Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “Yeah, we’ve got him,” huffed a CHP officer. “No problem here. No weapons.”

  Turgeon and Sydowski arrived minutes after the arrest, with Turgeon blasting the siren, jolting slow-moving rubberneckers out of their way. Half a dozen officers were at the scene, four cruisers with front doors open, emergency lights pulsating, surrounded the pickup, radio calls competing with the chopper above.

  An officer was talking to a man in the backseat of one car. In the front of another car an officer talked with a little girl, while a blond dog panted in the rear seat behind the cage. Motorists slowed to gawk. A few tourists nearby watched with worried, puzzled faces as officers searched the interior of the pickup’s cab. Sydowski clipped his shield to his jacket and groaned. Also watching were TV news crews and newspaper photographers. Reporters were talking to people, taking notes.

  “Those guys are fast.” Turgeon shook her head.

  The Chevy’s Michelin radials screeched as they skidded to a halt next to the pickup. Sydowski had his door open before the car stopped and a highway officer glanced at his shield.

  “San Francisco PD?” The officer shouted over the chopper.

  “That’s right,” Sydowski said, noticing the stripes and the name plate of Sergeant Marvin Miller.

  “This is Inspector Turgeon,” Sydowski said. “Mind if we talk to these people?” Turgeon went to the car holding the driver. Sydowski went to the car with the little girl, opened the cruiser’s passenger door, and squatted beside the girl. She was terrified.

  “Excuse me, officer.” Sydowski did not take his eyes from the girl. “Hi there. I’m Inspector Sydowski. I’m a police officer, too.”

  She nodded.

  “I bet this has got you pretty scared, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. Her chestnut brown hair was in a neat ponytail, tied with a pink bow. Her face darkened. “Was Daddy driving too fast? He says police will stop you if you drive too fast.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Sydowski said. “People shouldn’t drive too fast. You’re a pretty smart girl to know that. Can you tell me your name and how old you are?”

  “My name is Jennifer Corliss. I’m seven years old and I live at 7077 Brownlington Gardens. Where’s my daddy?”

  The dog barked. A retriever pup.

  “This your dog, Jennifer?” Sydowski asked, reaching into his jacket for the Polaroids of Gabrielle Nunn.

  “His name is Sonny Corlis. He lives with me and my daddy and mommy and my little brother, Ethan. Where’s Daddy? We have to go now. Mommy and Ethan are waiting at the cabin.”

  Sydowski held up that morning’s birthday party snapshot of Gabrielle for Miller. Not even close.

  “Daddy’s right over there, Jennifer.” Sydowski nodded to his left. “We’re going to take you to him in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’t we let you sit with Sonny, while we talk to your daddy, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sydowski and Miller started for the second cruiser where Jennifer’s father was being questioned.

  “Say, you Sydowski, from Homicide?”

  “Yup.”

  A smile grew on Miller’s face. “The legend himself. I thought I’d recognized you from the news.”

  Turgeon stopped Sydowski before he got to the car.

  “I don’t think he’s our boy, Walt.”

  “Uh-huh. Well that’s not Gabrielle Nunn back there.”

  Turgeon’s face was taut. “Mr. Corliss is not thrilled with all this attention. He’s pissed off.” Turgeon looked at a business card. “Thoren J. Corliss, executive with a downtown investment group.”

  Sydowski saw Corliss several yards away, out of earshot outside the police car leaning against its front right fender, arms folded resolutely across his chest, ignoring the officer talking to him. Corliss was in his late thirties, early forties. Trim build, thick sandy hair, and a beard, tanned chiseled cheeks. Faded jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Wayfarers hung from his neck. A man who was always in charge. A man who sealed deals on squash courts, knew his way around most foreign capitals. A guy who carried a phone with him everywhere. Likely called his lawyer already, Sydowski thought.

  “He’s demanding to speak to somebody in charge,” Turgeon said.

  “Oh, is that right?” Sydowski said.

  “We ran his name and made some calls,” Miller said. “He’s clean. Checks out. Just picked up his seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer, from school and they’re on their way to the mother and son at their cottage at Bel Marin. That’s their dog, too, a retriever. They fit the damn description circulated. We told him that. Told him the situation.”

  Sydowski rubbed his chin, told Miller his people made the right call, then nodded to the reporters.

  “Marvin, anybody here talk to the press yet?”

  “No. It’s your show.”

  Sydowski turned to Turgeon. “You up to it, Linda?”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Talk to those guys and set the record straight. Tell them we stopped a subject matching the description in the Nunn kidnapping. Don’t give Corliss’ name or any details about the abduction. We’ll give them more at the press conference later.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Talk to the old man here. Send him on his way.”

  Turgeon was uneasy. A few minutes ago, Sydowski was holding Gabrielle Nunn’s traumatized mother, staring into her eyes. She didn’t like the way his jaw was fixed, the way he regarded Corliss.

  “Don’t rough him up, Walt,” she joked.

  Sydowski shoved a Tums into his mouth.

  Thoren J. Corliss drew himself to his full height, standing nearly eye to eye with Sydowski.

  “And who the hell are you?” Corliss snapped.

  Sydowski handed him his badge and identification.

  “Homicide?” Corliss stared at Sydowski. “What is this?”

  “We’re investigating the recent abduction of a little girl, Mr. Corliss. Unfortunately your truck, with yourself, your daughter, and your dog, fit the description of the suspect’s vehicle.”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “I can only offer you our apology. You are free to leave now.”

  “I cannot believe this has happened!” Corliss threw up his hands. “Is this assuring police work? Arresting innocent people?”

  He tossed Sydowski’s shield back at him. “I’m not leaving until I speak to my lawyer.”

  “Why? You haven’t been charged with anything.”

  “I’ve just been arrested. My rights have been violated.”

  “You have been inconvenienced, sir. That is all. Again, I thank you for your cooperation and understanding of the gravity of the situation. Please, Mr. Corliss, I suggest you leave.”

  “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you? I’m going to lodge a formal complaint over this matter. I’ll go to the media, and I’ll sue.”

  Sydowski said nothing.

  “Four police cars pounced on us. My daughter saw her father forced at gunpoint to step out of our truck with my hands in the air and lie on the ground. Like a low-life criminal. We were publicly humiliated. There was a goddamn helicopter hovering over our heads for Christ’s sake. We’re innocent people. I’m a law-abiding taxpayer and I won’t stand for this kind of harassment.”

  Sydowski had enough and stepped closer to Corliss, invading his personal space. “I’ve eaten about as much of this as I can stand, sir. A few hours ago a little girl, about the same age as your daughter, was kidnapped from her mother by a man with a beard, like yours, driving a pickup truck, like yours. He used a dog, like yours, to lure the girl away. A few days ago, a man kidnapped a boy from his father on the subway. These children are gone. Their parents are crazy with fear. The last time this happened, we found the child, a two-year-old girl. She was stuffed in a garbage bag.” Sydowski moved closer to Corliss. “Her throat was cut. I know. I held her corpse.”

  Corliss blinked.

  “Now, why don’t you just trot over
there to the press and tell them how outraged you are. Tell them what a terrible injustice this has been for you. I’m sure the parents of the kidnapped children will thank you. And think what a hero you’ll be to everyone who knows you.”

  Corliss’ adam’s apple bobbed as he absorbed Sydowski’s advice.

  They heard a child’s voice and saw Jennifer Corliss.

  “Daddy!”

  Corliss picked her up in a crushing hug.

  “The police said it was a false alarm. We can go now, Dad.”

  Corliss studied his daughter’s face, kissed her, then he turned to Sydowski. “Then I guess we’ll be on our way.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Four hours after Gabrielle Nunn was kidnapped, scores of reporters crammed into the Hall of Justice cafeteria, which was serving as a press room. Flanked by a number of SFPD brass, detectives, and officers from various jurisdictions, the chief took his seat and prepared to tell San Franciscans a monster was preying on their children. He sipped some water, cleared his throat, and leaned into the microphones heaped on the table before him.

  “Five-year-old Gabrielle Nunn of San Francisco was abducted by a man a short time ago while at a birthday party at the Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park. The suspect drove away with her in a pickup truck, a battered, dark-colored Ford, late 1970’s, plate beginning with a ‘B’ or ‘E’ or ‘8’. We suspect the same man also kidnapped three-year-old Daniel Becker from his father on BART near Balboa Park and are investigating any link to last year’s kidnapping and murder of two-year-old Tanita Marie Donner.”

  Blazing TV lights accentuated the chief’s green eyes. Speed winders whirred with sporadic camera flashes.

  “We have some aspects of Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction we will make public. A month ago, the Nunns’ blond cocker spaniel pup, Jackson, disappeared from their home in the Sunset. We believe the dog was taken by Gabrielle’s kidnapper, who used it today to entice her to go with him.”

  “Another vital lead comes from a family who was videotaping their outing at Golden Gate Park today when Gabrielle Nunn was lured away. They recorded Gabrielle’s abductor. We’ve enhanced the tape and will show it to you. We have since produced a composite of the suspect. Everyone will be given copies of the video, the composite, pictures of Gabrielle Nunn, and her dog.”

  “We’ve expanded our investigation into these crimes by establishing a formal task force consisting of the SFPD, FBI, state, and other agencies. We have a dedicated tip line for any information on these crimes. And the mayor’s office has increased the reward for information leading to an arrest in any or all of the cases to $200,000. Anyone with any information should call us.”

  The chief nodded to an officer. Suddenly, an enlarged color picture of Gabrielle Nunn stared at reporters from the screen overhead. It was one of the Polaroids taken at the party. Gabrielle, eyes bright, and oblivious to the horror looming.

  “What a cute child,” said a reporter near Tom Reed.

  An angel. That’s what Wilson had called her.

  Suddenly the computer enhanced face of Gabrielle’s abductor emerged beside her. A Caucasian, in his late forties, early fifties, bearded, with snakelike strands of blondish hair writhing from under a ball cap. His mouth was like a slit. Large, dark glasses hid his eyes, concealing whatever force was propelling him to hunt her, take her, and ram another stake into San Francisco’s heart.

  Seeing his face next to Gabrielle’s was chilling.

  Reed examined the composite.

  Something was familiar. What was it?

  The officers rolled a large monitor and VCR to the front.

  The chief said, “Now, we’ll show you the videotape. The sequence we’ve edited lasts about twenty seconds. We’ve removed the sound, isolated Gabrielle and the suspect with identifying circles.”

  It was incredible. A hissing snowstorm filled the monitor before the dark-light strobe revolutions of the carousel appeared and the abduction of Gabrielle Nunn was carried out, in slow motion.

  It was surreal.

  Reed took notes.

  The footage was blurry, jittery. Gabrielle and her kidnapper were trapped in halos. It was still difficult to discern the man under the ball cap, glasses, and beard. The tape vibrated, was out of focus. Even in slow motion, his face was indistinct. When he turned, the camera captured his slightly distorted profile. It froze.

  The rapid-fire clicking of the still cameras broke the silence.

  “That’s our best image of Gabrielle’s abductor,” the chief said.

  Reed examined the monitor. Something gnawed at him. The screen was glowing with the suspect’s computer composite.

  Then the video monitor.

  The composite.

  The monitor.

  He swallowed. Hard.

  The man. His beard, his nose, the shape of his head, his build.

  Edward Keller.

  He resembled Edward Keller, the religious nut from the bereavement group. Reed never forgot the people he clashed with. Keller was irrational, telling him how he lost his three children in a boating accident. But Reed could not find any news clippings of Keller’s tragedy. Why? Was Keller a liar? An eccentric? Quoting ancient poetry and Scripture, babbling about his “divine revelation” and his “blessed reunion with his children.”

  Didn’t the FBI’s profile say Danny Becker’s kidnapper was traumatized by a cataclysmic event involving children?

  His blessed reunion with his children.

  Children.

  Are you the specter sent to destroy my work?

  You can rescue them if you truly believe you can.

  Reed found Sydowski among the stone-faced dicks lining the wall. Should he put him on to Keller? But what if he is wrong? What if Keller was just a nut, sick with grief, and Reed sicced the police on him. Especially now? Didn’t Dr. Martin say the anniversary of the tragedy was approaching, always a difficult time for grieving parents? The last time Reed had galloped after a hunch, a man committed suicide, and Ann and Zach left him. Reed tapped his pen against his pad. But two children had been stolen.

  The chief was taking questions. Reed had missed most of them, coming out of his thoughts to catch a stunner.

  “...you found a bloodied body part in the Sunset and it belonged to Gabrielle. Is that true, Chief?”

  The chief was not pleased. “Your information is inaccurate. We found some of Gabrielle’s hair. We believe her abductor cut it to alter her appearance. It is not uncommon in abduction cases.”

  “What about the blood?”

  “We haven’t determined if it’s the abductor’s or Gabrielle’s. And I can’t disclose details on the hair.”

  “Chief, what about the stop made on the Golden Gate?”

  “False alarm. Somebody who resembled the description.”

  “There’s a rumor that a fugitive child-killer from Canada is a suspect and is under surveillance.”

  “We have a number of people we’re checking out. We have no Canadian fugitives under surveillance.”

  “Did you arrest a suspect and let him go?”

  “No. We brought in a few people known to us for questioning.”

  “Do you have any leads on the suspect in the video?”

  “None.”

  “Any ransom calls, demands, or contact from the kidnapper?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about the Becker case, any contact?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think the children have been murdered? Are you dealing with a serial child-killer?”

  “We have no evidence to suggest any homicides. Until then, we work on the assumption they are being held somewhere.”

  “Why do you think the cases are linked?”

  “The similar patterns. Bold, daylight, stranger abductions in each of them. And in the Becker and Nunn cases, the suspect’s description is very similar.”

  “Any theories on the motive behind the cases?”

  The chief turned to FBI Special A
gent Merle Rust, who took the question. “Our psychological profile suggests the suspect’s motivation stems from a traumatic event in his life involving children, abuse, a tragedy.”

  “Sexual abuse?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Chief, anything linked to cult or Satanic involvement? What about a terrorist link to Nathan Becker’s defense contract computer research?”

  “Nothing on all counts.”

  “What do the abducted children have in common? How does this man come to chose Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

  “We have some leads, but we can’t reveal them. Now, before we close here, I just want the people of the Bay Area to know the dangerous situation we’re facing here. Parents should be vigilant with their families at all times and report anything suspicious. Thank you for coming.” The chief was peppered with questions as he made his way out.

  Reed broke from the pack and caught up to Sydowski. “You got a moment, Walt?”

  Sydowski led him down the hall until he found an empty office.

  “Make it quick.” Sydowski closed the door behind them.

  “That footage really the guy?”

  “It’s him. We showed it to Danny Becker’s father.”

  “It is the same guy in Tanita Marie Donner’s murder?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What about the guy you brought in the other day?”

  “I told you, he was a rat who gave us a lead to check.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Can’t tell you. We’re still checking.”

  “Do you think Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn are dead?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What have you got, Walt? What’ve you really got?”

  “Not much. A fuzzy description. Gabrielle’s hair.”

  “You think this guy’s going to strike again?”

  “Off the record? This entire conversation never happened?”

  “What conversation?”

  “I think he will strike again. We’re trying to track him, anticipate his next move. But we’ve got nothing to work with.”

  Reed nodded, and mulled his next thought.

  “I’ve got to go,” Sydowski said.

  “Wait, Walt.” Reed swallowed. “What if I recognize this guy?”