If Angels Fall

TWENTY-FIVE

Sunrise.Fog shrouded the city.

Inspector Linda Turgeon came out of her neat house onupper Market and deposited herself into Sydowski’s unmarked Caprice Classic.

“Good morning.” She yawned, accepting the steaming7-Eleven coffee cup he handed her. “Thanks.”

“Sleep well?”

“Not a wink.” She placed her copy of Perry WilliamKindhart’s file with his on the seat between them.

Traffic was light on Market, which would take themdirectly to SoMa, Kindhart’s most recent address.

“What’s your take on Kindhart?” Sydowski said.

“He’s our best potential connection to Donner. Amolester who did time with Wallace in Virginia. We know Wallace did not actalone and that Kindhart was in San Francisco during the time of Donner’sabduction and death.

“But in the picture, the hooded guy holding Donner hasa tattoo. Kindhart doesn’t.”

“Mr. Tattoo is the only guy we know of, right now.Maybe others are involved. Maybe Kindhart has nothing to do with it, but he mayknow something. Like who the tattoo is. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’tgive Kindhart a good shake to see what falls out.”

Sydowski nodded approvingly.

Turgeon was pleased. They were on the same frequency.Partners.

The fog was lifting when they glided into downtown. Atthe edge of the Tenderlion, the streets were strewn with used condoms andhypodermic needles. A few hookers were still working. One hiked her shirt,squatted, then urinated on the sidewalk at Market and Larkin.

“Will you look at that.” Sydowski shook his head.“Somebody otta call a cop.”

Turgeon burst out laughing. “So you do have a sense ofhumor,” she said.

“Damn right. I’m a fun guy. Ask anybody.”

“I did.”

“Did a little background checking, did you?”

“Mm-mmm.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“You live alone in Parkside. You raise birds. You’vecleared more files than anyone else in the detail’s history. You’ve refusedpromotions because the job’s in your blood. The Donner case haunts you and youprobably won’t retire until you close it.”

“Anything else.”

“People tell me you’re an arrogant Polack hard-ass.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt.”

“They also say that after Brooks, you’re the finestHomicide dick at Golden State’s ever seen.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt, to remind Leo.”

“But there’s a disturbing side to you I am curiousabout.”

“I may take the Fifth, here.”

“Is it true you killed a guy, shot him?”

Sydowski grew pensive. “It was during the war. I was akid.”

“What happened?”

He gazed out the driver’s window. “I’ll tell youanother time?”

“Sure.”

“What about you? I don’t see a ring-you married?”

Turgeon peered into her coffee cup. “Came close.”

“Yeah”

“An architect.”

“An architect?”

“Met him after his house in Marina was burglarized.”

“Thank God for criminals.”

“We lived together for a year, talked about kids, thefuture. Everything was rosy. We set a date. You know the tune.”

“This were the violins come in?”

“Wanted me to leave the job. It was too dangerous forhim. He wanted me to quit the force, stay at home, look after the cats. He wasasking too much. To quit would be denying what I am.”

“And what’s that, Linda?”

She looked at him. “A cop. I’m a cop like you,Walter.”

“Like your old man. You mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, my biological clock is ticking down andI still want to get married, have kids. But it’s just that when my dad wasmurdered, I vowed to be a cop and now I am one. I can’t give it up.”

They left it at that as they rolled into SoMa, Southof Market.

“They used to call this ‘south of the slot’ for thecable car line that ran through here.” Sydowski said.

“You’re betraying your age, Walt.”

“Used to be a helluva neighborhood.”

SoMa was now the realm of machine shops, warehouses,Vietnamese restaurants, and gay bars. Latinos who fled Central America’sbloodbaths made their home here in decaying tenement houses, which were thequarry of visionary developers who bitched over cell phones about SanFrancisco’s sunshine codes and zoning laws. Red tape kept SoMa on life support.They wanted to pronounce last rites.

Kindhart’s building had risen from the rubble of the1906 quake and fire, a small hotel that evolved into a bordello, a shootinggallery, then a fleabag apartment complex. All it offered now was a view of theJames Lick Skyway, Interstate 80, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland.

Sydowski and Turgeon climbed the creaking stairs tothe creaking stairs to the third floor and pounded on Kindhart’s door. It was5:45 a.m. No answer. Sydowski pounded again, harder.

“Mr. Kindhart?” he called loudly.

Sydowski continued pounding. Down the hall a dooropened, and a one-armed man stepped from his apartment.

“Knock off that shit,” he growled.

Sydowski flashed his shield. “Mind your own business.”

“Fucking pigs.” The man’s door slammed.

Sydowski resumed pounding.

“Who the fuck is it?” a deep voice snarled fromKindhart’s unit.

“Police, Mr. Kindhart, we’d like to talk to you.”

“Fuck off. I won’t talk to you.”

“We’re investigating a case. Won’t look good if yourefuse to cooperate, Mr. Kindhart.”

There came a string of unintelligible cursing, amattress squeaked, empty bottles clinked, then more cursing, locks wererattled, and the door opened. Shirtless, unshaven, torn Levi’s yielding to hispot belly. He held the door defensively, reeking of alcohol, assessingSydowski, then Turgeon.

“May we come in?” Sydowski said. “We’d like to talk toyou.”

“What about?” One of Kindhart’s lower front teeth wasmissing, the survivors were rotting.

“Franklin Wallace,” Turgeon said.

“Franklin Wallace?” Kindhart scratch his whiskers.“Franklin Wallace?”

“Prison. Virginia. Think hard,” Sydowski said.

Lying was futile. Kinhart surrendered his door, wentto the kitchen of his studio apartment, put on a kettle for coffee, sat at histiny kitchen table, and lit a Lucky Strike.

“Hurry it up, I gotta go to work.” He exhaled, rubbinghis eyes.

Turgeon looked around. Sydowski joined Kindhart at thetable.

“What kind of job you have, Perry?”

“You know the fucking answer to that. So why are youhere?”

A handful of pornographic magazines dropped on thetabletop contained color pictures of naked children in obscene posses with men.

“This is a violation of your parole.” Turgeon said.

“That’s unlawful seizure, I know my fucking rights,hon.”

“You have rights.” Sydowski casually slipped on hisbifocals, wet his thumb, and flipped through his notebook. “You’re acarpenter’s apprentice at Hunters Point, Perry?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Work with lots of other guys, family men withchildren.”

Sydowski turned to Turgeon. I think they’d understandthe term ‘predatory pedophile,’ don’t you, Inspector?”

“We could always show them picture of one.”

Sydowski smiled.

Kindhart’s kettle piped. He made black coffee forhimself only.

“Tell us about the last time you saw Wallace,”Sydowski said.

“Why should I? You’re just going to report me.”

“We are going to report you, but whether we tell thejudge you helped us with our investigation, or obstructed it, is up to you.”

Kindhart squinted through a pull of smoke and slurpedhis coffee. “I shared a cell with Wallace in Virginia and looked him up when Igot here. Being a Sunday school teacher he was plugged in, figured he couldhelp me get a job. I saved his ass inside. He owed me.”

“A real job, or something in the trade?” Turgeon said

“Look, I just take pictures, that’s all I do.”

“What about the three cousins, the little girl inRichmond, Virginia?” Turgeon said

“I just took pictures. They wanted me to.”

“And the two five-year-old girls last year in the Mission?”

“I told you I just take pictures when they want me to.They love to have their pictures taken. I don’t date them like Wallace did. Idon’t know anything about that shit with that little Donner girl last year andwhy he offed himself. I had nothing to do with it.”

“We never suggested you did.” Sydowski said.

“Right. Like I don’t know why you’re here.” Kindhartshook his head. “Ever since that boy got grabbed, it’s been all over the news again.I just take pictures, that’s all I do. I don’t date them.” Kindhart draggedhard on his cigarette, then pounded the magazines with his forefinger.“Besides, they’re all little prostitutes anyway. They know exactly what they’redoing. Always coming to the people who know. Wallace and his friend hadterrific insights into them.”

“What’s his friend’s name?” Sydowski asked.

Kindhart shook his head and took a pull from hiscigarette. “Only met him once out twice. I think he was from Montana or NorthDakota. Some far-off place like that.”

“Describe him.”

“Describe him.”

“Race?”

“White. A white guy.”

“Height.”

“Just under six, average.’

“Age?”

“Late forties, I’d say.”

“Anything specific you remember about him?”

“No…” Kindhart stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah.Tattoos. He had tattoos. Snake and fire, or something, here.” Kindhart brushedhis forearms.

“Where does he live? Where does he work?” Sydowskisaid

“Don’t know.”

“How did you know him?”

“Through Wallace. He was Wallace’s friend.”

“He do time in Virginia, too?”

“I don’t remember him, but he was a con.”

“How do you know?”

“Walked the walk. Talked the talk.”

“Where’d he do the time?”

Kindhart shrugged.

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Bookstore off Romolo. I was there with Wallace whenhe came in and started talking.”

“He like to date children?”

“Wallace said he did.”

“Ever take his picture while he was on a date?”

“No fucking way. I hardly knew the guy.”

Sydowski dropped a print of the Polaroid showingTanita Marie Donner sitting in the lap of the hooded man with the tattoos.“Who’s that man?” Sydowski asked.

Kindhart picked it up. Examined it, then put it down.“That’s Wallace’s friend.”

“How do you know?”

“The tattoos.”

“Who took the snapshot?”

Kindhart shrugged.”

“You used a Polaroid last year with little girls inthe Mission, didn’t you, Perry?”

Kindhart didn’t remember.

“Tell you what”-Sydowski closed his notebook andsmiled-“you better come over to the Hall with us while we get a warrant to tidyup your place here.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with Wallace and thatgirl.”

I’m sure you’re being truthful and won’t mind tellingus again after we wire you to a polygraph?”

“A fucking lie-detector?”

“you have a problem with that, Perry?” Sydowski asked.

“I want to call my lawyer.”

Sydowski slowly folded his glasses, tucked them intohis breast pocket, and stood. “You know what I find interesting?” He toweredover Kindhart. “I find it interesting how an innocent man with nothing to hidenever thinks of calling a lawyer. Now why would you need a lawyer, Perry?”

He didn’t answer.

Sydowski leaned down and whispered into his ear: “Did TanitaMarie Donner get to call a lawyer?”

Kindhart said nothing.

“Did Danny Raphael Becker get to call a lawyer,Perry?”

Sydowski clamped his massive hand firmly around theback of Kindhart’s neck and squeezed until it started hurting.

“Don’t worry, voychik. You can talk to yourlawyer about the big bad SFPD and your right to prey on children. And I’ll talkto the construction workers at Hunters Point about baby fuckers, skinners, andall around pieces of shit. Sound good?”

The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he smiled.“Good. Now, if you don’t mind. I think we should be on our way.”