by Rick Mofina
“No. Nothing.” Reed sat upright, concerned.
“Just got off the phone with Mumford in circulation. Seems this morning one of our drivers was filling a box near the Hall of Justice when he saw two plain clothes cops bring in a guy in cuffs.”
“Big deal. They arrest people every day.”
“The driver recognized one of the cops. Swears it was this guy.”
Harker unfurled the newspaper to a small photo of an SFPD inspector talking to reporters on the steps of Danny Becker’s Jordan Park home on the day Danny was abducted.
Wilson snatched the paper from Harker. “That’s Walt Sydowski, one of the lead dicks on the Becker and Donner cases! Something must have popped. What do you think, Tom? Tom?”
Reed didn’t hear her. He was at the far end of the newsroom jabbing the elevator button.
The Hall of Justice on Bryant Street had a polished stone lobby and a metal detector all visitors must pass through. Checkpoint Charlie, Reed thought, grabbing his keys from the basket once he was cleared. He caught the UP elevator as its doors were closing, ascended to the fourth floor and room 450, the Homicide Detail, nearly bumping into Inspector Swanson Smith, a soft-spoken man of linebacker proportions, who glared at him from the file he was studying.
“I ain’t buyin’ no subscription today, Reed.”
“I came to buy you coffee.”
“Quit your brown-nosing, I’m too busy.”
“Sydowski in?”
“Why would you insult a great man like that with your presence?”
Reed said nothing.
“Cool your engines, newsman.” Smith turned to summon Sydowski, his handcuffs knocking against the beeper clipped to his hip.
Reed sat, bouncing his knee. Come on. Come on.
Sydowski appeared, a file in his hand.
Reed was relieved to see him. “Inspector. Did you bring somebody to the hall this morning in cuffs?”
“Yes.”
“You did?” Reed opened his notebook. “For Becker or Donner?”
“Those are the priority files right now.”
“Is that a yes, Inspector?”
“Thomas, put your notebook away.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to explain something to you.”
“I don’t want to hear anything I can’t use.”
“Well you better leave then. It’s up to you.”
Reed stared at him. “All right,” he said, tucking his notebook in his jacket. “Probably going to see it in the Chronicle or Examiner, anyway. Seems every time I play by the rules, I get screwed.”
“You’ve got a great attitude,” Sydowski said.
“Wonder how I got it.”
“Sit down.” Sydowski nodded to the wooden chairs lining the detail’s small reception area. “We brought a guy in this morning who we think may have known somebody we remotely suspect in one of the files. That’s all I can tell you. Sit tight, we may have more later.”
“Sure, I’ll read all about it in the Chronicle or Examiner.”
“I don’t have time for your wounded pride.”
“What I went through over Wallace was a little more than wounded pride, Walt.”
“Nothing I can do about history.”
“You know I was right about Wallace.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You screwed up, boychik. Using me as confirmation when I didn’t give you anything. I told you to sit on what you had. Going to Wallace with your tip before we could talk to him so he could do himself, do you know what that cost us?”
“Do you know what it cost me?”
“Your problem is, you’re too stupid to realize when someone is being nice to you.”
“And you can’t stand it when someone like me digs something up. Let’s talk about wounded pride. Yours.”
Sydowski stood. “Look, I’ve got one murdered child, maybe two.” He bent down, his face so close Reed could smell the coffee and garlic on his breath. “You better quit playing amateur detective and stay out of my way, understand?”
“Thanks for all your help, Walt.” Reed stood. “Next time I get a piece of information about a case, I’ll wipe myself with it.”
Reed slammed the door behind him, thumbed the elevator button with all of his weight, then snapped through his notebook for a clean page. Calm down, he told himself. Okay, he could try a few other sources. Sure. He had so many these days. Damn it, what was he going to write? That they brought in a guy they think may know a suspect. It was thin.
While searching his notebook for an answer, anything, Reed saw his notes from Martin’s bereavement group. Edward Keller’s stuff.
“…Zoran. A water death...I was being punished for living a lie...When my children died, I died but was born again...The revelation...The Divine Truth...I will be with my children again...You can only rescue them if you truly believe you can...Every day I prepare for my blessed reunion...I’ve read your stories about Danny Becker ...”
The FBI’s profile, “traumatized by cataclysmic event involving children... stimulated by... religious delusion” fit Keller like a glove.
Yes it did. But why did he have such a weird feeling about Keller? He did fit the general description of Danny Becker’s kidnapper, but so did thousands of bearded Caucasians in the Bay Area. But why couldn’t he find any old stories about Keller’s case in the news library? Not one. He went back ten years. It was puzzling that he couldn’t find a single item about a businessman losing his three children in a boating accident near the Farallons. Maybe he missed it? He should look again. Maybe use the Net.
Outside, on the steps of the hall, Reed thought he’d better cool the Keller theory. Get a grip. He would never admit that in a dark corner of his heart he nurtured doubts that Franklin Wallace was Tanita Donner’s killer. Now, in the span of minutes, he got some poor grief-stricken born-again pegged as a child-killer. Why?
Because he loathed religious extremists? Or was it the gleam of self-righteousness in Keller’s eyes? Because he was mad at Sydowski? Because he was anxious about getting back together with Ann? Who knew? But there was something about Keller. Reed wondered about Keller’s story. Was his tragedy true? Why would he lie about it? If it was true, it would make a good read, especially with the anniversary of the drownings coming up. Sliding behind the wheel of his Comet, studying his notes, Reed decided to do some discreet digging on Keller, to see where it went.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Padding to the porch for her morning paper, Nancy Nunn looked for Jackson. Where was that dog? Reaching for her paper, she surveyed the street for her five-year-old daughter’s cocker spaniel, hoping to spot him, snout to the ground, sniffing his way home. Gabrielle yearned for him. She and Jackson had been inseparable since the Christmas morning she found the blond, long-eared pup under the tree. Then one night last month he vanished from the backyard.
Gabrielle was shattered.
The next day the family plastered missing-reward posters throughout the neighborhood. Nancy and Ryan, Gabrielle’s older brother, knocked on doors. Paul, Gabrielle’s dad, drove for blocks, with Gabrielle calling for Jackson from the car. Where was Jackson? Paul was not convinced he ran off. But what else could have happened? Whatever, it didn’t matter. They had to do something. Certain Jackson was not coming back, Nancy and Paul planned to surprise Gabrielle with a new pup for her sixth birthday in two weeks.
No fog this morning.
Nancy checked the street once more for Jackson, groaning at The San Francisco Star’s headline. It was CHILD ABDUCTOR MAY STRIKE AGAIN, FBI FEARS with the kicker, “Man Who Took Danny Psychologically Scarred.” She bolted her door and went to the kitchen.
Nancy rarely read news stories. Taking care of her husband, a firefighter, and their two children while holding down a part-time job left her no time to digest the pound of information slapped on her doorstep each morning. She took the Star for the coupons.
Danny Becker’s kidnapping had made Nancy vigilant, especially when Paul was at work.
She looked in on Gabrielle and Ryan frequently while they slept, rechecked the locks of their house, reminding herself the Sunset was a safe neighborhood, the best place in the city to raise kids. She was coping as rationally as could be expected, remembering how earlier, talking to Paul about it, she sought something positive in Danny Becker’s abduction.
“Maybe now police will catch the killer. Maybe this new case gives them a lead and they’ll find Danny safe.”
“Police?” Paul scoffed. “Like with the Zodiac, Nance? The cops never caught him. Don’t hold your breath for the police to stop this guy. A .45 in the head is what it’s going to take. And it won’t come from the cops, it’ll be some kid’s old man.”
Nancy was grateful Paul restrained himself from displaying his Remington, out of respect for her abhorrence of guns. While the Sunset was largely unscathed by crime, she now found comfort in the fact her husband, a former U.S. Marine sergeant, still kept his gun.
This morning, in her kitchen, Nancy read the latest news about the abduction. Offer more reward money, she thought. Somebody in this city knows where Danny Becker is.
The kitchen phone rang. She got it.
“Hey there, Nance!” said Wendy Sloane, her neighbor and best friend.
“Hey yourself.”
“They still haven’t caught the creep yet. The Chron figures he’s a parolee from a prison for child molesters. What’s the Star say?”
“He’s playing some kind of fantasy in his head and he’ll strike again. Hi, handsome.” Ryan, Gabrielle’s eight-year-old brother, came yawning into the kitchen, pajama clad, and hugged her. “Can you start your own breakfast while Mom’s on the phone?”
He pulled a box of cornflakes from the cupboard.
“Paul home?” Wendy asked.
“No. He’s working. What are your two up to, with no school today?”
Wendy had two girls. Charlotte was nine and Elaine was seven.
“Fretting about the birthday parties coming up. Joannie Tyson’s is in a few days and then Gabrielle’s. They’re excited about Gabrielle’s because they think she is prettier than Joannie and Joannie’s party is going to be so big.”
“Lady, your daughters are cruel.”
“They’re running around deeply concerned about what to wear and who’s going to be there to impress.”
“You’re raising a pair of debs. How proud you must be.”
Both women laughed.
“Nancy, you’re still taking Gabrielle to Joannie’s party, right? You’re not going to overreact to this kidnapping crap?”
“I considered not going, but I don’t want to scare the kids. Besides it would be rude not to go to Joannie’s party, then expect her to come to Gabrielle’s.”
“There you go, girl.”
Nancy could hear Wendy’s smile and it warmed her to know they were friends. They had met at the Better Food Value Mart in Stonestown, where they were part-time cashiers. When they learned they lived near each other in the Sunset, they became pals. Wendy was a big-hearted Texan from Austin who adored country music and joked about writing her own tune, “Livin’ ’n Lovin’ in the Fogbelt.” Her husband, Rod, was a welder who drank a bit. But he did have two saving graces. He brought home a regular paycheck and he could two-step. “I’ll hang on to him. Until a better dancer with a bigger paycheck comes along.”
Nancy and Wendy chatted every day on the phone and routinely packed juice, snacks, a thermos of coffee, the kids, and walked the few blocks to the playground between Moraga and Lawton. They gossiped while their children played. Today was a playground day.
“Meet you there in an hour,” Nancy said.
“You got it.”
“Wendy...?”
“Yes?”
“Bring your copy of today’s Chronicle?”
“Oh, you old worrywart! Sure, I’ll bring it.”
Don’t give in to a siege mentality, Nancy told herself. Be realistic. Keep an eye on Gabrielle and Ryan. That’s all she had to do.
In the living room, Nancy inspected the new flower print dress she had made for Gabrielle’s birthday party. She stayed up late to finish it. It was draped over a sofa chair. Tracing her fingers over her fine needlework, she smiled, then returned to the kitchen where Ryan was starting on a second bowl of cornflakes.
“Can I join scouts today, Mom?”
“We’ll talk about it later, okay? Get dressed when you’re done. We’re going to the playground.” She kissed the top of Ryan’s head.
After showering, Nancy slipped on a pair of old Levi’s and a Blue Jays T-shirt. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail while her full-length mirror reflected a figure women envied and men enjoyed.
Gabrielle’s room was the freshest smelling room in the house. At times Nancy was certain she detected the lingering fragrance of baby powder. Were her senses deceiving her? Or, was it merely part of the bittersweet experience of watching her daughter grow up, knowing that one day she would be gone? Nearly six years old and already peering over the edge of the nest. Recently, a poster of Leonardo DiCarprio had replaced one of Big Bird. Taped to the wall above Gabrielle’s night stand was a snapshot of her hugging Jackson. It broke Nancy’s heart.
Sensing a presence, Gabrielle stirred, then woke.
“Hi, sleepyhead.”
Gabrielle rubbed her eyes.
“Time to get up. We’re going to the playground.”
“Know what, mom?”
“What?”
“I dreamed Jackson was in my bed, licking my face!”
“You’ll always have him in your dreams, sweetheart.”
“I know. But it’s not the same as for real.”
“We’re going to see Letty and Elaine, so rise and shine.”
Wendy waved from their usual park bench. “Good morning, Nunns!”
The children called to each other.
“Boy, the joint’s jumping this morning.” Nancy deposited herself beside her friend and unscrewed the coffee thermos. “I remember the days when we used to have the place to ourselves.”
“You sound like an old lady.”
The children scampered to the swings. Charlotte, Gabrielle, and Elaine held hands. Ryan trotted behind them. The women enjoyed their coffee and watched a pair of teenage lovebirds snuggling on a bench to their left. A few yards away, on a tattered blanket under a tree, a scrawny man wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a Haight castaway, was reading. To their right, a bearded man in sunglasses and a fedora sat alone with his newspaper. He caught Nancy’s glance, and nodded. He went back to his newspaper, which reminded her of something.
“Did you bring your Chronicle?”
Wendy produced her rolled edition from her bag.
Nancy began reading, gasping at the speculation that Danny Becker’s kidnapper was a paroled pervert. She slapped the paper on the bench, looked over at Ryan and Gabrielle. If anything ever happened to them, it would kill her.
“How can you be so calm about it?”
“Look at it logically. A zillion people live in the Bay Area. Look at the odds. You’d win the lottery before this guy came after your kids.”
Nancy considered it. “What would I do without your Texas common sense?”
“You’d go crackbrained and lock yourself up with the kids. Oprah would do a live show on your lawn. ‘Mrs. Nunn, it’s been twenty years since the Bay Beast last struck--are you willing to let your grown children out of the house now?”
They laughed, poured more coffee, then discussed Joannie Tyson’s seventh birthday party at the Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park. Of all places, they groaned. Well, it was a huge park and still a beautiful choice for a little girl’s giant birthday party, they agreed. Thirty kids. Wendy was saying something about Joannie’s mom going overboard when they heard the scream. A child’s scream. They took instant head counts. All children were accounted for. All standing. None bleeding. Gabrielle was screaming. Nancy caught her breath, realizing Gabrielle was not hurt.
“A puppy! A
puppy! Look, Mommy, a puppy, just like Jackson!”
A teenage girl with a cocker spaniel tugging at a leash in front of her rushed near them. Gabrielle was poised to run to the dog.
The bearded man on the bench to their right looked up from his newspaper at Nancy calming her daughter.
“Shh-shh, honey. He’s a nice puppy, just like Jackson, but he’s not Jackson. You have to try to stop thinking about him. It’s hard, but you have to try.”
Nancy arched an eyebrow, a signal for Wendy’s help.
“Tell me, princess,” Wendy chirped. “are you all set for Joannie’s monster birthday party?”
Gabrielle’s fawn eyes could melt an iceberg. “Letty and Elaine and me are going to ride the carousel and have birthday cake.”
Gabrielle skipped back to the others.
“Thanks, pal.” Nancy slapped Wendy’s shoulder.
“What are you guys going to do about her puppy-dog blues?”
“We’re surprising her with a new pup on her birthday.”
“Might be the cure.”
As they talked, the bearded man eavesdropped, appearing to be completing the crossword puzzle of his carefully folded newspaper. In fact, he was making notes--notes about Gabrielle Nunn, who would be six soon, about Jackson, her missing cocker spaniel, and Joannie Tyson’s upcoming birthday at Golden Gate Park. It would be a large party with thirty children. Chaos. The man made precise notes about the time and location.
Then Edward Keller put the pencil stub in his breast pocket. He loved today’s news, the part about religious delusions. How could mortals distinguish between delusion and divine revelation? Keller strolled from the playground, tapping his folded newspaper against his leg. Behind him he heard the Angel Gabriel’s laughter and he was bathed in the light of truth.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.
Keller praised God for his help.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gabrielle Nunn joined the chorus of shrieking girls spinning in the tub of the carousel. Its ancient organ huffed a mazurka and Gabrielle was the happiest she had been in weeks, almost forgetting that her dog Jackson had disappeared.
