by Rick Mofina
“Well, it’s just--”
Sydowski held a warning finger under Reed’s nose. “Because if you are sitting on information just for the sake of a goddamn story, we’ll come after you harder than we did on Donner. And this time I’ll be leading the charge.”
“He just looked familiar, vaguely familiar. Like somebody I may have met once, but I just can’t place him.” Reed lied and backed off.
“His description fits any one of about two hundred and fifty thousand men in the Bay Area.”
“I was just trying to get some background on the investigation. This is such a huge story.”
Sydowski shook his head incredulously, his face reddening. “You’re wasting my time. We’ve got a child murder and two stolen children and to you guys it’s just a game, just a huge story.”
Sydowski was seething. “It’s so easy for the press, isn’t it? You get us up there, hit us with questions that make us look asinine no matter how we answer. You do your stories and you go home. Not us. We have to find this scumbag, have to breathe, eat and sleep with what he’s done and may do again. It gets personal for us, so don’t come around me playing your smart-ass give-and-take games.”
“We’re affected by this as much as you.”
“Ever see a murdered baby’s corpse? You know what that does to you? You ever have to escort a mother to the morgue to identify the rotting remains of her two-year-old daughter? Then hold her as she cries so hard you swear she’s breaking apart in your arms?”
Sydowski’s eyes were glistening. “Do you know this loser, Tom?”
“I guess not.”
“All right. Then unless you’ve got something substantial to tell me, don’t bother me anymore.” Sydowski left the room.
Reed went to the window and stared at the city.
THIRTY-NINE
The San Francisco Star’s afternoon meeting broke and weekend editor Blake MacCrimmon carried his note-filled yellow legal pad across the newsroom.
The city’s psychopath had stolen another child.
MacCrimmon had called in six reporters on overtime for the story. The Star was coming out with a huge package. MacCrimmon had cleared four inside pages. Deadline was two hours away, but that was not the source of his unease. It was the story. When he saw the shaky footage of Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction, his skin stung; something that hadn’t happened to him since he covered Vietnam. He had four grandchildren who lived near Golden Gate Park. He stopped at Tom Reed’s desk.
“Your story is going to be our main news hit on front. Lead off with something like: ‘Fears that a serial killer is stalking children after a man abducted a five-year-old girl Saturday, days after a three-year-old boy was kidnapped.’”
“How long can I run with it?”
“Forty, fifty inches. Put the footage of the bad guy up high.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve got Molly camped out on the Nunns’ doorstep tonight, in case of a ransom call, or the family talks to the press. We’ll send the night guy to relieve her later.”
“What else have we got going?”
“A Jack Thorne column. It captures the mood: nervous parents keeping their children close, city sharing the Beckers’ and Nunns’ anguish. Color on Gabrielle, her family, the dog connection, the suspect’s psych profile, a summary of the three cases, that sort of thing.” MacCrimmon adjusted his glasses. “Anything you think we should add?”
Reed noticed a back issue nearby with his feature on the bereavement group. Again, he thought of Edward Keller. Maybe he should tell MacCrimmon about his hunch, ask to be freed to quietly investigate Keller. Then again, maybe not.
“You have something on your mind, Tom?”
“No. Sounds like a solid package.”
“Story’s drawing global interest. Other papers in Britain, Japan, and Canada are sending staff here.” MacCrimmon checked his watch, then patted Reed’s shoulder. “Better get busy.”
Reed’s story came together smoothly. After proofing it, he sent it to MacCrimmon’s computer desk.
Reed massaged his neck and looked at Molly Wilson’s empty chair. Tomorrow was going to be another long day with follow-up stories. The mayor was holding a don’t-worry-the-city-is-safe press conference. Exhausted but satisfied, Reed considered leaving to get some sleep, but adrenaline was still coursing through his system. Something hideous had hit the city and he was part of it, secretly experiencing the macabre thrill every crime reporter knew, loathed, and would never truly comprehended. From Salinas to Ukiah, wherever the Star went, people would devour his work, gasp and shake their heads--in office towers, restaurants, airports, malls, schools and kitchens.
Reed knew this and it excited him. It always did.
Reed checked his watch. He wanted to call Ann and Zach just to hear their voices. They hadn’t been together since their lunch in Berkeley. Reed smiled at how Zach was giddy with the good news.
“Soooo?” Zach’s eyes ping-ponged between his parents as he sucked up the last of his strawberry shake. “How long is this going to take?”
“What are you talking about?” Reed said.
“Us getting back together. I can’t wait to tell Gordie we’re moving back.”
Reed exchanged a glance and a smile with Ann.
“We have to talk to Mr. Tilley,” she said.
“You mean the Okie guy who’s renting our house with his wife?”
“Watch your manners, Zach.” Reed said.
“The nice businessman from Tulsa.”
“It’s going to take some time for Mr. Tilley to arrange to find another place before we can move in,” Ann said.
“A couple of months at least,” Reed added.
“A couple of months? Well okay.” Zach burped. “Excuse me.”
“And you are going with me on my business trip to Chicago,” Ann said.
They were going to put the pieces back together. Once they returned to their house, regrouped as a family, he would request a leave and take a crack at his novel and they would put what had happened behind them. It was all they could do. For the rest of their lunch, he stole glances at Ann and Zach, loving them and wondering if the fractures would ever fade. That was a few days ago.
Tilley told them moving out of their house wouldn’t be a problem. He was supposed to get back to Ann with a date.
Reed picked up the phone to call her, but decided it was too late. Zach was likely asleep. He snapped off his computer, slipped on his jacket, and waved to the night desk. Leaving the newsroom, he decided to call Ann and Zach tomorrow. Maybe they’d get together after his shift. He could put some distance between himself and the story.
Reed would be in his lonely bed and asleep within forty-five minutes, and without the help of Jack Daniel’s. He hadn’t touched the booze for five nights now. He did it by focusing on his priorities, Ann and Zach. That’s all he had to do, he told himself, stopping at the bank of reporters’ mail slots, where he found something in his box. What’s this? An ancient Star article taken from a microfilmed back issue with a note from Lillian Freeman, the newsroom librarian. The article was short. No byline. The head was:
THREE S.F. CHILDREN DROWN IN BOATING ACCIDENT
There was a note with the article:
“Tom: I know you wanted this a long time ago but I just found it. Apparently this happened twenty years ago, not ten. Hence the delay. We had little on it. You could check the Chron and the Exam. I left some material marked for you in the reading corner. Hope it still helps. Lillian.”
Reed read the story of how Edward Keller’s children drowned in the Pacific. He was transfixed. He got a steaming mug of black coffee and headed for the newsroom library.
FORTY
Two hours after she had given an emotional news conference on her front lawn, Nancy Nunn was in her bedroom, sedated. Turgeon was still on the phone. Sydowski set his coffee aside, as he steadied himself to see Gabrielle’s brother, Ryan, after somebody told him the eight-year-old had questions.
&nb
sp; Ryan was downstairs with Nancy Nunn’s friend Wendy Sloane and her daughters, Charlotte and Elaine. The family room had the requisite paneling and indoor-outdoor carpeting. A small bar with three swivel stools stood empty at one end, with a Giants’ pennant and a neon beer sign glowing from the wall behind it. Closed tonight. There was a well-worn couch and loveseat set before a big-screen TV. It was a room where a family could snuggle up in front of a movie, or play monopoly, or laugh, or be happy, or anything safe and mundane.
But not tonight.
Tonight it was a sanctuary for the three children huddled on the floor watching a movie. The children were sitting on sleeping bags. Plastic bowls overflowing with popcorn were next to them, untouched. Wendy Sloane was on the sofa, dabbing her face with a crumpled tissue. She saw Sydowski, then looked away. She had seen enough of police to last her the rest of her life; moreover, she would never forgive herself for teasing Nancy about her fears.
Sydowski grunted amicably as he sat with the children on the floor, introduced himself, and invited them to ask any questions that might be on their minds.
The girls were silent, watching the movie.
Ryan turned to Sydowski, his eyes cold and dry.
“Is my little sister dead?”
“We don’t know, Ryan. We just don’t know.”
“How come? You’re a detective right? You’re supposed to know.”
“We haven’t found anything, not a single piece of anything you could think of that would prove Gabrielle has been hurt.”
“But the news said you found her hair and stuff.”
“We think the stranger cut her hair so people wouldn’t recognize her from her picture. We’re going to make a new picture of her. It doesn’t mean she has been hurt.”
Ryan’s face brightened a bit. “That means she could still be all right somewhere?”
“Exactly, but with shorter hair.”
“And that’s really why there’s going to be more searching tomorrow with a helicopter and dogs and everything? Not because you’re looking for her dead body, like the TV news said?”
“That’s right. We’re looking everywhere for your sister and for anything to help us figure out what happened to her, so that we can find her. So far, no matter what anybody else tells you, there is nothing to prove Gabrielle has been hurt. You got that straight from me. That’s my word as a San Francisco Police Inspector. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Excuse me, Walt.” Special Agent Merle Rust took Sydowski aside. “IDENT’s finished with her bedroom. Came up with nothing, zip. We should give it a quick once-over.”
Sydowski agreed, patted Ryan’s shoulder, then left with Rust.
It was like walking into the bedroom of a doll’s house. The two men dwarfed it, casting huge shadows on the walls.
Rust squatted, examining the contents of Gabrielle’s dresser, while Sydowski sat on her bed. Soft pastel, patterned wallpaper with tiny bouquets covered the walls. The ceiling borders were painted a lilac shade. Beautiful, Sydowski thought. A framed piece of embroidery reading: “Gabrielle’s Room” hung above the bed. A multicolored crayon drawing of Jackson, Gabrielle’s puppy, hung on one wall. This was the room of a happy child, like the rooms of Tanita and Danny.
As Rust sifted gingerly through Gabrielle’s dresser drawers, Sydowski ran his fingers over the flowers printed on her comforter. She had been here hours ago. Sleeping, dreaming. Safe. He touched her pillow, traced the frills of the cotton pillow case, and picked up a stuffed pink bear.
“Snuffles,” Rust said.
“Huh?”
“Snuffles, Walt. According to her dad, it’s her favorite possession, after her pup.”
Sydowski touched Snuffles to his nose, inhaling a sweet child’s scent. Rust opened Gabrielle’s closet, crouched down, and inspected the items jammed into it, starting with Gabrielle’s shoes.
“Why in hell are you doing that?” Paul Nunn asked from the doorway. “What could you possibly hope to find?”
Rust and Sydowski exchanged looks.
Nunn’s eyes were still wet and he was exhausted from having endured hours of police interviews. Rust stopped, but remained crouched.
“Paul,” Sydowski began, “everybody has secrets. Even children.”
“Secrets? What secrets?”
“Gabrielle may have been approached by her abductor before. He may have tricked her into keeping it secret. He may have given her something, a little gift.” Sydowski nodded to Gabrielle’s drawing of her dog. “Maybe she hid a drawing, or wrote something.”
Nunn absorbed Sydowski’s rationale. “But we’ve told her and Ryan never to talk to strangers.”
“He may not have been a stranger to her. He may have learned something about you and Nancy to trick her. If he took her dog, then he’s working from a plan.”
Nunn rubbed his stubble, then the back of his neck.
“She’s a good girl, she always tells us everything.”
“You don’t know that,” Rust said.
“What about her hair? You found her braids and there was blood.”
“Well,” Sydowski said, “it’s exactly like we’ve said. We suspect he cut her braids off to change her appearance. She may have struggled and he likely cut himself. If he tossed her hair in the street like he did, it means he was likely in a hurry or afraid he was being watched. It is common for the stranger to want to alter the child’s appearance right away.”
“Why didn’t you tell the press about the suspect?”
“What suspect?” Sydowski said.
“Virgil Shook. I heard some of the detectives talking tonight.”
“He’s a loser we want to check out. We’re waiting for his file from Canada--that’s where he’s from. We’re checking out a lot of people as fast as we can. You should keep his name to yourself.”
“Why? If he’s got my daughter, you should tell the whole world and splash his face across the news.”
“We need every edge we can get. We don’t want the kidnapper to know what we may find out about him. It could blow up in our faces.”
“That’s what happened in the Donner case last year with that guy who committed suicide?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Is this Shook guy connected to that baby’s murder and my girl?”
“There are similarities in all three cases. That’s all we know.”
Paul took a deep breath, his shining gaze going around the room tenderly. His little girl’s room, where he tucked her in, read her stories, brushed away her fears, promising to keep her safe. And now his little girl’s room was somehow violated by the presence of these men--these men who’d looked upon corpses of children, and into the faces of killers. These men who’d touched death, touched evil, were now touching his little girl’s private things. They had invaded a hallowed region and somehow fouled it.
“Do what you have to do.” Nunn left, bumping into Inspector Turgeon, who smiled at him before entering and closing the door.
“What’s the latest, Linda?” Sydowski said.
“IDENT picked up the prints of a pervert from one of the stalls in the girl’s bathroom at the Children’s Playground. Belong to Donald Barrons. He doesn’t look like the composite. We’ve got two people who can put him there about one hour before the abduction. Vice is grabbing him. Barrons likes to expose himself to little girls.
I thought somebody checked him clean on Donner and Becker,” Sydowski said.
“Maybe we should be more thorough this time,” Turgeon said.
“Shook’s file arrive yet?” Rust asked.
“The Mounties promise it by tonight.”
Rust cursed.
“That’s it?” Sydowski said.
“IDENT’s back at daybreak to do the yard and the neighborhood. More searches with volunteers at Golden Gate. DMV’s still working up a pool of suspect vehicles based on the partial plate.”
“What about the tip line?” Sydowski said.
“I call
ed them. Hundreds of calls, kooks, crazies. They’re checking everything, but there aren’t enough bodies, so it’s going to take awhile.”
Sydowski nodded. No one spoke.
The room became quiet, except for Rust sifting delicately through Gabrielle’s clothes. They had nothing. Two children stolen from their parents in broad daylight and they had nothing to give them a degree of hope. Sydowski slipped a Tums into his mouth.
FORTY-ONE
The whipping of the chopper over Golden Gate Park thundered on the TV, then faded as the somber voice of Metro-TV News reporter Vince Vincent described the kidnapping and hunt for Gabrielle Nunn.
Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.
“And tonight, at their Sunset home, Gabrielle Nunn’s mother, Nancy, made a heart-stopping plea to her daughter’s abductor...”
The story cut from the carousel at the park to Nancy and Paul.
Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.
Keller yawned as Vincent summarized the case, how police linked it to Danny Becker’s kidnapping and the unsolved abduction and murder of Tanita Marie Donner last year. The composite of Keller flashed on the screen followed by the dramatic, blurry home-video footage of Gabrielle talking to Keller.
Keller stopped rocking.
There was a description of Keller’s truck, then the missing poster of Gabrielle’s dog, details of her severed braids, a picture showing how she would look with shorter hair. Clips of police going door to door in the neighborhood where they found the hair.
“I saw this man stop and he seemed to be struggling with a child in his truck. I thought it was so strange,” Eva Blair recounted to reporters what she had witnessed near the Walker place that afternoon. “It was unusual, so I called the police.”
Forensic experts searched for clues in the spot where Gabrielle was taken, in the parking lot, and in the secluded area where they found Tanita Marie Donner. Police were in Dolores Park where evidence in the Donner case was found last year. Someone in a pickup was stopped at the Golden Gate Bridge. Garbage collection was halted in Golden Gate Park and around the Sunset. Trash bins were emptied, their contents prodded by officers in overalls and surgical masks. Scores of volunteers, mothers and fathers with their children, walked across sections of Golden Gate Park searching for clues. Police officers and cadets went door to door with pictures of Tanita Donner, Danny Becker, Gabrielle Nunn, and the suspect’s composite. The reward for good tips on the cases was raised to $200,000, and the SFPD and FBI had formed a multiagency task force to investigate.
