by Rick Mofina
The killer remained lost in his own fantasy world.
“...We took her to a secret spot I know in the Tenderloin. Oh, how she screamed...Then we took her...”
Turgeon struggled with her composure as the killer cheerfully detailed what he did to Tanita. She kept her head down, taking notes, bile seeping up the back of her throat.
The priest was gasping, begging the killer to surrender.
Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita Marie Donner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the details the confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to the recounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Like the missing pieces of a shattered glass doll, every aspect came together, matching the unknowns. This lead broke the case. But it came at a price. The killer’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy kill Gabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to the families?
MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.
MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.
MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.
Was it a countdown? Were they going to find more little corpses?
The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him, her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years of cynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought was impenetrable.
In death, she had become his child.
But sitting there in Florence Schafer’s living room, his face was a portrait of indifference, never flinching, never betraying his broken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that kept you alive. The tape ended.
“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” he said.
“I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his last name.”
Turgeon was writing everything down.
“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snake and flames. A white man, mid-forties, about six feet, medium build, salt-and-pepper beard, and bushy hair.”
“Where does he live?” Sydowski said.
“I don’t know.” Florence looked at Turgeon taking notes, then at Sydowski. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she said, “Please, please, he must never know I’ve spoken to you. I’m afraid of him.”
“It will be okay, Florence,” Sydowski said. “Now, is there anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch with Virgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”
Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the church almost daily, to the shelter.”
“At the shelter, does he mention the children, Danny Becker, Gabrielle Nunn? Talk about the news, that kind of thing?”
“Oh, no.”
“Is he friends with anyone at the shelter?”
“Not really. He keeps to himself.” Florence sniffed. “Inspector, what if he has the other children with him? I pray for them. You have to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezed her tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around again soon.”
Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was the right thing to do.”
Florence nodded. She was terrified.
“You are a good detective, Florence,” he whispered.
A warm, calm sensation came over her. Her search for the meaning and purpose of her life had ended.
Buster chirped.
“May I use your phone?” Sydowski asked.
FIFTY-TWO
Some twenty-five miles south of San Francisco along Highway 1, Reed pulled into Half Moon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling green hills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochure for heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gulls shrieking in the briny air.
He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippings of Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratched their heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half an hour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he had talked to earlier jogged up to him.
“Try Reimer,” she said.
“Who?”
“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter for dinosaurs. If anyone would remember that story, Reimer would.”
“Where do I find him?”
She glanced at her watch.
“Gloria’s on Main Street. Go there and ask for him.”
“Thanks.”
Reed was optimistic. He had to be on to something with Keller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to Half Moon Bay, he had driven to Philo, where Keller’s wife, Joan, had grown up. After checking the old Keller mansion on Russian Hill and reading Joan’s diary, he figured it was a logical place to go. But no one he talked to in town remembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a club sandwich at a Philo diner, it struck him that before heading for Half Moon Bay, he should stop at the cemetery. Maybe Joan was buried there.
The groundskeeper was a helpful gum-snapping university student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into the duty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped through the cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CD headset, it was quiet and soothingly cool. “All right.” He pulled a card, bobbing his head to his music and mumbling. “Section B, row two, plot eight. Far northwest edge, lots of shade.”
Keeping a vigil at the Keller gravesite was a huge white marble angel. Its face was a sculpture of compassion, its outstretched wings protecting the polished granite headstone. Over Joan’s name and those of her children Pierce, Alisha and Joshua, their birth and death dates, the epitaph read:
If angels fall,
I shall deliver them
And together we will
Ascend to Heaven
An icy shiver coiled up Reed’s spine. Inscribed next to Joan and the children’s names was Edward Keller’s. His death date remained open. A fresh bunch of scarlet roses rested at the base of the headstone with a note reading: “Forever, love, Dad.”
Reed swallowed.
The ages of Danny Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Nunn matched the ages of Joshua and Alisha Keller when they drowned.
Raphael and Gabriel were angel names.
If angels fall, I shall deliver them and together we will ascend to Heaven.
This supported Molly’s theory. Had Keller carved his plan in their headstone? Did Keller think Danny and Gabrielle were surrogates he required for some twisted mission?
If he could just find Keller. Talk to him. Size up his place. He grabbed his cell phone and punched Molly Wilson’s extension in the newsroom. He got her voice mail. He left a message.
They had to find Keller. And they didn’t have much time. Reed traced the gravesite roses to a Philo flower shop where Keller paid for them. He was pulling up to Gloria’s on Main Street in Half Moon Bay when his phone rang. It was Wilson.
“Tommy, where the hell are you?”
“Half Moon Bay.” Trying to find a guy who may know Keller. You have any luck locating Keller?”
“Zero. You’d better get back soon--something’s up on the case.”
“What?”
“Nobody knows. It’s just the buzz going ’round.”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got a small lead on Keller. He bought flowers a few weeks ago for his family plot in Philo. He bought them through Elegant Florists in San Francisco. See if you can get an address for him from the shop. Do it now, we’ve got to find him.”
“Sure, Tom. But you’d better get back here at warp speed. The boss is wondering what you’re up to and I don’t think I can cover for you much longer.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Gloria’s was a postcard-perfect seaside diner. Red-checked gingham covered the tables, the aroma of home cooking filled the air. Only a handful of customer
s: two women, real estate agents judging from their blazers, examined listings over coffee at one table; and a young couple ate hamburgers at another. Reed took the rumpled old salt, reading a newspaper alone at a window table, to be Reimer.
“Excuse me.” He stood before the man, keeping his voice low. “I’m looking for a gentleman named Reimer, who runs charter.”
“You found him.” Reimer had a friendly face. Reed handed him his card, and explained that he needed help with an old drowning case. He showed the old clippings to Reimer just as the waitress set a mushroom-smothered steak sandwich and fries before him. After reading the articles, Reimer removed his grease-stained cap and ran a hand through his wispy white hair. “I’m listening, lad.” Reimer cut into his dinner.
Reed sat and was careful not to mention the abductions, telling Reimer how he met Keller for the bereavement group piece, and that it was vital he find him again for another story he was researching.
“’Fraid I can’t help you.”
“You don’t know this case?”
“Oh, I know it.” Reimer chewed. “Was here when it happened. Terrible thing. They never found the children’s bodies and old Ed Keller never got over it. Wife killed herself, you know.”
“How do you know that he never got over it?”
“Well”--Reimer chewed some more--“he comes here and hires me couple times a year to run him to the Farallons, the spot where they drowned.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Reimer thought. “Couple months ago.”
“He say anything to you?”
“Never speaks.”
“Got any credit card receipts from him?”
“Always pays cash.”
“How long has he been doing this?”
“Ever since it happened.”
“You know where he lives?”
Reimer shook his head.
“What does he do out there, when you get to the spot?”
“He drops a wreath of flowers and mutters to himself, things like how he’s going to bring them back. It’s sad.”
“What do you make of it all?”
Reimer scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble, his leathery, weather-weary face creased. “Tom, I’ve run charter in the Pacific all my life and I’ve seen a lot of strange things. But I never seen anything like Ed. Can’t let go of the past, can’t accept that what’s done is done and ain’t nothing he can do. But you know something?”
“What’s that?”
“He thinks otherwise. Thinks he can change history. I think he’s got some kind of plan percolating in his mind.”
“What makes you believe that?” Reed’s cellular phone trilled. “Excuse me.” He fished it from his pocket.
“Tom, hustle your ass back here!”
“Molly, did you get Keller’s address?”
“I’ll tell you when you get back—something’s up!”
“Tell me now, Molly. Did you get an address?”
“He bought the flowers with a check through a Fargo bank. I’m outside the branch across from the paper. I went in, said I was his daughter, making a fifty-dollar deposit into his account for his birthday. They took the money. I asked if their records showed his ‘new’ address. Teller said the address they had was a P.O. box.”
“Nice try.”
“Wait, the teller said I should check Keller’s branch, which is near Wintergreen Heights. At least we can put him there. But it might not matter now.”
“Why?”
“Rumors are flying that the task force has a suspect.”
“Is it our guy, Molly?”
“Damned if I know. No one has a name or anything. Just get back here! Something’s going to break on this, I can just feel it!”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
“One more thing, your wife called from Chicago. She and Zach are arriving earlier than she planned. She wants you to pick them up. American, ten a.m., tomorrow.”
Reed thanked Reimer as he slipped the phone into his pocket and stood to leave. Then he remembered something. He reached into his breast pocket for two small stills of the blurry home video of suspect in Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction.
“You recognize that guy?”
“These are from those kidnappings in the city. Seen ’em on TV.”
“Look like anybody you know?”
Reimer studied the pictures, shaking his head.
“Does it look like Keller?”
“Could be anybody.”
Reed nodded and took the pictures back. “I’m sorry, you mentioned something about Keller having a plan?”
“Right, well, Ed is drowning in his grief and guilt. It’s obvious. Well, when we returned from the charter, he told me the time had come to buy his own boat.”
“Why?”
Reimer sucked through his teeth and shrugged. “I figured it was so he could take himself out there whenever he wanted, like I told him. You know, he’s never driven a boat since that night?”
“That’s it?”
“I guess. ’Cept he kept muttering about destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“Yup. Said he needed a boat for destiny.”
“That’s all he said?”
Reimer nodded, staring hard at Reed. “You think he grabbed those kids from the city, don’t you?”
Reed put two five-dollar bills on the table. “Who knows? Thanks for your time. I’ve got to get going.”
Reed barely noticed the drive to downtown San Francisco. The epitaph from the Kellers’ headstone was stuck in his head, like a nursery rhyme...If angels fall.
FIFTY-THREE
Molly Wilson stood at The San Francisco Star Building’s side entrance, tapping her notebook against her thigh, watching the parking lot until she spotted Reed and ran to him.
“Tom! Don’t go upstairs! It’s Benson.”
“What about him?”
“I’ve never seen him like this. He’s pissed at you.”
“Where’s the news in that? The man hates me.”
“He’s white hot like he was last year over Donner.”
Reed stared at her. “What going on up there, Molly?”
“He wants to know what you are working on, where you are.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No. I did the best I could to cover. I told him you were checking a lead on a suspect in the kidnapping. It seemed to work. He never asked about you after that. That was yesterday.”
“You didn’t mention Keller?”
“No, I told you.”
“Okay, then what?”
“Today the rumors are flying from the hall that the task force definitely has a suspect and Benson asked me about it. I didn’t know anything, nobody at our place knew anything. You know anything?”
Reed knew nothing new. He was busy chasing Edward Keller.
“When I told Benson we didn’t know about the suspect rumors, he went ballistic. He was furious that no one knew where you were. He tried to find you, started calling people. When he got nowhere, it was straitjacket time. He wants to see you.”
Reed swallowed.
“Tom, I did the best I could. I’m sorry.”
“Where are you going now?”
“He’s kicked me over to the hall to chase the suspect rumors.”
Wilson removed her keys from her bag, then touched Reed’s shoulder. “Remember, Tom, he’s not like us. He’s not human. Keep repeating that to yourself and don’t let him get to you.”
Reed glanced up at the building. “He wants me fired, Molly.”
Myron Benson gestured sharply at Reed through the glass walls of his office. He wanted Reed to enter.
“Shut the door,” Benson said.
Reed sat at the round polished table across from Benson. The table, like Benson’s office, was clutter free. He was studying a file, his clean-shaven face was like silly putty, and his fine web of vanishing hair accentuated his huge ears. The edges of his mouth curled into a smirk
as his rodent-like eyes fixed on Reed.
“Your recent personnel file is a horror story. You are just not the reporter you used to be, Tom.”
Benson’s condescending tone brushed over Reed’s pent-up animosity, like a hair caressing a detonator.
Benson was a bureaucratic ballast who, years ago, walked into the Star off the street and passed himself off as an up-and-coming reporter to an old editor, who hired him and died two weeks later. Benson had to ask other reporters how to spell words like “sheep”, “equal”, and “idiot”. One day he could not find Seattle on a U.S. map and wondered aloud if anyone knew San Francisco’s area code.
Facts that could never be confirmed began surfacing in Benson’s copy. When he learned the paper was going to fire him, he stole a tip called in for another reporter and broke a major story about police corruption, to which the other reporters were assigned to help. The Star’s publisher, Amos Tellwood, congratulated Benson personally on his “fine, fine work.” Benson parlayed the old man’s favor and was soon a regular guest at the Tellwood Estate in Marin County. He began dating Tellwood’s only child and heiress, his daughter, Judith. She was an awkward woman, so neglected by her family that she immediately fell in love with Benson. He acknowledged her existence and she guaranteed his at the Star by marrying him. He had three children and several promotions by her.
Every newsroom has at least one Myron Benson, an editor who not only knows little of what is happening on the streets of his city, but would be lost on them. Benson rarely read his own product; it taxed his attention. Often, he suggested story ideas that he unconsciously took from overheard newsroom conversations about pieces the Star had already run. And when he came up with an original story angle, it was a jaw dropper.
Life for Benson was a daily commute in his Mercedes from his seven-bedroom home in Marin, across the Golden Gate, to the paper.
The only thing looming over his blissful existence was the Star’s shame over the Tanita Marie Donner-Franklin Wallace story. That shame was embodied in Tom Reed, but to fire him over Wallace would be public admission that Benson had mismanaged the matter and that the Star’s story was wrong. It would be detrimental to the paper’s credibility. But to fire Reed for another reason, one solid enough for which he had no grounds for a wrongful dismissal suit, would eliminate the storm clouds over Benson’s sunny life and please the old man.
