If Angels Fall

TWENTY-SIX

BOY’S ABDUCTION HAUNTS MOTHER OF KIDNAPPED-MURDEREDBABY GIRL.

The head of The San Francisco Star’s lead itemskylined above the fold across six columns, over a four-column color shot ofAngela Donner in Tanita Marie’s room, hugging a teddy bear. A large familiarposter of Tanita dominated the background with REWARD emblazoned above Tanita’sface. “Murder” was, by chance, at Angela’s eye level. Photos of Tanita andDanny Becker accompanied the story by Tom Reed. It began:

Angela Donner can’t stop her tears as she hugs herdead child’s teddy bear and prays for Danny Becker who was abducted in the samearea where her daughter Tanita Marie was kidnapped and later murdered a yearago.

“I pray Danny Becker will come home alive, that hismom and dad won’t have to go through what I’ve gone through, and live withevery day. And I pray my baby’s murderer is brought to justice.” Angela, 21,cries softly in the first interview she’s given since her two-year-olddaughter’s slaying shocked The City…

Not bad, Reed thought, taking a hit of coffee at hisdesk in the newsroom after reading his package of stories. His lead pieceturned to page two and keyed to his feature on Martin’s group, the anchor pieceon the front of the Metro section.

He had beaten both the Chronicle and Examiner.Mixed with the satisfaction of scooping the competition and owning today’s Starwas Reed’s sympathy for Angela Donner. She was an obese, homely young woman whokept apologizing for her home, a dilapidated apartment permeated with a pungentodor. Her father was in his chair before a General Electric fan that oscillatedatop a TV supported by a wooden fruit crate. He was shrouded in a whitebedsheet. From time to time, his wrinkled hand would slither from under it togather ice chips from a plastic bowl. His skeletal jaw worked slowly on theice.

“Earth to Tom. Did you hear me?”

“Sorry. What?” Reed looked up from his paper and overhis computer terminal at Molly Wilson, typing feverishly.

“I said, how much longer are you going to admire yourwork? You’re worse than a summer cub with journalistic narcissism.”

All morning, Reed had accepted compliments on hisstories.

“You know,” Wilson said, “I half expect you to startdusting your awards and telling me about your glory days.”

“This is how it is with us old guys, Molly. It’s rarefor us to get it up. But when we do, the sensation is indescribable.”

Wilson halted her typing. “I wouldn’t know, Tom.”

Reed turned to the Metro section and the feature onMartin’s group. Whatever was happening here with Wilson did not sit right. Whatdid she want? A relationship? Sex? It didn’t matter. “Ann and I are trying toget back together.”

Wilson had a pen clamped in her teeth. She typedaggressively for several moments before removing it. “Would you go over thisfor me?” She was all business now.

Reed turned to his computer and called up her work onhis screen.

“It’s all the notes for my piece on the FBI’spsychological profile of the guy who kidnapped Danny Becker,” she said.

“When is it going?”

“Tomorrow. I just can’t find a lead.”

Wilson’s notes were a transcription of her interviewwith FBI Special Agent Merle Rust. Reed caught phrases like: “Deeply scarredindividual-traumatized by cataclysmic event involving children-lives in afantasy world-stimulated by alcohol, drugs or even religious delusions-appearsnormal-will most likely re-offend.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like Ed Keller.”

“Who?”

“One of the parents in the bereavement group. Areligious nut I left out my piece because he was a goof-“ He touched a fingerto a line on his screen. “Here’s your lead.”

Wilson glided around their workstation to join him ashe typed. “Danny Becker’s kidnapper is likely a psychologically traumatized manwith the potential to abduct another child, says an FBI profile obtained by theStar, blah blah blah.”

“That’s it. Thanks.” Wilson returned to her desk.

“Reed?”

It was Jebb Harker, the metro assignment editor. Histie was loosened, and he held a rolled paper in one hand. “You hear anythingabout a suspect being arrested this morning in the Becker case?”

“No. Nothing.” Reed sat upright, concerned.

“Just got off the phone with Mumford in circulation.Seems this morning one of our drivers was filling a box near the Hall ofJustice when he saw two plain clothes cops bring in a guy in cuffs.

“Big deal. They arrest people every day.”

“The driver recognized one of the cops. Swears it wasthis guy.”

Harker unfurled the newspaper to a small photo of anSFPD inspector talking to reporters on the steps of Danny Becker’s Jordan Parkhome on the day Danny was abducted.

“Holy shit!” Wilson snatched the paper from Harker.“That’s Walt Sydowski, one of the lead dicks on the Becker and Donner cases!Something must have popped. What do you think, Tom? Tom?”

Reed didn’t hear her. He was at the far end of thenewsroom jabbing the elevator button.

The Hall of Justice on Bryant Street had a polishedstone lobby and a metal detector all visitors must pass through. FuckingCheckpoint Charlie, Reed thought, grabbing his keys from the basket once he wascleared. He caught the UP elevator as its doors were closing, ascended to thefourth floor and room 450, the Homicide Detail, nearly bumping into Inspector SwansonSmith, a soft-spoken man of linebacker proportions, who glared at him from thefile he was studying.

“I ain’t buyin’ no damn subscription today, Reed.”

“I came to buy you coffee.”

“Get your damn nose out of my ass, I’m too busy forsex.”

“Sydowski in?”

“Why would you insult a great man like that with yourpresence?”

Reed said nothing.

“Cool your engines, newsman.” Smith turned to summonSydowski, his handcuffs knocking against the beeper clipped to his hip.

Reed sat, bouncing his knee. Come on. Come on.

Sydowski appeared, a file in his hand.

Reed was relieved to see him. “Inspector. Did youbring somebody to the hall this morning in cuffs?”

“Yes.”

“You did?” Reed opened his notebook. “For Becker orDonner?”

“Those are the priority files right now.”

“Is that a yes, Inspector?”

“Thomas, put your notebook away.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to explain something to you.”

“I don’t to hear anything I can’t use.”

“Well you better leave then. It’s up to you.”

Reed stared at him. “All right,” he said, tucking hisnotebook in his jacket. “Probably going to see it in the Chronicle or Examiner,anyway. Seems every time I play by the rules, I get screwed.”

“You’ve got one hell of an attitude,” Sydowski said.

“Wonder how I got it.”

“Sit down.” Sydowski nodded to the wooden chairslining the detail’s small reception area. “We brought a guy in this morning whowe think may have known somebody we remotely suspect in one of the files.That’s all I can tell you. Sit tight, we may have more later.”

“Sure, I’ll read all about it in the Chronicleor Examiner.”

“I don’t have time for your wounded pride.”

“The shit I went through over Wallace was a littlemore than wounded pride, Walt.”

“Nothing I can do about history.”

“You know I was right about Wallace.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You fucked up, voychik. Usingme as confirmation when I didn’t give you anything. I told you to sit on whatyou had. Going to Wallace with your tip before we could talk to him so he coulddo himself, do you know what that cost us?”

“Do you know what it cost me?”

“Your problem is, you’re too stupid to realize whensomeone is being nice to you.”

“And you can’t stand it when someone like me digssomething up. Let’s talk about wounded pride. Yours.”

Sydowski stood. “Look, I’ve got one murdered child,maybe two.” He bent down, his face so close Reed could smell the coffee andgarlic on his breath. “You better quit playing amateur detective and stay thefuck out of my way, understand?”

“Thanks for all your help, Walt.” Reed stood. “Nexttime I get a piece of information about a case, I’ll wipe my ass with it.”

Reed slammed the door behind him, thumbed the elevatorbutton with all of his weight, then snapped through his notebook for a cleanpage. Calm down, he told himself. Okay, he could try a few other sources. Sure.He had so many these days. Damn it, what was he going to write? That they hadbrought in a guy they think may know a suspect. It was thin.

While searching through his notebook for an answer,anything, Reed saw his notes from Martin’s bereavement group. Edward Keller’sstuff.

“Zoran. A water death … I was being punished forliving a lie … When my children died, I died but was born again … therevelation … The Divine Truth … I will be with my children again … Youcan only rescue them if you truly believe you can … Every day I prepare formy blessed reunion … I’ve read your stories about Danny Becker …”

The FBI’s profile, “traumatized by cataclysmic eventinvolving children … stimulated by … religious delusion” fit Keller like aglove.

Yes it did. But why did he have such a weird feelingabout Keller? He did fit the general description of Danny Becker’s kidnapper,but so did thousands of bearded Caucasians in the Bay Area. But why couldn’t hefind any old stories about Keller’s case in the news library? Not one. He wentback ten years. It was puzzling that he couldn’t find a single item about abusinessman losing his three children in a boating accident near the Farallons.Maybe he missed it? He should look again. Maybe use the Net.

Outside, on the steps of the hall, Reed thought he’dbetter cool the Keller theory. Get a grip. He would never admit that in a darkcorner of his heart he nurtured doubts that Franklin Wallace was Tanita Donner’skiller. Now, in the span of minutes, he got some poor grief-stricken born-againpegged as a child-killer. Why?

Because he loathed religious extremists? Or was thegleam of self-righteousness in Keller’s eyes? Because he was pissed atSydowski? Because he was anxious about getting back together with Ann? Whoknew? But there was something about Keller. Reed wondered about Keller’s story.Was his tragedy true? Why would he lie about it? If it was true, it would makea good read, especially with the anniversary of the drownings coming up.Sliding behind the wheel of his Comet, studying his notes, Reed decided to dosome discreet digging on Keller, to see where it went.