If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  The van’s side door rolled open.

  Anyone watching with a modicum of interest would haveseen a very serious, professional-looking man of authority stepping from hisnew van to attend to an important business matter. If they guessed he was acop, they would be right, Keller would tell them confidently if pressed. For inhis beast pocket he carried the leather-cased laminated photo ID and shield ofRandall Lamont, special investigator for the State of California, a personalityhe had created after sending fifteen bucks to a mail-order house thatadvertised in the back of a detective magazine.

  But Keller knew no one was watching, or cared.

  Except God.

  And He was lighting the way.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  “Inspector Turgeon? Inspector Sydowski?”

  “Yes,” Turgeon said.

  Professor Kate Martin stepped from the door of hercondo, indicating two sofas facing each other over a glass-and-rattan coffeetable, the centerpieces of her living room overlooking the Golden Gate andPacific. A hint of hyacinths lingered.

  Although she was barefoot in Levi’s and along-sleeved, ratty flannel shirt, Martin moved with the swanlike elegance of aself-assured woman. But Sydowski’s deeper reading picked up the unease in hereyes. Her hair, pulled back with a navy barrette, was loosening. She corralledthe wild strands slipping in front of her face, revealing bright white flecks onher hands. She folded her arms across her chest. “I was painting a bookcasewhen you called.”

  Turgeon and Sydowski saw the file folders stacked onthe coffee table. Martin had obviously stopped painting to scour through them.

  “Sit down, please. Be comfortable. I’ve made someraspberry tea. Would you care for some? I have coffee, too, if you like?”

  “Tea would be fine,” Turgeon said.

  “And Inspector Sy-DOW-ski? I hope I’m pronouncing itcorrectly?”

  “You are. No tea for me, thanks.” Then he thought ofsomething as she started for the kitchen. “Dr. Martin?”

  She stopped and smiled.

  “By chance, would you have any Tums?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I do have Alka-Seltzer.”

  “That’ll do, thanks.”

  The chicken sandwich Sydowski had inhaled during thebriefing was jitterbugging through his system. It nearly burned a hole in hisstomach during the drive over as Turgeon read aloud, for the second time, everyword of the article the Star had recently published on Martin’sbereavement research study.

  The Homicide Detail’s secretary had clipped the story,“as per the lieutenant’s instructions”. Leo was a pain that way about the localpapers. Anything with the word “murder” in it activated her scissors. But whatwith the Yellow Ribbon Task Force working a green light, Gonzales never got aroundto reading this one. And Sydowski, a scrupulous reader of crime stories, missedit. When he approached Gonzales immediately after the FBI’s profiler went onabout the bad guy suffering psychological pain involving children, Gonzalesordered the secretary to get the story.

  It was written by Tom Reed.

  “First he fucks us up on the Donner file — what thehell is it with this guy? Flora, can you make some copies of this please?”

  Leo’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened on his unlitcigar as Sydowski told him how Reed had tiptoed up to him after the newsconference on the Nunn abduction, after seeing the fuzzy video and composite.How he hinted about recognizing the bad guy.

  “This is a huge goddamn lead, Walt! You and Linda findthe proof and see if anyone in her group fits the FBI’s profile.”

  Sunlight probed the prismatic crystal glass of fizzingantacid Martin set before him. When she offered imported Scottish shortbreadcookies, Sydowski had to restrain himself from unloading on her about thegravity of their visit. Lady, this ain’t a fucking tea party.

  Martin had priceless information and Sydowski wantedit. With two children missing, and most likely dead, he and their parents had aright to it. He was here to claim it. He swallowed some Alka-Seltzer, grittedhis teeth, and nodded to the files.

  “Are you prepared to help us, Doctor?”

  Turgeon left her tea untouched and produced hernotepad.

  “Yes. After we talked on the phone, I reviewed thefiles of my research subjects and I think, uhmmm, I think … uhm, I think oneman may, uhm — I’m sorry.”

  Martin was coming apart. She stared mournfully at thefiles, gripping her knees. Her eyes were glistening when she tried to speakagain. She was stunned with embarrassment. Fear.

  “I’m concerned about patient-client confidentiality.”

  “But you’re not their doctor?” Turgeon said.

  “Yes, but I entered into an agreement with eachsubject for the research. They all volunteered.”

  “Doctor, does the profile suggested by the FBI fit oneof your subjects?” Sydowski tapped the files. ‘We can get a warrant.”

  Martin looked at Turgeon and Sydowski, her eyesdrowning in the whirlpool that engulfs a person once they learn that a darkforce dwells under the skin of a person they thought they knew. Sydowski hadseen that look break on the faces of a killer’s family as they struggled withshame, remorse.

  It was heartbroken, pleading:

  Please don’t judge us.

  How could we have missed it?

  What could we have done?

  Their anguish consumed them as if they had helpedplunge the knife, squeeze the trigger, or tighten the ligature. They were yokedwith blame and pain, becoming the murderer and the victim, condemned to die apiece at a time for the rest of their lives.

  Eyes downcast, Martin cleared her throat, touched herface with the back of her hand. She grasped the top file, retrospectivelyflipping through the yellow pages of her handwritten notes.

  “This is my file on Edward Keller. He participated inmy research. He was a walk-in. His is the most unusual case of prolonged griefreaction I’ve ever experienced, evolving into stages of delusion.”

  “Doctor, please,” Sydowski said. “Does the profile fithim?”

  Martin swallowed. “Like a tailor-made suit.”

  It only took a few minutes for her to recount Keller’scase history and everything she knew about him: his fantasies, his religiousdelusions, how he reacted suspiciously to Tom Reed when he arrived to write onthe bereavement group, how Keller demanded not to be photographed or identifiedbefore ultimately storming out.

  Turgeon took notes. Sydowski steepled his fingers andlistened.

  “You ever fear he would act out his delusions?”Sydowski said.

  Martin shook her head, burying her face in her hands.“I’ve read the papers, watched the TV news on the abductions. I’ve seen thegrainy video of the suspect, the composite sketch. Once, for a second, Ithought there was a resemblance to Edward, but I dismissed it. I never thoughtin those terms. I never thought, I — ”

  “Don’t beat yourself up.” Sydowski began readingKeller’s file.”

  “It’s subconscious denial. I counsel people who dothis.”

  “Where do we find him?” Sydowski asked.

  “I don’t know. The number and the address he gave meare invalid.” Martin fished Keller’s personal information sheet from the filefor Sydowski. “I just never made the connection, never grew suspicious. Thesigns were evident. I knew he needed extensive help. I suggested it him. Howdid I miss … how could I … the people I am studying have lost children … Inever — ”

  Turgeon clasped Martin’s shoulder. “No one could haveknown. Stop thinking about yourself and start thinking about everything you cantell us about Edward Keller. I’ll have Bob Hill, the FBI’s psychologicalprofiler, come here immediately to consult you.”

  “Certainly.”

  “May I use your phone?” Sydowski stood, graspingKeller’s file.

  Martin nodded toward the kitchen.

  When he was alone dialing Leo’s direct line. Sydowskibelched. He felt much better. The line rang once.

  “Homicide. Gonzales.”

  “Leo, it’s Sydowski. I got a name.” He was browsi
ngthrough Keller’s file.

  “So do I, Walt.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We just got a hit on the prints from the new bills inthe truck buy and the meat tray from the Nunn home. Belong to an Edward Keller.Seems twenty-odd, nearly thirty years ago, he was bonded as a night securityguard for a warehouse in the city. Got his blood type, too. It matches thetrace we found on Nunn’s severed braids. We don’t have a good address forKeller yet. We’ve put the entire task force on him. What name do you have?”

  Same one: Edward Keller.”

  “No shit! You got an address for him, Walt?”

  “Not yet, but get this: he lost his three children ina boating accident twenty years ago. Two boys and a girl. The ages of DannyBecker and Gabrielle Nunn match the ages of two of them.”

  “That’s two. That means he’s got to take a third kid.”

  “Right. A boy, age nine.”

  “And he was in that group Reed wrote about?”

  “Yes, Leo.”

  “Shit, Walt, get ahold of Tom Reed. See if the Starhas pictures, an address on Keller, anything.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The hobby shop was small, its two rows of shelves were crammed with model ships,racing cars, fighters, rockets, trains, landscapes, paints, and brushes. Aneagle-sized P-51 Mustang was suspended in a dive by fishing line tacked to theceiling. Soaring near it was a British Spitfire, a Japanese Zero, and a Messerschmitt.The air was pungent with plastic, balsa wood, and airplane glue.

  A sixty-year-old man, with thick sideburns drifting tohis jaw, a Caesar’s crown of white hair, and horn-rimmed bifocals, washunched over the glass counter, tinkering with a dragster. The two inches ofash on the Marlboro hanging from his pursed lips was dangling perilously overthe cockpit. His bowling-ball gut strained the buttons on his stained shirtwhen he straightened to eye the ID and shield of Randall Lamont.

  “I’m looking for a boy, about ten years old, blondhair, backpack, sneakers. He was seen in this area within the last half hour.”Keller’s face was somber behind his dark glasses.

  The old man dragged hard, squinted through a smokycloud and nodded to the corner. “Could be the fella you want, drooling over theKitty Hawk there. He just came in.” The man coughed. “Anything to dowith that gang shooting in Oakland?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.” Kellersnapped his ID shut. He went to boy, who was kneeling before the bottom shelfand a huge boxed model of and aircraft carrier.

  Keller crouched next to him. “Are you Zachary MichaelReed?”

  Zack’s gaze darted over him, blinking before henodded.

  “Your mother is Ann Reed and your father is Tom?”

  Zach was suspicious. What was this? Who was this guy?Was this because he ran away? Was he one of those school cops Dad used to tellhim about, the kind that chased runaway kids?

  “It’s all right. I’m Randall Lamont, a statedetective.” The man reached inside his jacket and showed him his badge.

  A detective?

  “I’m a friend of your dad’s. He’s a reporter with the Star.We’re friends from way back. I live in Berkeley.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not at all.” Keller dropped his voice in aconfidential tone. “Zach, your dad sent me to find you. We’ve got a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “It’s your mom.” Keller put his hand on Zach’sshoulder. “She’s had an accident.”

  “What? So fast? How could — I just left.”

  “Your dad went with her in the ambulance. I livenearby and he called me to find you.”

  “Wha — I - what happened?” His voice was trembling.“Is she — ”

  “Tell you on the way. You have to come with me to thehospital.”

  Zach grabbed his pack. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I’ll tell you all I know on the way, son.”

  They left the store, hurrying to Keller’s rental van.Zach froze when he recognized it. It was the same van he had seen parked nearhis grandma’s for the past couple of days. The guy unlocked the passenger doorand swung it open. Zach didn’t like those sunglasses. Wasn’t he the guy had seenhanging around down the street? Something didn’t feel right. But didn’t he sayhe lived down the street? Still something didn’t feel right.

  “Why didn’t grandma come find me?”

  “She’s on her way to the hospital, Zach.”

  “Well, how did you know where to find me?”

  “I saw the direction you left in just before your dadcalled me.”

  A distant siren sounded his dad’s warning aboutstrangers.

  Never go with a stranger, no matter how smooth theirline is. They may say I’m hurt, or Mom’s hurt, or there’s some emergency. Theycan make it sound real bad. And they’ll be the nicest people — they won’t looklike creeps. Trust your instincts. If you don’t know the person then don’t go,Zach. Don’t go!

  “Are you scared because you don’t know me, Zach?”

  That was it. But Zach didn’t know how to say thetruth. He looked at his feet, agonizing about his mom.

  The man removed his sunglasses and smiled. A friendlysmile.

  “Tell you what son, we can go back to the store, callthe hospital and leave word for your dad or grandmother to come for you. I’llwait with you if you like?”

  Zach looked at him. “All right.”

  Keller patted Zach’s head and they started back to thestore. No problems, no protest, which led Zach to conclude, this guy was forreal. A bad guy would not take you back. He’d try some scam to get you in tohis car while he had you on the street. He’d never take you back.

  Zach stopped. “I changed my mind.”

  “You’re sure, son?”

  He nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

  Keller bent down, eye to eye with him.

  “It may be her heart. She collapsed after you left. Iguess she managed to get hold of your dad.”

  Zach’s chin crumpled. “A heart attack?”

  Keller put his hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know.Your dad didn’t tell me any more than that. We should get to the hospital, ifyou still want me to take you.”

  He did.

  “I think it’s my fault,” Zach mumbled, bowing his headto sob as he let Keller help him into the van and buckle his seatbelt.

  “The whole thing with my mom and dad is my fault.”

  Keller climbed behind the wheel, slipped on his darkglasses, turned the ignition, felt the engine come to life with gloriousvictory, and pulled away.

  Zach had drawn his knees to his chest, hiding his faceon them under his arms, crying softly. Keller stole glimpses as he drove southon Interstate 80 to Oakland.

  He radiates with the light of one million suns.

  His face buried, Zach did not know where they weretraveling. “Is she going to die?” He sniffled from under his arms.

  Keller did not answer. They approached the Bay Bridge.

  “Mister, is my mom going to die?”

  The new van hummed silently, save for the tires — rhythmicallyclicking along the freeway. Keller touched Zach’s shoulder.

  Heaven’s warrior.

  Keller kept his eyes forward. “What is it like to lookupon the face of God?”

  Zach recoiled.

  “Serpent slayer, chief of Heaven’s army.”

  Zach’s mind gathered speed, his eardrums pounded intime with his beating heart, for suddenly he knew. He knew what happened.

  Kidnapped. He had been kidnapped by a psycho.

  “You are my light and my salvation.” Keller smiled. “Ipraise you, beloved of God.”

  As the van moved west along the upper deck of thespectacular bridge to San Francisco, Keller reached under his seat for theplastic bag and the chloroform-soaked cloth.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Some days,when the mid-afternoon sun hit it just right, the Bay Bridge glowed like a portalto paradise. For an instant, its majestic span and spires changed from flatsilver to a surreal whi
te against the blue-green waters of the Bay a fewhundred feet below.

  Today, its beauty was lost on Tom Reed. For him, thebridge had become a tangible span of despair between everything he had donewrong and the futility of his future. It was his third crossing, and with eachtrip, his emotional freight increased, unraveling the worn thread by which hislife was swinging. Reed was rushing east on the lower deck and wondering howmuch more crap a man was supposed to stomach in one day.

  His marriage lay in ruin, he was fired from his job,he was an alcoholic, or on his way to becoming one. He had caused the suicideof an innocent man and very nearly accused another. And now Zach pulls a firstand funs away. Nine years old and he takes off.

  Could it get any worse?

  Sunlight strobed through the bridge’s steel girders.Reed glanced over his left shoulder at San Francisco’s skyline, then at themesmerizing whitecaps below. Why not end it all? He had considered it when hearrived at his room in Sea Park after the blowup with Ann. It was a dumb-assnotion, supplanted by his need to get into his room and reacquaint himself withJack Daniel’s. Lila had not returned. So, he kicked the door. It opened withlittle damage on his second try. He’d pay for that move when Lila got back.

  Reed collapsed in the sofa chair, his head pulsating.What was he going to do? Leave town? Chicago? He had some buddies at the Tribuneand the Sun-Times. He could beg for a job. He could see Molly tonightafter she finished her shift. She wasn’t the answer and he knew it.

  Reed decided to take the care of his immediate needs: shaving, showering, and changing into better-smelling clothes, ignoring theflashing red light of his telephone answering machine until he finished, whichwas half an hour later.

  The first call he played back was the most recent one.

  “Reed, Walt Sydowski. Give me a call a soon as youcan.” He left his cell phone and pager numbers.

  Sydowski? Reed sneered. Likely found out he had beenfired and wanted to relay condolences from the Homicide Detail. Sure, I’ll getback to you, Walt.