by Rick Mofina
Next, came a panicked message from Ann: “Tom, is Zachwith you? I can’t find him! I think he’s — ”
The phone rang. Reed stopped the machine and grabbedthe call.
“Tom, do you have Zach?” Ann was hysterical.
“No, Ann, I don’t. What the hell is going on?”
“I can’t find him! It’s my fault. He ran away. He tookhis school backpack with some of his favorite stuff and his savings, about ahundred dollars. I’m so scared!”
Ran away? He must have heard us. “How long has itbeen?”
“An hour, forty-five minutes, I don’t know.”
“Did you call Jeff and Gordie’s parents?”
“But they’re in San Francisco.”
“That’s likely where he’s headed.”
“I’ll call them!”
“Call all the Berkeley cab companies. Call BART security.He may try to cross the Bay that way.”
“All right. I already called the police. They saidthey put out a description and will send a car over.”
“I’m on my way.”
Now, as Reed guided his Comet along the interstateoff-ramp for Berkeley, he could not stop blaming himself for dragging Ann andZach into the cesspool of the self-obsession which blinded him to the toll itwas taking on Zach. He would talk to Ann, tell her everything. Make one lastintelligent effort to work things out before it was too late. If anything,anything happened to Zach, he’d never forgive himself. He glanced at the waterbelow.
When Reed turned on Fulton, the hairs on the back ofhis neck stood up at the sight of a Berkeley patrol car parked in front ofAnn’s mother’s house.
Ann was sitting at the kitchen table, talking througha crumbled tissue to a uniformed officer who was taking notes.
“Oh Tom!” she sobbed, hugging him tight. Letting himknow that she needed him. Truly needed him. Reed’s eyes stung. When was thelast time he held Ann in his arms?
“Mr. Reed?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“Officer Pender, Jim Pender, Berkeley PD. We’vealready got a description of your son out to radio cars. I’d like to talk toyou.”
“Certainly.”
“Alone, please, sir.”
Pender was a tall, black officer, at least six-four.He had a cropped goatee and exuded calm capability. His utility belt andholster gave leathery squeaks when he stood, his polished badge over his heartgleamed. The shoulder mike of his radio crackled, and Pender turned it down asthe two men talked in the living room.
“Tell me what you think happened, sir.” Pender saidsoftly.
Reed told him everything. The officer’s eyebrows shotup when he told him he was the reporter behind the Tanita Marie Donnercontroversy and had been fired that morning. When Reed finished, Pender said,“Okay, there’s stress in your household. Zach overhears his parents arguing anddecides to head out on his own. To his friends in San Francisco, you figure?”
Reed nodded. “Or my place in San Francisco.”
“Okay, we’ll add this new info to the alert we’vealready got out on your son. We’ll notify SFPD and campus police.” Penderchecked his notes as they returned to the kitchen where Ann sat, face buried inher hands.
“Mrs. Reed, we’ll do everything we can to find Zach,”Pender said. “I’ll ask you both again to try and put yourself in his shoes. Isthere any material thing he wanted, a type of toy or something? Or any place hewanted to go, an arcade, a certain movie? Or any individual he would turn to?Give it some thought that way.”
The Reeds agreed.
“Most kids who run away mad at Mom and Dad turn upwithin a few hours, especially the young ones,” Pender said.
Ann tried to smile, but swallowed it. “At least thepolice shot the kidnapper yesterday in San Francisco,” she said.
Pender nodded, but Reed caught something in his face.
“If the family is going to look for Zach, please keepsomeone here in case he returns or more information surfaces. I’m going to callthis in. Then I’d like to search the house. Sometimes kids will crawl into ahiding spot to cool off for a while.”
“Thank you, officer.”
“Ann.” Reed took his wife’s hand. “I’m going to searchthe area between here and the BART station. I’ll call you every few minutes.”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.
“We’ll find him, Ann, I swear. ” Reed hugged her, thencaught up with Pender outside. He was in his cruiser entering his notes intohis mobile computer terminal.
“What’s up, officer?”
“How do you mean?”
“Your face registered something a moment ago when mywife mentioned SFPD shooting the kidnapper.”
Pender contemplated whether to tell Reed whatever itwas he knew.
“You’re a police reporter, right?”
“That’s right.”
Pender scratched his goatee. The police radio blurtedcoded dispatches. “You reported on the big abduction cases of Danny Becker andGabrielle Nunn across the Bay, right?”
“That’s what got my ass fired, officer. Please.”
Pender tapped his pen on his notebook, thinking.“Okay, I’m going to show you something. Get in.”
Reed slipped into the passenger side, watchingPender’s big hands dwarf the computer’s tiny keyboard as he typed in commands.“SFPD and the FBI put out a new alert on the case. It’s hot. I got it justbefore I got this complaint. Here you go. Says the task force now has a numberone suspect in the Nunn-Becker cases and they’re hunting him. Ever heard of aguy named Keller? Edward Keller?”
Reed was stunned. “Edward Keller — yes, I, Christ — ”
“Nobody knows I showed you this.” Pender pivoted theterminal to Reed, who devoured the short bulletin.
Edward Keller of no fixed address was wanted on awarrant for the kidnappings of Daniel Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Nunn.
“I was fucking right all along!”
“You know this guy?”
“I met him recently and thought he was weird, so I didsome digging into his past.” Reed shook his head in disbelief.
“Mr. Reed, do you think there’s any link to your son’srunning away and Mr. Keller?”
Reed’s heart stopped. No. There couldn’t be. “No, Ithink it is a coincidence. Zach ran off because he heard us arguing about ourproblems. We had reconciled and we were on the brink of getting back together.Zach wanted that with all of his heart. But it fell apart this morning.”
“I see. You said you started digging into Mr. Keller’spast. Is there anything about him that you know that may be useful to the taskforce across the Bay? Anything we should pass on?”
“No. He’s a lunatic, a Bible thumper. I met him on astory about university research on parents of dead children. He lost three along time ago and babbled about resurrecting them with God’s help. He was nuts.I tried to find him again, but I couldn’t.”
“Why did you want to find him again?”
“I had a gut feeling. But I wanted to find out what Icould about him on my own before going to the task force, having been stungbadly the last time I followed a hunch.”
“Did you go to the task force?”
Reed shook his head. “And I was fired because my paperthought, given my track record, I was dangerous with my theories. It’scomplicated. Look, officer, I’m going to find my son. I have some ideas wherehe might have gone. Any other day, I’d be calling my paper, tipping them withthat alert.” Reed nodded to the computer terminal. “But fuck them. I was right.They were wrong and I don’t work for them anymore. I’ve got more importantthings on my mind.”
Reed moved to leave.
“Hold on there.” Pender was friendly.
Reed waited. Pender stared at him. A streetwise copwith impeccable instincts, he was not going to let Reed leave him.
“Where’s the first place you’re going to look?”
Reed sighed. “Next to us getting back together, Zachwanted to buy a model of a ship.”
“A hobby sto
re then?”
“Thought I’d start with the nearest one.”
“Buckle up.”
“What?”
“There’s one on University. I’ll take you.”
“Officer, I can take myself.”
Pender started the engine and slipped the transmissioninto drive. “I think we should go together, Tom.”
Pender double-parked his cruiser on University at asliver of a store front called Dempsey’s Hobby amp; Crafts. His head camewithin inches of the transom when he and Reed entered. The bald, potbellied,old man who ran the place was on the telephone.
“Yeah, Saturday’s good. Sure — ” he noticed Penderand Reed. “I told you, it’s fine with me … Yes … listen, Burt, I gotta go …Yes, it’s good. Burt, I gotta go now. I’ll call ya later.”
He hung up and spread his hands over the glasscountertop in a bartender’s what’ll-it-be? fashion. He peered over his bifocalswith the unpracticed seriousness of a shopkeeper unaccustomed to adultvisitors, nodding to Pender because the shop was on his beat.
“Hello, Jim. How are things in local law enforcement?”
“George,” Pender said, “I need your help.”
George Dempsey’s eyes shot to Reed, then to Pender.
“This about that gang shooting in Oakland?”
“’Fraid not.” Pender leaned on the counter and intoDempsey’s personal space. “This is Mr. Tom Reed. He’s looking for his son,Zachary.” Pender studied Dempsey’s face. “He may have come in here within thelast ninety minutes. Nine years old and how tall, Tom?”
Reed held a hand to his chest.
Pender continued. “That tall, blond hair, newsneakers, school backpack, and interested in model ships.”
Dempsey tugged thoughtfully at his fluffy sideburns.“Ships? Sure, was a kid like that in here a while ago.”
“How long!” Reed stepped to the counter. Pender raisedhis big hand to warmly caution him.
“How long, George?” Pender repeated, softer.
Dempsey twisted his sideburns before guessing. “Hour?”
“An hour?”
“Yes, then he left with that other cop.”
“What?” Reed said. “They found him!”
“What other cop, George?” Pender took out hisnotebook, glancing at his watch. “Think.”
“He was plainclothes, uh, special state investigator,white guy, six foot.”
“He definitely said special state investigator? Yousure?”
“Absolutely.” Dempsey scratched his chin. “Flashed hisbadge, name was Lamer? Lampson? No — Lamont, Randall Lamont.”
“He left with the boy?”
Dempsey nodded.
“Which way?”
“Well, I didn’t see. Say, what’s this about?”
“Tell me exactly how it happened.”
“Not much to tell. Kid walks in, goes to the shelfthere all doe-eyed over the Kitty Hawk, the this Lamont comes in a fewminutes later asking — yeah just like you — asking if I’d seen a kid. Then hegoes to him, they have a little chat, then leave together.”
“What was the boy’s demeanor?”
Dempsey blinked and looked at the ceiling. “Scared,like he just got some bad news.”
Reed felt the first stirrings in his gut. His worryabout Zach’s running off was about to be swallowed by a greater terror.
Pender scanned the shop. “George, you ever do anythingabout your shoplifting problem, like I told you?”
“I did. I got security video installed couple monthsago. It works just fine and — I see what you’re askin’.”
“Let’s run that tape, George.”
Dempsey hoisted a small black-and-white video monitorto the counter, angling it so Pender and Reed could see.
“I was plagued by little thieves until I got this.”Dempsey grunted, squatting to operate the video controls from a low shelfbehind the counter. A montage of ball-capped boys coming, going, and buyingthings, swam in super-fast motion on the monitor. “Glue, paints, scale modelracing cars, electric motors. One kid stuffed the Titanic under hisshirt. It all adds up. There he is!”
Dempsey slowed the tape, Reed watched Zach enter thestore and sit on the floor before a shelf of models. Dempsey advanced the tapeto the entrance of a man in a suit, wearing dark glasses, showingidentification.
“You know this guy?” Reed said to Pender.
He shook his head without removing his gaze from themonitor. “You?”
“No,” Reed said as the man approached Zach. Theytalked, then left together. Reed’s face flushed. His heartbeat quickened. Hecouldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“George, take it back to when the cop walks in,”Pender said.
Dempsey reversed the tape.
“You have any audio?” Pender said.
Dempsey nodded. The tinny sound of homemade videos,with hard noise amplified and monotone voices, hissed from a tiny speaker onthe monitor: “I’m looking for a boy, about ten years old, blond hair, backpack,sneakers. He was last seen in this area within the last half hour.”
“Could be the fella you want, drooling over the KittyHawk there. He just came in. Anything to do with that gang shooting inOakland?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.”
Pender was staring at Reed. A fist covered Reed’smouth, the veins of his neck were pulsing.
“You recognize that voice, don’t you, Tom?”
“It’s Edward Keller.”
Where was Keller’s beard and long hair? Realitystabbed Reed with switchblade suddenness. Keller had Zach. Had his son!
Have you ever lost a child? No. You have children?A son, Zach. He’s nine. My eldest boy was nine when he died.
Pender seized his portable police radio.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Sirens .
Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.
It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. It was a terrifyingdrug-fueled dream. Reed was numb. Detached. Alone in the shop, watchingeverything unfold. Detectives talking to him as models of World War II fightersstrafed them from above.
“Mr. reed, anything you can remember about Keller thatmight…”
His mouth wouldn’t work. What were his lines? What washe supposed to say? My little boy. My son. My only child has been taken. Whatwas he supposed to do? Faces in his face. Dead serious. Faces at the shopwindow. Police cars. Flashing lights. A crowd gathering. A TV news camera, no,two — three. Coffee-breathed detectives who wore strong cologne clasping hisshoulder.
“Mr. Reed, Tom, we need your help….”
Zach needs me. My boy. I did this. Zach. Keller, hishand on Zach’s shoulder.
Sirens. Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.
Sirens — the score of his profession. The choruscueing his entrance upon a stranger’s tragedy. And it was always a stranger, italways happened to other people. It never touched him. Oh, it grazed him in theearly days. But he grew skilled in his craft. He knew the bridges into theirpain, knew his way over the crevasses that would consume you if you failed inyour mission, knew how to cradle their suffering long enough to serve himself.
The city shares your grief. Now is the time to saythe things that need to be said, by way of tribute.
And in virtually every case, they would struggle tohelp. Stunned by their loss, they would recite an inarticulate requiem fortheir son, daughter, father, mother, husband, wife, sister, brother, or friend.Some would scrawl tearstained notes, or show him the rooms of the dead, theiraccomplishments, their dreams, their disappointments, the last things theytouched.
And would you be able to provide the paper with apicture?
Dutifully, they would flip through family albums,rummage through shoe boxes, yearbooks, wallets, purses, reach to the mantel forphotos. Drinking in each image before placing it tenderly in his trusted hands.But there were times a relative would see him for what he truly believed hewas. They knew.
Oh, the years-off-the-street, J-school profs andburned-out hacks could pound their breasts about the
unassailable duty of ademocratic free press, safeguarding the people’s right to know, ensuring no onedies anonymously and secretly on American streets. But that constitutional crapturned to dust when you met bereavement face-to-face, took it by the hand, andpersuaded it to expose itself. You steeled your soul with the armor of achampion. The sympathetic, respectful reporter. Democracy’s champion. But atthe bottom of your frightened heart, you realized what you were: a driver ant,leading the column to the carrion, overcoming and devouring the mourners whoopen their door to you, those too pained to flee.
And before he left, they would usually thank him.
That was the joke of it. They would thank him. Forcaring.
He was shoved, prodded, and paid to succeed at this,and they thanked him. For caring.
Don’t thank me. I can’t care. I can’t.
But he would smile, professionally understanding, allthe while fearing he might never find the bridge back, for his ears rang withtormented voices chanting:
Wait until it happens to you. Wait until this happensto you.
Now it had.
He was paying the price for the sum of all hisactions. This was his day of reckoning. The toll was his son.
Zachary, forgive me.
“ — Where is he? You let me go!”
It was Ann. Pender struggling to hold her, failing.She ran to Reed. He opened his arms to take her. A horsewhip crack of her handacross his face.
“Bastard!”
Reed saw stars and Franklin Wallace’s widow, heraccusations resurrected with Ann’s voice. It was his fault.
“You bastard!”
Pender must have told her everything. “Ann, please.”His face burned. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand and I blame you! You had to get close,had to keep digging for the sake of a story! Well, you’ve got a good one now,don’t you? You used my son for it!”
“Mrs. Reed.” Pender and another uniformed officersubdued her.
Sirens. Screaming. Ann screaming.
“Come with us, Mrs. Reed.” Pender took her to a backroom.
Reed turned away, meeting the rheumy eyes of GeorgeDempsey, who was pretending he hadn’t seen what he had seen, along with thepolice people in the shop. Dempsey was showing a detective the U.S.S. KittyHawk, the one Zach had held less than an hour ago.
