Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Veronica studied the stranger. He seemed okay.

  “Do you have a card?”

  Keller reached into his breast pocket and handed her Frank Trent’s card. Veronica held it thoughtfully.

  “Come in.”

  She went to the telephone table in the hall, flipped through her address book, punched in a number. The line rang and rang, unanswered.

  “Nobody’s home,” she said.

  “Well I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” Keller frowned.

  Veronica didn’t really want to give out Ann Reed’s address in Berkeley, but she didn’t exactly feel beholden to her either. What could be the harm? She copied Ann Reed’s address and number from her book.

  “There you go. Maybe you can reach her yourself, Mr. Trent.”

  Keller accepted the piece of paper and looked at it for the longest time. Strange, Veronica thought, the way he just stared at it, like it was a winning lottery ticket. Finally, he looked her in the eye and smiled with disturbing intensity.

  “God bless you,” he said. “God bless you.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Florence Schafer sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning papers. Her face turned ashen.

  The families, friends, and supporters of Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn displayed yellow ribbons across the city on doors, car antennas, in shop windows, on trees, billboards, and in schools. Volunteers who answered phone tips and went door to door with MISSING-REWARD flyers wore them as arm bands. When they came to her house, Florence agreed to hang one from her mailbox. A group of mountain climbers affixed a giant yellow bow on the south spire of the Golden Gate. It was the manifestation of collective anguish and hope the children would come home alive. Consequently, the San Francisco press called the investigation “The Yellow Ribbon Task Force.”

  Days after Gabrielle’s kidnapping, the case remained front-page news and the lead or second item of every local newscast. And when the President and First Lady offered sympathy to the families of “San Francisco’s tragedy,” during a presidential visit to the city, Tanita Marie Donner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn became household names across the country. The national press gave the story strong play.

  Florence placed The San Francisco Star flat on the table and sighed. Her reading glasses fell from her face, catching on her chain, and she massaged her temples. The kettle screamed to a boil. Feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders, she made a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea. What was she going to do? She had to do something. The faces of Tanita Marie Donner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn beckoned from the paper. Buster, her budgie, chirped from his perch in his cage by the kitchen window.

  “What should I do, Buster? I’ve called the police three times and no one has come to see me.”

  What had she done wrong? She had told the police she heard Tanita Donner’s killer confess to God that he murdered her. She left her name and number. The last officer she talked to was like the others. He didn’t believe her, she could tell. He kept asking how old she was, did she live alone, and as a devout Catholic how often did she go to church, what kind of medication did she use? He thought she was an old kook. She knew. He doubted her because she wouldn’t give him details or proof she heard the killer confess.

  Now she had proof.

  Florence’s Royal Doulton teacup rattled on the saucer as she carried it to her book-lined living room. She found comfort in this room where she enjoyed her crime books, but nothing in them had ever prepared her for this. The real thing. She was scared.

  Time to check it, once more. She could only stand to hear a little bit. Florence picked up the cassette recorder, and pushed the play button. The tape hissed, then Father McCreeny cleared his throat.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” he urged the person in the confessional.

  “It’s me again,” the killer said.

  “Why haven’t you turned yourself in? I implore you.”

  The killer said nothing.

  “Are you also responsible for the kidnappings of Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

  Silence.

  “I beseech you not to harm the children, turn yourself in now.”

  “Absolve me, priest.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You took an oath. You are bound. Absolve me.”

  “You are not repentant. This is a perverted game for you. I do not believe you are truly sorry. There can be no benediction.”

  Silence. A long moment passed. When the killer spoke again, his voice was softer. “Father, if I am truly repentant, will I receive absolution and the grace of Jesus?”

  McCreeny said nothing.

  “I need to know, Father. Please.”

  Silence.

  “Father, you do not understand. I had to kill her. I had to. She was an evil little prostitute. I had to do the things I did to her and the others. Their faces haunt me, but it is God’s work that I do. Franklin helped me with Tanita. He was a Sunday school teacher. He knew the magnitude of my work. That’s why he helped me.”

  “God does not condone your actions. You misinterpret His message and that is what brought you here. Please, I beg you, surrender yourself. The Lord Jesus Christ will help you conquer your sins and prepare you for life everlasting.”

  “We had to cleanse the little harlot of her impurities. We took her to a secret spot I know. Oh, how she screamed. Then we--”

  Florence snapped the machine off and clasped her shaking hands in her lap. She couldn’t bear another word. She had heard every horrifying detail before. She knew what she had to do now.

  She went to her clipping file and retrieved the year-old articles of Tanita Marie Donner’s case, staring at one of the news photos of SFPD Inspector Walt Sydowski. He was in the TV news footage yesterday, a member of the Yellow Ribbon Task Force. His face was warm, friendly, intelligent. He was a man who would understand. A man who knew Tanita’s case, knew people. A man she could trust. She went to the phone and this time, instead of calling the Task Force Hotline, she called the San Francisco Homicide Detail and asked for Sydowski.

  “He’s out now. Like to leave a message?” some hurried inspector told Florence, taking her name, address, and telephone number.

  “Tell him I have crucial evidence in one of his major cases.”

  “Which case? What kind of evidence?”

  “I will only talk to Inspector Sydowski.”

  Florence enjoyed a measure of satisfaction at being in control of her information. At last, she was being taken seriously.

  “He’ll get your message.”

  She sat in her living room, staring at the tape and sipping her tea. Again, she studied the news pictures of the children, their cherub faces. Florence now understood the purpose of her life and no longer felt alone.

  FIFTY

  “They are mine, just like Tanita is mine in paradise. My little NUMBER ONE.” The printed words bled in blue felt tip across a news feature on the Nunn-Becker-Donner case torn from The San Francisco Star. “MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO”, covered the article’s photo of Danny; “MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE”, obscured Gabrielle’s face. The note was signed “SON OF THE ZODIAC” and was accompanied by a Polaroid of the tattooed, hooded man with Tanita Marie Donner on his lap. A picture no one had seen before.

  The items were sealed in a plastic evidence bag which Special FBI Agent Merle Rust slid to Sydowski at the top of the emergency task force meeting at the Hall of Justice.

  Sydowski slipped on his glasses; his stomach was churning.

  “It was intercepted this morning by U.S. Postal Inspectors,” Rust said. “We just got word they caught an identical one for Nunn’s parents an hour ago.”

  “We’re lucky the families haven’t seen these,” Turgeon said.

  “He send copies to the press?” Inspector Gord Mikelson said.

  “We suspect he hasn’t,” Special FBI Agent Lonnie Ditmire said. “No confirmation calls.”

  Rust watched Sydowski crunch on a Tums tab
let.

  “What do you make of it, Walt? You know the file--is it him?”

  “It’s him.”

  “What makes you certain?” Ditmire said.

  “The hold-back is a neatly folded note in blue felt-tip pen that he left in Tanita Marie Donner’s mouth. I told nobody about it.

  “Gonna tell us what it said, Walt?” Rust opened his notebook.

  “‘My little number one.’”

  “Any trace evidence on the note, Walt?” Rust asked.

  The note was clean.

  “Tanita Marie Donner’s mother get one of these Son of Zodiac things?” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales unwrapped a cigar.

  “So far, no,” Ditmire said. “It was mailed three days ago at a box near the BART station at the Coliseum in Oakland.”

  “Ain’t that a coincidence?” Gonzales lit his cigar.

  “We’ll send this stuff to the lab for prints and saliva.” Rust tapped his Skoal canister on the table. “I would say it’s Virgil Shook. We’ve all read his Canadian file. His history gives him a pattern and he matches the profile. You agree, Walt?”

  Sydowski nodded. The new Polaroid, the reference to “MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE,” the article from the Star. It was Shook.

  “Why haven’t we found him?” Nick Roselli, Chief of Inspectors, closed Shook’s file.

  “We’ve got people on that; we’re pushing street sources hard. We’ll get him, Nick.” Gonzales clamped hard on his cigar.

  “Better be right now, Leo. The mayor’s office and the commission are leaning hard on us.” Roselli’s gaze went round the table. “If he grabs another kid before we have him, this city will never forgive us.”

  “Why don’t we splash him? Call a news conference and splash Shook’s face to the world,” Ditmire suggested.

  “He’ll disappear if we do that,” Sydowski said. “He wants to play games like his hero. He’s going to stick around to see what we do. If we can buy a few days, just a few days to find him--I’ve got a few hopeful leads.”

  Turgeon, already angry at Sydowski for not telling her about the hold-back note, barely concealed her surprise.

  “All right.” Roselli gritted his teeth. “We’ll give it a couple days and make a full court press on the street to find Shook. We’ll freeze every undercover operation possible and we’ll hammer the streets until he pops up. But if he goes to the press with this,” he nodded to the intercepted note, “we’re screwed.”

  “What’s the status on everything else?” Roselli said.

  “We like Shook for Donner, but we have nothing to put him to Becker and Nunn, except for the stuff today,” Mikelson said. “Nothing back yet on the blood on Nunn’s severed braids. Shook also matches the general description of the suspect in Becker and Nunn. But it’s not enough.”

  Inspector Randy Baker, a young, bright Berkeley graduate, said they were using the bar code from the meat wrapper found at the Nunn home to pinpoint the store where the hamburger used to lure Gabrielle’s dog was purchased.

  “And we’re using the partial tag we have on the suspect pickup, cross-referencing it with owner’s registration, driver’s license pictures, and specifics to create a suspect pool,” Gonzales said.

  “If that’s it”--Roselli rolled up his file on Shook and slapped it against the table--“then make a goddamn arrest and clear this file.”

  Turgeon was silent leaving the meeting. She didn’t utter a word, walking to the parking lot with Sydowski. But once he started the unmarked Chevy, something inside her ignited.

  “Why, Walt?”

  “I’m sorry, Linda.”

  “But why? Do you know how humiliating that was? Do you have any idea? I thought we were partners. I requested to work with you.”

  “You weren’t my partner then. At the time, I was pretty well working Donner alone. I had to protect the integrity of the case. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But you could’ve told me about the note in her mouth.”

  Sydowski said nothing. What could he say? He was an arrogant Polack and he knew it.

  Turgeon turned away from him, letting the street and the minutes roll by. “What exactly are your ‘hopeful leads,’ Walt?”

  “Well, I’m still hoping for them.”

  Turgeon smiled. “You are a jerk.”

  “I am.”

  “Where you taking me?”

  “We’re going to visit Kindhart, on the job in Hunters Point.”

  “Think we can squeeze anything more from him?”

  “Maybe. If you offer him sex, he might give us Virgil Shook.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Kindhart was not happy to have two Homicide detectives questioning him at his job. He told them that Shook may be living in a Tenderloin flophouse and hanging out at a shelter somewhere. Then he threatened to call a lawyer if they didn’t stop harassing him.

  “Either charge me, or stay out of my face.”

  Sydowski and Turgeon returned to the Homicide Detail. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had called with the names of two of Shook’s associates in the Bay Area. They were new names that weren’t on his file. They came from a relative in Toronto.

  As Sydowski talked on the phone with the Mountie from Ottawa, Turgeon read their messages. She went through them quickly. Routine stuff, so she set the batch down and opened Shook’s file. But something niggled at her. Did one message say something about evidence? Turgeon shuffled them again. Here it was, from a Florence Schafer. Gaines had taken the call.

  “Schafer says she has crucial evidence in one of your major cases, Walt,” Gaines wrote. He ran Schafer’s name through the Task Force hotline. Schafer had called three times before, according to the caller history printout Gaines attached to the latest note.

  “Nutcase?” Gaines scrawled on the printout, underlining the passage where Schafer claims she heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess to God at Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on Upper Market.

  Hadn’t they just built a new soup kitchen there? Turgeon remembered something about it in the papers. She tapped Sydowski’s shoulder. And Catholics confess their sins. She should know. Turgeon tapped harder. And the FBI’s profile said the killer lived in a fantasy world that could be stimulated by religious delusions. Turgeon was now pounding Sydowski’s shoulder, forcing him to cover the telephone’s mouthpiece.

  “Jeez, Linda, what is it?”

  She held Florence Schafer’s messages before his face.

  “Walt, I think we’ve got our lead.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  The yellow ribbon affixed to Florence Schafer’s mailbox quivered in the Pacific breezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her frame house. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, their gaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.

  “Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “This is Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on a case?”

  “May I see your identification?” Florence said. She saw their unmarked car parked on the street. None of her neighbors appeared at the windows. Florence inspected their badges.

  “Please come in.”

  Turgeon took in the living room, raising her eyebrows at Florence’s books. All were about crime. Sydowski went to Buster, who was chirping on his perch, preening his olive green plumage.

  “He’s a beautiful Scotch Fancy,” he complimented Florence, accepting a china cup of tea and joining her on the sofa. She sat on the edge so her feet could reach the floor.

  “You know something about canaries, Inspector?”

  “I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”

  “It must be a relaxing hobby for a man in your line of work.”

  “It can be.”

  Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragrance of guest soap, reminding her of childhood visits to her grandmother’s home. Doilies
under everything, even the King James Bible on the coffee table. Turgeon kept her tea on her lap. “Excuse me, Florence. I’m curious. Why so many crime books?” she said.

  “Oh, yes, well crime is my hobby.” She smiled at Sydowski. “May I please see your shield again, Inspector?”

  Sydowski obliged her. It was obvious Florence was happy to have company. Too happy, maybe. Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged quick glances. They’d give this nutbar another five minutes.

  Florence admired the shield with the city’s seal and motto in Spanish. Oro en paz, fierro en guerra. “Gold in peace. Iron in war.” Florence said. “I know the city’s crest and motto. I’m a retired city tax clerk.”

  “Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “You called Homicide and said you heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess?”

  “Yes, I did.” She returned Sydowski’s ID.

  “You said you have evidence of that confession?” Sydowski said.

  “Yes.”

  “What sort?” Turgeon produced her notebook, but didn’t open it.

  “He must never know it came from me. I’m afraid.”

  “Who must never know?” Sydowski said.

  “The killer.”

  “We’ll keep it confidential,” he said. “What is your evidence?”

  “It’s on tape. I taped him confessing.”

  Sydowski and Turgeon looked at each other.

  “It’s on tape?” Sydowski was incredulous.

  “I’ll play it for you. I have it ready.” Florence left the room to get it.

  “Walt?” Turgeon whispered.

  “I don’t believe this.”

  Florence returned with a micro-cassette tape recorder. She set it next to the Bible, turned the volume to maximum and pressed the play button. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices sounding otherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For the first few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he could not absolve him because he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he was sorry, he should go to police and give himself up.