,beef, peas, corn, tomato soup, baked potatoes, fresh buns, and coffee.Sustenance, sanctuary, and pity from the pious. The God bless yous blended withthe tinkling of cutler as the holy ones tended their miserable flock. Contemptslowly painted Shook’s face. He battled the urge to scream: Do you know whoI am? If they knew, they would bend their knees.
Shook’s migraines had started again. Cranium quakes.Aching in his head, his groin. Fuck, it hurt. He needed to love again. It hadbeen too long. So long. He searched the hall for someone. Maybe that littletemptress from Nevada? Daisy of the incredible blue eyes. He couldn’t find her.Fuck. The food line passed the cardboard donation box and he deposited anickel.
Turgeon patrolled the far aisle, carrying a plate of freshbuns, wishing she were in jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a blazer-skirtcombo. She did her best, smiling, scouring exposed arms for tattoos and facesfor features matching Shook’s composite.
She stifled a yawn. She had not been sleeping well. Atnight, lying alone in bed, she was attacked by fear for Gabrielle Nunn andDanny Becker. She could not switch off Shook’s confession. They had to bringthis all to an end. Were they too late?
A possibility jumped at Sydowski as he went from tableto table, topping glasses with a pewter pitcher of milk. If they spotted Shook,spotted him clean with Shook making them, then maybe they could hold offgrabbing him so they could surveil him. He might lead them to the children. Ifthey were still alive. He might lead them to evidence. They could also, losehim. He could abduct another child. It was a risk Sydowski weighed, studyingthe line that reached from the serving table to the door, searching fortattoos, the right body type and face. He constantly checked to be sure hissports jacket was buttoned so his gun was unseen. He concentrated, taking stockof the hall, the exits. How fast could he make them if Shook bolted? What wouldhe do?
