If Angels Fall

NINE

Tom Reed was ninety minutes away from deadline when he returned to the star’snewsroom.

Bruce Duggan, the weekend night editor, leaned back inhis chair, entwining his fingers behind his head. His glasses rested atop hisforehead, which had encroached upon his hairline. His black eyes peered from awrinkled face that had settled into a permanent frown after twenty-five yearsin news. “Anybody else get the father, Reed?”

“No. It’s our exclusive. Cops sealed the house. Thefamily is holding a press conference tomorrow.”

Duggan thought, “Put the father up high. The art isstrong. It’s going A-1. Wilson filed a sider on Donner and some background foryou. I’ll ship it to you. Work in the Donner murder. Is there a link?”

“Nothing official yet.”

Duggan replaced his glasses and resumed working at hiscomputer. “I’ll need it fast to make first edition.”

At his desk Reed entered his personal code and histerminal came to life, requesting a story. He typed “KIDNAPPED.” A blackblinking cursor appeared, ticking off seconds on a blank screen.

Several floors below in the a paper’s basement, a crewof pressmen readied the Star’s Metroliner presses. Less than an hourafter they started rolling, sixty circulation trucks would rumble from theloading docks into the night, delivering a pound of information to threehundred thousand homes in the Greater Bay Area.

Reed’s story would be on the front page, above thefold.

The third paragraph of the story described policecombing the area, that an expanded full-scale search for Danny and his abductorwas to resume Sunday at sunrise. Reed studied his notes for the strongestquotes from Nathan Becker, flagging the exclusivity of the interview:

“It happened so fast. I had only taken my eyes fromhim for a few seconds,” Nathan Becker, 35, told TheSan Francisco Star minutes after he stopped his southbound BART train tochase the man who kidnapped his son…

Reed brought in Sydowski, identifying him as theprimary detective in the Donner case, who was now helping on Danny Becker’sabduction, and disclosing that Sydowski had refused to link the two cases.

Reed glanced at his watch, typed a few commands, andcaptured the background written by Wilson. It began:

Last year two-year-old Tanita Marie Donner’s bodywas stuffed into a garbage bag hidden under a tire deep in a secluded woodedarea of Gold Gate Park. Her killer remains free.

“Excuse me?”

Tad Chambers, an eighteen-year-old copy runner, stoodbefore Reed, tapping a pen on his palm. “I’ve got this woman on hold who reallywants to talk to you. Asked for you specifically.”

“Take her name and number.”

“She won’t leave her name, says it’s about the Donnermurder.”

The Donner murder? Probably a crank. He’d receiveddozens of nut calls last year when the story broke. Today’s news of the Beckerkidnapping was exciting the crazies; He should talk to her, just in case.That’s how he had gotten the Wallace tip.

“Okay, put her through.”

Tad disappeared across the newsroom. Then Reed’s linerang.

“Reed.”

“You wrote about the girl murdered last year, TanitaDonner?”

“Look, I’m on a deadline. Please give me your name andnumber and I’ll call you right back.”

“I don’t want my name in the paper.”

“Listen ma’am-“

“What I have to tell you, I have to say now, while I’mup to it.”

“I won’t talk to you unless you tell me who you are.You know how people accuse us of making things up.”

She gave it some thought: “Florence.”

“Got a last name, Florence?”

“Just Florence.” She sounded grandmotherly, earlysixties, working class, probably watched soaps and game shows all day.

“Why are you calling, Florence?”

“You know about that little boy who was kidnappedtoday, how they’re saying it’s just like that little baby girl who got murderedlast year, but they don’t know who did it?”

“Go ahead.”

“I know who killed her.”

Sure you do, dear. “What’s the killer’s name?”

“I don’t know his real name.”

“Look, I’m really-how do you know this guy’s thekiller?”

“I heard him confess. He said he did it and no oneknows.”

“Really? Did you tell the police?”

“I called them. They said they needed more specificinformation from me. But they never came around. Never talked to me. So whenthat little boy got kidnapped today, I decided to call you.”

She continued. “I love crime stories. I read all thepapers. Yours are the best, except for that mistake you made about the Sundayschool teacher being the killer.”

“The Sunday school teacher didn’t kill Tanita Donner?”

“Well, not by the way the real killer talks. I wantedyou to know what I heard, but don’t put my name in the paper. He scares me.”

“Do you think the killer also kidnapped Danny Becker?”

“What do you think? You’re a smart fellah.”

“How did you come to hear Tanita Donner’s killerconfess?”

A moment passed and Florence did not answer.

“Are you a clairvoyant, Florence?”

“A psychic? Who no, I’m a Roman Catholic. I sing inthe choir at Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows.”

“That’s lovely, Florence. Listen, I’m really sorry butunless you can be more specific-“

“I heard him tell God he did it.”

Under R, religious nut: bingo?

Suddenly Duggan loomed over him.

“Fifteen minutes.” Duggan tapped his watch.

Again, he asked for her full name and number. Sherefused.

“I’ve got to go, Florence.” Just a lonely old woman.Reed hung up, finished the story, read it, then sent it to Duggan through thecomputer system.

In the washroom, Reed bent over a sink, and ran thecold water. His tip on Wallace had come the same way, but the guy who calledoffered something concrete he could check: Wallace’s conviction in Virginia.Reed confirmed it and Sydowski confirmed Wallace was the suspect. Didn’t he?That Wallace tip had to have come from a cop, the voice sounded like an oldsource, yet Reed couldn’t put a name or face to it. This Florence person was anut. “I heard him tell God.” Sure. But if Wallace killed Donner, why was thefile still open? Did the killer call Reed to set up Wallace? That wasSydowski’s thinking, but Reed couldn’t accept it. For it meant the real killerwas still out there. And now, with another child abduction, and in Balboa, itmeant another child may be murdered and that he may have truly contributed tothe death of an innocent man.

He splashed his face until he washed the fear from hismind.

The few strands of gray invading the temples of hisshort brown hair were multiplying. He was thirty-three. Thirty-three and he hadnothing. Nothing that mattered. Nothing but his job, self-doubt, and anincreasing affection for Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Sipping Whiskey. When Annleft, she opened the door to a dark truth, showing him exactly what he was. Onthe way back to his desk, Reed saw Molly Wilson reading the memos posted on thenewsroom bulletin board.

“Hey, Tomster, finish the story?”

“Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

“Didn’t feel like it. Feel like a beer?”

“I am tired. It’s been a long day. Can I take a raincheck?”

Molly stepped closer. He could smell her perfume.“I’ve given you a handful already, Tommy. When are you going to put them touse?”

He liked her perfect-teeth smile, her ice-blue eyesinviting him to a place he as tempted to enter.

“See this?” A perfect fingernail tapped a memo. “Couldbe exciting, don’t you think?” Molly said before leaving.

It was a managing editor’s notice calling forapplications for the paper’s new South American bureau in Sao Paulo. Reedtook five seconds to ingest the idea of applying and the consequences ofsuccess before returning to his desk for his jacket.

“Any problems?” he asked Duggan on his way out.

“Good piece. Just in time for first.”

“I’ll cover the Becker press conference tomorrow?”

“No, you’re working the night shift in here tomorrownight.”

“But I’m the lead report on this one.”

“Benson called in the order. You’re off the story.”

Myron Benson, the editor of the paper’s largesteditorial department, controlled fifty reporters. Invoking Benson’s name gaveany instructions immediate currency. Duggan stared at Reed. No elaboration wasneeded. The fuckup last year, and that Benson had nearly fired him and kept himon indefinite probation were known facts.

“Fine, fine. I get it.”

Duggan gave him an opened business envelope addressedto the paper. It bore Metro University’s seal and came from a Dr. K.E. Martinof the psych department. Reed’s name had been scrawled on it.

“What’s this?”

“Benson wants you to do a feature on this bereavementgroup.” Duggan nodded at the envelope. “He wants you to tie it in with theanniversary of the Donner murder and the Becker kidnapping.

Reed was wounded. Again. He swallowed it.

“Sure. I’ll get right on it.”

Crumbs and crap, that’s what they were feeding him.Reed tucked the envelope into his jacket and headed for the parking lot.