If Angels Fall

by Rick Mofina

  “I really didn’t spill any, Mr. Jenkins. Honest. I looked.”

  “You spilled some down your chin.” Keller grunted, reaching into the knapsack and pulling out a plastic bag with a damp face cloth inside, reeking of medicine.

  Gabrielle touched her chin. It was dry, but before she could do anything, the stinky wet cloth was over her mouth, forcing her to breathe through her nose. She struggled, kicked, and tried to scream. Jackson barked. Gabrielle dropped her Coke. It spilled and hissed on the floor. Keller held the cloth firmly against her face, staring into her fluttering eyes as she fell asleep.

  Jackson barked fiercely.

  “Shut up!” Keller said, removing Gabrielle’s dress and leotards, stuffing them into the knapsack. Rummaging in the pack, he pulled out a pair of child’s shorts and a Forty-niners’ T-shirt. In seconds, he had slipped them on Gabrielle, along with a ball cap.

  Then he pulled a pair of scissors from the knapsack, leaned Gabrielle forward, and began snipping off her chestnut braids.

  The dog growled, leaping at Keller, biting at his hands. Damn! Keller caught his forefinger between the razor-sharp blades, and most of the hair in his hand went out the window. The wound was deep.

  Damn it!

  At that instant, Keller saw an old woman watching from her living room. What did she see?

  Keller stomped on the gas, the engine roared, tires peeled, stones flew in anger. How could he have been so careless! He pounded the steering wheel, driving his rage like a rocket. Try to relax.

  His heart thumped. It was happening. As it had been prophesied. To the ignorant, the girl was a little boy who’d fallen asleep. But he knew the truth. The Divine Truth.

  Slow down to the limit before you attract more attention, he told himself. Come on. The old woman saw nothing. What was there to see from her angle across the wide street? Nothing. She saw nothing: a man stopping to look at a house that was for sale. Nothing.

  But the hair? What if she called the police?

  Was he doubting his mission? His revelation?

  He was cleansed in the light of the Lord. He must never cease believing he was blessed. That’s right. He had put more than a dozen blocks behind him now and was beginning to relax, focusing on his route to Wintergreen. The Angel was sleeping. Good. Keller looked at the dog. The mutt could lead the police to him. He could sacrifice it with the scissors. He could do it right now. He could pull into a back alley. It would take three seconds, then he--

  Traffic had come to a dead halt. The rear bumper of the Honda in front of Keller rushed at him. He hit the brakes in time to avoid crashing. The two lanes ahead were merging into one. Cars inching along. What was happening? He saw a flash of red emergency lights.

  Police! A roadblock?

  Keller’s tongue swelled. He began sweating. The rearview mirror reflected a clogged river of vehicles, a virtual parking lot. He could try escaping by driving along the sidewalk. No, that would guarantee a pursuit.

  He was trapped. Keller squeezed the wheel. No. Not this way.

  You promised to help me. Do not forsake me.

  The Angel was sleeping.

  “Got the number two song in the Bay Area coming up, but this just in from the newsroom.” The radio in the convertible VW Golf creeping alongside Keller was cranked to distortion. The young redhead alone behind the wheel was oblivious as she puffed on her cigarette. “A five-year-old girl was reportedly abducted less than thirty minutes ago from the Children’s Playground at Golden Gate Park. Her name is Gabrielle Nunn. She has brown, braided hair and is wearing a flowered dress. Police say she may have been taken by a man.” The radio faded away.

  No. Not this way. Stay calm. He reached under the seat between his legs for the Smith & Wesson, purchased last year from a crack dealer in the Mission.

  Numbers filed. Untraceable, like the wind, my man. Two C’s.

  Keller slipped the gun casually under his left leg. He thought of the phony license he got on the street, along with fake birth certificates, credit cards, library cards. When he required it, he could be anybody he wanted. God will provide, his father would say.

  Ahead, a charter bus belched black smoke, its big diesel rattled as it crawled, clearing a line of sight. Keller first saw an SFPD black-and-white blocking one lane, then another. Then the ambulance and a mangled car flipped on its roof. He saw the firefighters with the jaws-of-life clattering like a ravenous metal-eater to get at the bloodied person trapped inside. An accident. Okay. Keller sighed.

  Suddenly a cop stood before him on the road, directing traffic.

  “You!” The officer pointed at him. His motorcycle was nearby. A Harley Davidson. Impossible to outrun. He was an imposing traffic bull in dark aviator glasses, leather jacket, leather boots, and a leather utility belt with a holstered gun.

  “Hold it right there!”

  Keller eyed the officer as he approached.

  Not this way. He refused to let it end here. He felt the hard barrel of the gun under his leg, and kept both hands on the wheel. The cop made leathery squeaks as he walked. His stern face telegraphed a clear message: Do not mess with me, sir.

  The dog barked and Gabrielle stirred. Her eyelids flickered. Do not forsake me. A droplet of sweat rolled down Keller’s back between his shoulder blades.

  “What’s the problem, officer?”

  “Sir, are you aware your left front tire is underinflated?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware.”

  Just then the officer’s portable radio crackled with something unclear. He snatched it, and requested a repeat of the transmission. Keller slid his hand under his left leg, fingering the gun.

  I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

  Again, the officer could not make out the radio message.

  “Been crapping out like this all day,” he complained, cursing city bureaucrats. “Sorry, sir. Get that tire pumped.”

  “No trouble, officer.”

  The cop gave Keller a polite salute and waved him through.

  It went according to his prayers. According to the prophesy. Thank God! Praise Him! He gazed upon the sleeping Angel. Behold the Seraph. Behold Gabriel. God’s messenger now belonged to him.

  Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The highway curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its cresting cobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.

  The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove to Pacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him with souvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshly shaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. The things a son will do to make his old man happy.

  Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed in his shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.

  “What’s the matter, Pop?” he asked in Polish.

  “They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m too old.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Is that so? Where’s your kit?”

  “The old witch took it.”

  “Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old witch.”

  “Well, she’s not a young one.”

  Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented office of Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman in her fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternness of a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and she loved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her for his old man’s barber’s kit.

  “Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. I can’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injure someone. We’d be sued.”

  Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would not lose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.

  “Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”

  She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a
locked desk drawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.

  “How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”

  John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightened and he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around his shoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cut his hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’s unit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. He loved the feel of his old man’s comb through his hair, the clip of the scissors. For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with the razor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so he closed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into his skin again and again as his father scraped it across his face.

  “See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when it was over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping on the Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.

  “Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, going to the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.

  They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy and fell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered the kit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face in disbelief.

  “Don’t ever give him his kit again,” he ordered, handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”

  Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her desk drawer, and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was very tender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”

  Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific Coastal Highway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a lead from Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, but found nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENT dissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checked Kindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to Franklin Wallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed--a lost right-thumb print screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.

  “Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “You had absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker?”

  “That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth Lucky Strike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice. Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to the program. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having to charge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decided against a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’t function in the morning.”

  Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interview room, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’d struck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, was controlling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfully coaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat. Kindhart would roll over--all he needed was a little nudge. When the rumblings of Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about his passion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.

  “How ’bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgers and some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.

  Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned, Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.

  “Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order those burgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in the file, sifting papers.

  “What’s to clear up?”

  “Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on your camera.”

  “That’s a lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.

  “And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the lab reports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace and the hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”

  “Bull.”

  “And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out another bluff.

  “What note?”

  “Wallace’s suicide note.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’m sorry.”

  Kindhart was dead silent.

  Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhart looked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’s stomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. The wheels were turning.

  Here it comes, Sydowski knew.

  “Did Wallace try to implicate me? After what I did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker was kidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.

  “Modesto. I told you.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “People saw me there.”

  “Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner was abducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.

  “I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhart dragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.

  “Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studied the file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here, Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you know them.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone. “You have the right to remain silent--”

  “Hold everything.”

  Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Miranda rights?”

  Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak because the room was wired, they were recording the interview.

  “We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving your rights?”

  “I’m waiving my rights because I was not involved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’s not what you think. It’s not the truth.”

  “Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.

  Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both of them. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him and his new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for a day, then let her go.”

  “When was this?” Turgeon asked.

  “Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”

  “What was the date?” Sydowski asked.

  “I don’t know. I figure it was the Donner kid.”

  “Why?”

  “Franklin said it would be a little one who couldn’t ID anybody.”

  “What happened?” Sydowski asked.

  “I never went.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to see my parole officer that day.”

  “What day?” Turgeon asked.

  “The day Tanita Donner went missing. I know you can check it out. I know from the news reports the time she was grabbed, and I was with my parole officer.”

  “Convenient, Perry,” Sydowski said. “Ever call a guy by the name of Tom Reed?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You just said you follow the news reports.”

  “I’m supposed to know this guy?”

  “How do we know you weren’t involved?” Turgeon said.

  “Because I wasn’t. Franklin came to me that night and asked me if I wanted to come to their party. I said no. I didn’t like his friend. He scared me. An iceman.”

  “The friend came to your place, too, that night?” Sydowski said.

  “No.”

  “So what happened?” Turgeon asked.

  “I let Franklin borrow my camera, which was stupid. He dropped it off the next day and that was the last time I ever saw him. After the news on the girl and Franklin’s suicide, I wiped my camera clean.”

  “Where were they holding her?” Sydowski said.

  “All he said was that it was a safe place.”

  “What about
the mystery man, Mr. Tattoo?” Turgeon asked.

  “I only met him the one time at the bookstore about a month before it happened. I swear.”

  “Why didn’t you tell police this last year?” Sydowski said.

  “Because with my record, I was afraid. And I was afraid Franklin’s friend might come after me.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about Franklin’s mystery friend?”

  “All I know, and I swear to you this is all I remember, is that he is a skinner con from Canada and Franklin once called him ‘Verge.’”

  They released Kindhart, put him under surveillance, then called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Correctional Service of Canada. It was a government holiday in Canada, and with only a first name as an identifier, it was going to take several hours before the Canadians could run checks and start faxing files on possible suspects. Sydowski used the break to see his old man.

  Sydowski was optimistic about the lead. It could be the turning point. Usually he dismissed the mysterious-person-did-it alibi, but there was a mystery man involved in this. Kindhart was in Modesto when Becker was grabbed, that checked out. And Kindhart didn’t fit the suspect’s description. No tattoo. Not even close. Sydowski was driving north, passing Sharp Park when his cell phone rang.

  Maybe the Canadian faxes had arrived. “Sydowski.”

  “Walt, it’s bad.” Turgeon said. “We’ve got another abduction.”

  “Another one!”

  “Five-year-old girl, from her mother in Golden Gate Park. A man in a pickup. Bearded. Fits with the Becker case.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Sydowski hit his emergency lights and siren.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Gabrielle. The little girl’s name is Gabrielle. Her mother kept screaming her name,” seventy-three-year-old Fay Osborne from Ottumwa, Iowa, said as Tom Reed wrote quickly in his notepad.

  He had taken Fay and Arthur, her seventy-five-year-old husband, a retired farmer, aside.

  “This is an unbelievable thing to do to a little girl.” Arthur repositioned his John Deere ball cap each time he patted his sweating forehead with his handkerchief. Reed hid the Osbornes from the other reporters who swarmed Golden Gate Park.