by Rick Mofina
“We got zilch when we tried that last year.” Rad shrugged.
“But a lot of new information has likely been entered since the last time you did this,” she said.
“True,” Rad said, catching Sydowski’s subtle nod.
The computer bleeped and answered: one.
Turgeon’s heart quickened.
Rad bolted upright. “Amazing!”
“Call him up,” Sydowski said.
PERRY WILLIAM KINDHART.
His name and file appeared on the screen. Caucasian, thirty-nine, five feet, eleven inches tall, medium build, red hair, blue eyes. Death’s head tattoo on left shoulder. Convicted molester. Mugs were recent. No resemblance to Beth’s composites.
“Last known address?” Sydowski said.
“I’m getting it,” Rad typed. The computer beeped. “SoMa. He lives South of Market. I’ll print out the address. Looks current.”
“Record?” Sydowski said.
Rad prompted the computer, complimenting Turgeon for her hunch.
“I don’t know how we missed this guy last year,” he said.
Kindhart’s criminal history appeared on the screen. He had served time in the same Virginia prison as Franklin Wallace when Wallace was there. They could have met. Kindhart was convicted in Richmond of photographing children in lewd poses, and served one year. His federal sheet had charges and acquittals in half a dozen Midwestern states over the last decade. He seemed to be making his way west. His last known beef was in San Francisco. The full details of his case were only recently entered into the system, according to the data date, explaining how he was missed the first time.
“I don’t believe this.” Turgeon read the screen quickly.
Right about the time Tanita Marie Donner was kidnapped and murdered, Kindhard was up on charges of exciting the lust of a child in San Francisco. He supposedly took obscene pictures of two five-year-old girls he enticed into his apartment in the Mission. Evidence was shaky so the judge gave Kindhart two years probation with terms that he stay away from children, not own any type of camera, and not possess any type of pornographic material.
“This is weird.” Turgeon wanted a printout.
Sydowski said nothing. His breathing grew intense, his stomach tightened, the way it tightens when a Homicide cop knows, knows deep in his tired gut, that he’s got a solid break.
Sydowski searched Kindhart’s eyes.
He knows, Sydowski felt it. He knows things about Tanita Marie Donner. About her murder. And maybe he knows about Danny, too. He knows something. And with the exception of Danny and Tanita’s parents, nobody had invested more in the right to that knowledge than Sydowski had. The time had come to collect on his investment.
Calm and confidence washed over Sydowski.
“This is good,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
Lois Jensen poured water into the cafeteria-sized coffee urn and clicked her tongue at Dr. Kate Martin fussing for the third time over the spread of fruit, cheeses, and crackers.
“Don’t fret, Kate. It’s going to be fine.”
“I need a written guarantee, Lois.” Martin bit her lip.
During the year her study group had been meeting, she had always been in control. The pain exposed in this drafty old campus study room remained here, eventually evaporating like the tears that accompanied it. But that was going to change. She had relinquished command of what she cherished in order to save it.
She and Lois had arrived early to set up refreshments. Both were dressed more formally than usual--Lois in a peach, summer-knit sweater set and white skirt, and Martin in a silk blouse, hound’s-tooth-check blazer and matching skirt.
“Lois, are we doing the right thing?”
“We’re doing the right thing. We’ve all been doing well. Even Keller. Is he coming? Is he aware the Star is going to be here?”
“I couldn’t reach him. The number he gave me didn’t work. He’s never missed a session. I’ll alert him at the door.”
“Most of us supported this step, Kate. It’s necessary. At worst, you’ll reach others who need help and they are out there. Especially now with another child kidnapped.”
“But I fear the potential damage. Some of the group didn’t want to participate tonight. I’m getting cold feet.”
“We’ve all lost a child. Telling a reporter about it is not tantamount to the experience. If the university revokes your tenure, you can always set up your own shop, underwritten by a tissue company. I’ll be your first client.”
They were still laughing when Tom Reed arrived with another man who had a camera around his neck and a bag over his shoulder.
“Right on time, Tom,” Martin greeted them.
“Dr. Martin, this is Henry Cain, a photographer with the Star.”
Martin introduced Lois. They talked over coffee until others arrived, then Martin took Reed aside.
“Four have decided not to come. Three will be here, but won’t speak. Six will talk and allow their names and pictures to be used.”
“Including Angela Donner?”
“Yes.”
“Is that her?” Reed indicated a young woman, whose thighs stretched her brown slacks. Her white blouse had a large bow at the neck. Her stringy dishwater-blond hair was pinned up with two pink barrettes that looked familiar to Reed. She was at the refreshment table.
“How’s she doing?”
“Good days and bad days. The Becker abduction is a setback. Coming up on Tanita’s anniversary. Opens a lot of wounds. Especially when the press links the cases. She still lives with her father.”
Reed contemplated Angela Donner. If he could get her story in the paper, it would break the city’s heart. Tanita’s case still held compelling elements: grandfather dying of cancer, while her mother copes on welfare and her killer walks free.
“Poor Angela.” Martin blinked. “Tolstoy couldn’t have dreamed of a more tragic figure. Well, there’s Edward Keller...”
Oh...?”
“I couldn’t reach him. He doesn’t know about tonight. I don’t know how he’ll react because--” Martin stopped. “Off the record?”
“Sure.”
“He’s an eccentric.”
“This is San Francisco.”
“He’s an eccentric’s eccentric.”
“I see.”
“Oh, there he is. Excuse me.”
Reed looked across the room at Keller. Late forties, early fifties, about six feet, firm, lean build. His beard and thick salt-and-pepper hair did not hide the lines etched in his face. Dressed in faded jeans, a navy pullover sportshirt, and a worn, gray sports jacket, Keller had an air of ardent independence, as if a dark fire raged inside. Reed recalled that the suspect in Danny Becker’s kidnapping had light hair, a beard, and a slim build, according to the new composite drawings the cops were on the brink of releasing. Reed stopped himself with a warning: you are not playing that game again.
Listening to Martin, Keller was concerned and looked directly at Reed. Keller nodded, then said a few words. Martin returned.
“Edward does not want to be identified for the article.”
“That’s fine.”
Keller took a seat, regarding Reed suspiciously.
Martin took a deep breath. “Time to get started.”
She introduced Reed and Cain, reminding the group of their presence, and offering anyone who’d had a last minute change of heart to back out. Reed and Cain requested that those consenting to be identified sit together. Reed jotted down their names.
“Lois, you volunteered to go first.” Martin smiled.
Lois nodded, hesitated, then laughed. “I’m sorry.”
“Ease into it.” Martin nodded.
Lois collected her thoughts. Her face was placid, intelligent.
“It was a gorgeous day and I was making Allan’s lunch when he insisted on riding his bike to the park--you know how children can be. His friend Jerry had found a sparrow’s nest. I said, you’ve got ten minutes. Sure, Mom, he
said. I’ll be right back. I’ll be right back. I knew he would keep his word. So after, oh, I guess about half an hour, I was getting a little peeved. That’s when Jerry came to my door. He was covered in dirt and looked frightened. And I thought, gee, he must’ve had a bad fall. I looked for Allan, but I didn’t see him. Then Jerry’s mouth started to move, but nothing came out. I realized that he was actually covered in blood.
“I looked for Allan. Didn’t see him. I demanded that Jerry tell me where he was. Poor Jerry couldn’t speak. He started to cry, pointed to the park. He got on his bike, rode to the park with me running behind him. We arrived. I saw some children standing over another child who was lying on the ground, twisted in his bike. As I ran, I knew that the bike looked like Allan’s, but I couldn’t see Allan among the children, so I thought that he must have run to get help for this fallen child. I was starting to mentally go through my first aid training, I still had a dish towel in my hand, when I looked down on the child, a boy. I knew he was dead, I--”
She wept. Reed made a note. Cain’s camera clicked.
“I’m okay.” She smiled. “When I saw that it was Allan, something happened.”
Reed noticed Keller nodding emphatically.
“My child, my only child was lying there on the grass, his eyes closed as if he were asleep. He looked so at peace. He had been shot, here.” Lois touched the right side of her head about an inch above her ear. “He was shot and his blood was everywhere, spreading on the ground under his head in a widening halo, a perfect halo. The most brilliant red I’ve ever seen. I knelt beside him. The children were saying something to me, but their voices were distant. That’s when the miracle happened. Before my eyes, I saw Allan’s face change. I swear it changed there as he lay on the grass, to the tiny wrinkled expression that fused my heart the moment he was born. Then it changed to joy from the day he took his first steps, then fear from the night he was convinced a monster lived in his closet. Happiness from the Christmas Santa brought him his first bike, then shame from the day he came home from his first and only schoolyard brawl. Embarrassment on the day I saw him holding hands with a girl. Finally, it turned serene, showing perfect contentment. I cradled him in my arms, and the next thing I remember a police officer was touching my shoulder and the paramedics were trying to take my boy away from me.”
Lois paused.
Sniffles and coughs went around the group. Keller’s head was bowed, his eyes were shut tight, his hands clasped. Praying? Reed waited for Martin’s reaction. She wasn’t watching Keller.
“For about a year after that I went through the motions of living. Bill and I retreated into ourselves. He didn’t want to talk. I wanted counseling together. He didn’t. And I couldn’t go alone. I felt bitter, angry for being punished unfairly, I felt abandoned, helpless, worthless. I contemplated suicide, divorce. That’s when I saw Kate’s notice in the Chronicle about her research. I suggested to Bill that we participate. He wasn’t interested. I decided to volunteer and told Bill I had enrolled in a hobby course at the university. He thinks my ‘course’ has done a world of good, It has. Tonight I’ll tell him what I’ve been doing.”
Reed knew the case. Bobby Ray Walker, a truck mechanic with a history of mental problems, was the sniper who had shot Lois’s son. Walker was serving a life sentence in Folsom for the murder.
Reed asked Lois how Martin’s research group had helped her.
“It’s helped me come to terms with losing my child. I’m able to function now. I’m able to laugh at a good joke, eat a hearty meal, sleep through the night. I certainly don’t tell every person I meet the details I’ve told you, but I can deal with talking about it without falling to pieces. I still feel uneasy seeing a funeral procession. I’ll never fully recover from losing Allan. No parent is ever, ever the same after losing a child because a piece of you dies, too. This group has helped me survive my loss. We’ve all helped each other and Kate has been our guide. Some people cannot endure such a blow alone. The feeling of guilt, rage, blame, loss, futility are overwhelming, almost fatal. At times I thought I was losing my mind, hearing my son’s voice at night, smelling his scent, seeing him in malls, in my dreams, feeling his kiss on my cheek.”
“How is this group different from others?”
“Some are politically motivated. Some seek vengeance. Eye for an eye. There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you feel in your heart. I was a member of such a group during Walker’s trial. At the time I was embittered. I believed Walker should have been executed. I no longer feel vengeance in my heart. Feeling that way won’t bring Allan back. This group is different because it is not a public action agency. It is research. The objective is to study our bereavement, our pain and anguish with the aim of understanding it, healing. We’ve been helped tremendously.”
The others followed with their stories, each account as heart wrenching as the previous one. Reed’s eyes burned as he listened and took notes. What was happening here? As a hardened crime reporter he had seen enough tragedy for twenty lifetimes. This was getting to him. Why? Because he’d researched most of these cases, or that he’d actually covered some? He didn’t know. He questioned himself, what he did for a living. Fear of the pain he may have wrongly caused Franklin Wallace’s wife and daughter gnawed at him. He thought of Ann and Zach and what he had almost lost in his own life. Self-loathing, self-doubt, and confusion haunted him in the eyes of these grieving parents.
Sitting there, Reed felt saddened. Alone. Utterly alone.
He noticed Keller staring at him as he heard Martin suggesting the group take a break.
“I think it’s going well, Tom. Don’t you?” Martin smiled.
He agreed, then excused himself to go to the washroom.
TWENTY-THREE
Relieved that the washroom was empty, Reed positioned himself at a urinal. Keller swung through the door and took the one next to him.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Reed?”
Reed laughed. Given the circumstances, the question was absurd. He shook his head.
“Is that your answer?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Reed?”
“Look, I know it may be awkward having me here. But you should know that I appreciate the opportunity.” Reed washed his hands.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“What I believe is irrelevant.”
“Lois Jensen believes. Some of the others are on their way.” Keller bent over the adjacent sink, opening the faucets. “We try to help each other in our assemblage.’
Assemblage? Was he going to break into Scripture now?
“I’m helping them spiritually through the pain. ‘Through the valley of the dark sun.’”
The valley of the dark sun. Reed knew the old poem: “A Watery Death” by Ledel I. Zoran.
Keller splashed his face. “I believe you are here to test me.”
“Test you? I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
Keller continued splashing his face. His voice had an eerie resonance as he recited: “Between the dream and the day comes the specter.” Tiny water rivulets slithered down his face. “Are you the specter, sent to destroy my work?”
“Your work?” Reed was puzzled, somewhat uneasy. “No. I’m not the specter. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Excuse me.” Reed tossed a crumpled paper towel into the trash.
Angela Donner spoke with a little voice, a child’s voice.
“I gave birth to Tanita in the back of a bus in San Mateo. I was seventeen, living by myself. But I was going to keep my baby. My baby and me were going to make a better life for us together. I was going to finish school, be a good mother.”
Angela pondered her clasped fingers and sniffled.
“When Tanita Marie was stolen from me and killed, that was the day I stopped dreaming. Everything went dark. Everything. I wanted to die.” Martin passed Angela a tissue. “I bought a big bottle of sleeping pills the day before Dr. Martin came to visit
. I planned to kill myself. Dr. Martin saved me. I am glad she came.”
Martin smiled encouragingly at her.
“She helped me hang on, helped me think that maybe something good would come from Tanita Marie’s murder. That’s when this research got started and it made me feel that Tanita Marie didn’t die in vain.”
Angela dabbed her eyes. “But some of the bad feelings came back when Danny Becker got kidnapped in Balboa. It woke up my pain. Someone’s out there stealing children. I pray every night for Danny Becker’s mother and father. I saw them on TV. I pray their son will be returned safe, that the police find the person who took him and the person who murdered my baby.”
Reed paused a moment before asking her a few soft questions about the group. Afterward, she agreed to be interviewed later at her home, then Reed turned to a fresh page in his notebook.
Keller wanted to go next. “I think it’s appropriate I give my testimony now,” he said.
“Certainly, Edward,” Martin said
Keller looked at Reed. “I remind you, I do not wish to be identified in any way in your newspaper, but I believe what I have to say is crucial.”
“That’s not a problem,” Reed said.
Keller studied Reed for several moments before beginning with a recitation: “All that he was, all that he had been, looked back from the still water.”
Keller allowed the words to be absorbed. Martin put a hand to her temple as if anticipating disaster.
“You know those lines, Mr. Reed?”
Zoran again. Reed nodded. “‘A Watery Death,’ I think.”
“My children drowned.”
Reed hadn’t found any clippings in the newspaper’s library about Keller’s case. “I understand,” he said.
“You understand?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever lost a child?”
“No”
“You have children?”
“A son, Zach. He’s nine.”
Keller pondered this information. “My eldest boy was nine when he died. It was a boating accident.” Keller’s eyes were cold, dry.
