[Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski 04.0] No Way Back

by Rick Mofina

  Reed had lost track of the time. Zach had refused to go to his bedroom, falling asleep on the sofa, his head in his grandmother’s lap. Eventually, she drifted off too. Reed ached from exhaustion, lack of eating, then grappling with the sudden strange hum of his nerves being strained as the phone jangled, jolting everyone from the quiet.

  The agents were instantly alert.

  It was 2:35 A.M.

  “Call is coming from San Francisco,” the FBI agent at the computer said.

  It rang a second time.

  “A residence in the Mission area.”

  SFPD dispatch was alerted. The negotiator nodded to Reed, who swallowed, then answered.

  “Hello.”

  No response. But the line was open. The sound-level needles on the recorders did not move.

  “Hello,” Reed repeated.

  Nothing.

  Zach sat up, rubbing his eyes, watching his father, reading his face as he spoke into the silence at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  Agents and detectives were making notes, whispering, consulting their computer screens. Digits of the computer clock timing the call blurred by as exhaustion and grief overcame Reed.

  “Annie?” Reed said.

  More silence passed. Reed squeezed his temple with his free hand. “This isn’t funny!” he shouted into the phone.

  A male voice responded. “No, it’s not funny, Mr. Reed.”

  “Who is this? Where’s Ann?”

  “She had to pay.”

  The negotiator stared hard at Reed, gesturing for him to keep the conversation alive, keep the guy on the phone while the PD scrambled cars.

  “Pay?” Reed said. “Pay for what?”

  “You’ll have to figure it out, Mr. Ace Reporter.”

  “Where is she? Let me talk to her. Jesus, please! I’m begging you!”

  Silence.

  “Please don’t hurt her. Just let me talk to her. Please.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “What do you want? Please let me talk to my wife.”

  “You won’t be speaking to her tonight.”

  “Where is she? Please let me talk to her. What have you done?”

  “You won’t be speaking to her ever again.”

  The line went dead in Reed’s hand.

  14

  The FBI locked on to the exact location of the call within seconds.

  “A residence in the Mission off of South Van Ness.” The agent at the computer read the address from his screen to the SFPD dispatcher. “Advise them no sirens.”

  They had three black-and-whites and two ghost cars in the zone. It took four minutes for them to hit the location.

  One of the unmarked cars drove by the address, a neglected bungalow, its paint peeling, the yard a jungle of wild grass, entwining weeds, shrubs, trash, patches of an overgrown hedge. It had a small ramshackle garage with swing-out doors shut tight and secured by a heavy padlocked chain.

  The SFPD tactical team was rolling. ETA was thirty minutes.

  More police vehicles converged on the area establishing an outer perimeter to choke off all traffic in and out. The late hour was an advantage. Residents in houses in the line of fire were awakened and evacuated.

  As the TAC team moved into position, the commander was informed that the house had no complaint history and the rez, Ray Archer, aged sixty-four, did not come up in anyone’s system.

  “We’ve got a white male, lying on a bed in a bedroom in the southwest corner. Watching TV. No weapons. No other occupants,” one of the TAC scouts reported.

  After weighing all scenarios, the commanders decided that surprise was critical given that a hostage could be used as a shield in a protracted standoff.

  “Everyone set,” he said. “Go in hard. Go.”

  Entry teams came in from the front and the rear, clearing the small two-bedroom house, within seconds coming upon the sole occupant.

  A disheveled man, wearing dark pajamas and a white robe, lying in his bed watching TV. The air in the place had the hospital smell of disinfectant.

  The man was not alarmed seeing four heavily armed TAC team officers, their weapons trained on him, standing in his bedroom. Unshaven, mostly bald, save for the foot-long strands of gray-white hair writhing wizard-like from the sides of his head, the man seemed pleased to see the officers.

  “Book ’em, Dano,” he said, raising his hands, palms open.

  One officer looked at the man’s wallet on the table near the bed.

  “You’re Ray Archer?”

  “I am and I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”

  The officers surveyed the room. The tables and dressers were cluttered with scrapbooks bulging with news clippings. On one, the San Francisco telephone book was splayed open. One of the white pages was folded back to the listings for Reed. Tom Reed’s number was in the book, but no address. His listing was underlined in red. Another officer flipped through the scrapbook. Clippings of Bay Area crime stories, some of them Star stories with Reed’s byline. The TV was tuned into Dragnet.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Ray Archer was told.

  Several empty medication containers were among the newspapers. The name of the doctor listed on the prescription was read over Archer’s bedside telephone to a police dispatcher.

  The doctor was awakened, the call patched through. It took a few moments to absorb what was happening with Ray Archer, her outpatient from Golden State Coastal Psychiatric Institute.

  “He suffered a head injury from a motorcycle crash years ago,” she explained to the TAC team leader standing in Archer’s bedroom.

  “Ray used to be a scriptwriter in Hollywood. Cop shows. I’m sorry. He does this from time to time when he’s off his meds. Calls real people he learns about from the news and assumes a role. He’s harmless.”

  “Who loves ya, baby?” Ray Archer grinned.

  The TAC team officers exchanged looks.

  Some of them had been friends with Rod August. Two of them would be pallbearers at his funeral.

  15

  Details of the call were immediately relayed to Reed’s home.

  “False alarm. It came from a psychiatric patient,” Sydowski repeated into his phone, turning to Reed, who acknowledged the report by closing his eyes and shaking his head wearily.

  He went to the window, unsure if he could hold up much longer. Ann’s mother, Doris, joined him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I know what you’re fearing, Tom. I fear it too.”

  Reed put his arm around her and they comforted each other.

  “Ann’s a fighter,” she said. “You know that. She’s smart. We can’t give up. We have to be strong for her now and keep praying.”

  Nodding, Reed tried to smile. Doris squeezed his hand.

  “Zachary’s sleeping in his room,” she said. “I’m going to lie down with him. I don’t want him to wake up alone,” she said. “Promise me you’ll try to get some rest, Tom.”

  Reed promised but lingered at the window staring at the street, convinced at times he saw Ann’s silver Jetta approaching. His heart rose. He wanted to run into the street, take her into his arms. But when he blinked he saw satellite trucks and police vehicles.

  It was coming up on 4:30 A.M. Sydowski stood beside him.

  “You should try to get some rest, Tom,” he said. “McDaniel left to change. I’m going to do the same. We’ve got to get ready for a major case meeting in a few hours at the Hall.”

  Reed gazed into the night. He had covered so many crimes, he knew the odds in cases like Ann’s. He knew he had to prepare for the worst.

  “It looks bad for her, doesn’t it, Walt?”

  Sydowski stared out the window.

  “Each case has its own circumstances, Tom.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Not now.”

  “We don’t know the details on this one. Where it’s headed. We’ve got no evidence to suggest she’s been harmed.”

  “Yo
u’ve got two corpses.”

  “Tom. You’re exhausted.”

  “Why would they keep her alive? Why?”

  “This doesn’t help.”

  “You take her car, you kill her. I mean maybe you rape her first, you know; then you kill her, dump her body.” Sydowski had seen this in victims before, near hysteria and exhaustion.

  “Tom. Stop it. You need to think of Zach, of Doris.”

  “Why? That’s what I can’t figure.” Reed ran a hand through his hair. “None of it makes sense. Why take her? They could’ve just taken her keys, her car, her wallet.”

  “Likely they didn’t trust her saying she had a car, and also needed her as a shield. Remember, August was all over the van, ruined their getaway plans, they panicked, improvised.”

  “So what now? They were disguised, you’ve got no sketches, no security tape. Nothing.”

  “Tom, we’ve got their dead partner. We’ve got some of the stuff they left behind. We got a start. They’re not going to get away with this.”

  “Right, you’ll get your vengeance for August, but will I ever see Ann again?” Reed searched Sydowski’s face. “Will I?”

  It was a question no one could answer.

  Sydowski took Reed’s shoulders. “Get some rest.”

  Reed nodded.

  But when Sydowski left, Reed anguished over his fear that Ann was already dead. It made him too afraid to face the bedroom alone. This can’t be real. It can’t be. You just don’t wake up to another day, go along living your life then—bang—without warning, without a chance to prepare, in a heartbeat, everything changes.

  Now, more than ever, Reed sensed Ann’s fragrance, pulling him into their bedroom, beckoning him to face the inevitable. He swallowed and entered, feeling himself floating in the darkness.

  He took her pink bathrobe from the chair. The one she wore every morning when she stepped from the shower after belting out a Springsteen song. He pressed its terry cloth to his face, saw the glint of the framed family photo she kept on her side of the bed, next to the bracelet she decided against wearing.

  He stood over their bed, which she’d made that morning, as she did every morning. He could see the comforter’s floral pattern that she had adored. He stood there in the darkness holding her robe, pretending she was in it, scolding him about something.

  He swallowed hard, reluctant to roll back the sheets, knowing there were more traces of her there. He settled for lying on top of them, staring at her side of the bed, imagining her there, seeing the curve of her back, hearing the rhythm of her breathing. Hearing her voice from the tape.

  “Oh God, please let me go!”

  Here it comes. He couldn’t stop it. Image upon image swirled in his mind. The dead officer, the bleeding suspect. They took Ann.

  "Oh God, please let me go!”

  They could rape her. Kill her. Dump her. A thousand fears preyed upon him, feasted on his soul.

  Stop. Please. ‘‘Oh God, please let me go!”

  Reed was beyond exhaustion but could not sleep. Because if he slept he would lose her. He ran a hand over his face, now stubbled with whiskers.

  “Dad?”

  Zach stood in the darkened doorway like an apparition. “What is it, son?”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “Sure, buddy.”

  Zach climbed onto Ann’s side. Reed draped her robe over him and put his arm around him.

  “Dad, are you scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was thinking about the tape when we heard Mom.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it means she’s still okay, right? That’s why the police played it, right?”

  “They played it for lots of reasons, but that’s right.”

  “Well, I know that she’s thinking of us and she’s going to be okay.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I asked God to take care of her and the little boy whose dad got killed.”

  Reed took a moment.

  “That’s good, son. Get some sleep now, okay?”

  Reed pulled Zach to him. Zach, warmed by a prayer to heaven, warmed by his mother’s robe, warmed by hope, Reed drawing strength from him, lying there in the same clothes he had put on that morning to quit his job, the same clothes in which he’d salivated for the story that had become his tragedy. Was this punishment for breaking his promise to her? Reed said a prayer for Ann, feeling Zach stir. Then he noticed something fall out of his son’s relaxed hand. Reed retrieved it, held it up to the light.

  A small photograph of Ann smiling at him from the darkness.

  Reed covered his face with his hand holding her picture and wept.

  Ann. Forgive me.

  16

  Ann Reed felt the car stop.

  The engine was switched off. Doors creaked open, the vehicle sprang with the shifting weight of two people stepping from it and walking off.

  Ann’s heart jumped. The ringing in her ears resumed as she struggled against the dull pain that enveloped her. What are they going to do to me?

  Her face and hands were slick with sweat. Her clothes were drenched in the stifling air. She held her breath. Her skin prickled. She could hear murmuring but couldn’t distinguish a word. She flinched at the sudden clank-clank of heavy metal objects tossed to the ground nearby. Then she heard grunting, thudding, and scraping, repeated over and over.

  What are they doing?

  Ann was blind in her darkness where she tasted the salt of her sweat and tears that had seeped through the duct tape covering her mouth. They had bound her hands and feet too.

  Cry out. Kick. Scream.

  But she had. Her legs and wrists burned. Overwhelmed by terror since it happened, she had struggled until they were raw. It was futile. She had to think of something. Anything. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing she could do. This was not like any of the movies she’d watched at home with Tom. It was real. It was happening.

  Please, somebody, help me. It’s so hot. All she could hear now was thudding and scraping. Be strong.

  She went back, trying to remember details of everything. About twenty minutes after the robbery she’d felt the car gain speed like they were on an expressway. Not long after, she’d felt it slow down to exit. They couldn’t have driven long enough to leave San Francisco. After getting off the freeway they’d made several turns as if driving in a neighborhood. Then they’d come to a complete stop.

  Ann feared they had purposely taken an indirect way to her home to threaten her family. But before she knew what was happening, a bag, or hood, was slipped over her head. She couldn’t see. They’d bound her more securely with tape, hefted her from the car and into the back of a larger car, which was cooler as if it had been in sheltered parking. Then she heard them move the cars, felt them toss bags into the second car. Doors thudded closed. She realized they’d switched cars as they’d pulled away into the noise of heavier traffic and the hum of an on-ramp, an expressway, gathering speed. They drove and drove with Ann drifting in and out of consciousness.

  She’d lost all sense of time and direction, clinging to the hope they would let her go or that, somehow, someone would deliver her.

  Now they had finally stopped and all she could hear was thudding and scraping. How many hours had it been? It felt like night. Where were they? The heat. Were they near a factory? A boiler? An oven?

  She thought of Tom, Zachary, her mother.

  I love them so much. Let me see them again, God, please.

  The thudding and scraping stopped. Someone approached.

  The rear door popped open. The hood was pulled from her head and Ann saw the stars, more brilliant than she had ever seen them before.

  The air was still hot but fresher. She inhaled it, feeling it swirl around her. A flashlight beam pierced the darkness and burned into her face. She squinted at the two silhouettes blotting out the heavens and froze.

  Large work-gloved hands hoisted her out by her shoulders and calve
s, carrying her around the car for several yards before laying her on the ground, rolling her onto her stomach.

  She saw nothing in the night. She’d no idea how long or how far they’d traveled. No hint of where she was.

  She lay there, cheek pressed to the hot ground, minutes passing in silence. A horrible chilling silence slithered along slowly before it reared to shriek to her: A decision has been made. Ann’s heart nearly burst, her eyes widened, her pulse throbbed in her ears.

  Oh God. No, please. Please.

  The flashlight beam hit her eyes, forcing her to lift her head and turn it, to see the pick, the shovel.

  The fresh grave.

  17

  By 6:00 A.M. Sydowski was at his desk at the Hall of Justice going hard on the latest reports, making notes before the case status meeting.

  He knew Reed was right. There was little hope. At any time Sydowski expected his double homicide to become his triple, depending on where they found Ann Reed. He’d met her a while back. Nice lady. Too good for Tom, who was as close as you got to being a friend without being called one. Even though Reed was a pain-in-the-ass reporter, Sydowski liked him. Would make a helluva detective, he thought, opening his file on the murdered officer.

  Rod Jerome August. Born in San Francisco. Recognized for bravery after jumping into the bay to pull out two Japanese tourists whose van went off a pier. Sydowski turned to another citation when his telephone rang.

  “Walt, it’s Harm. Figured you’d be in.” Harm DeGroot and Sydowski had graduated from the academy together. Harm was a sensitive guy who had once been August’s supervisor. “So, how’d it go?”

  Word had gotten around that Sydowski had accompanied the chief, Darnell, the chaplain, a POA rep, and a crisis counselor to deliver the news to August’s ex and their son.

  “You know how it is, Harm. They never go well,” Sydowski said. “She’s a real estate agent near Belmont. She knew the instant she saw us pull up. Wouldn’t let us in. Stayed on her side of the door, yelling, ‘He’s not my husband anymore, don’t you bastards know he’s not my husband anymore?’ We tried to calm her, to get her to let us in. Everything went all quiet inside for a few moments; then the door swings open and August’s six-year-old boy, Billy, is there kneeling beside his mother. She’s weeping in a heap on the floor. Billy looks up at us and says, ‘Is my dad the one that got shot?’ The chief gets on his knees and tells him his dad died a hero.”