If Angels Fall

FIFTY-ONE

The yellow ribbon affixed to Florence Schafer’s mailbox quivered in the Pacificbreezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her framehouse. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, theirgaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.

“Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “Thisis Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on acase?”

“May I see your identification?” Florence said. Shesaw their unmarked car parked on the street. None of her neighbors appeared atthe windows. Florence inspected their badges.

“Please come in.”

Turgeon took in the living room, raising her eyebrowsat Florence’s books. All were about crime. Sydowski went to Buster, who waschirping on his perch, preening his olive green plumage.

“He’s a beautiful Scotch Fancy,” he complimentedFlorence, accepting a china cup of tea and joining her on the sofa. She sat onthe edge so her feet could reach the floor.

“You know something about canaries, Inspector?”

“I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”

“It must be a relaxing hobby for a man in your line ofwork.”

“It can be.”

Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragranceof guest soap, reminding her of childhood visits to her grandmother’s home.Doilies under everything, even the King James Bible on the coffee table.Turgeon kept her tea on her lap. “Excuse me, Florence. I’m curious. Why so manycrime books?” she said.

“Oh yes, well crime is my hobby.” She smiled atSydowski. “May I please see your shield again, Inspector?”

Sydowski obliged her. It was obvious Florence washappy to have company. Too happy, maybe. Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged quickglances. They’d give this nutbar another five minutes.

Florence admired the shield with the city’s seal andmotto in Spanish. Oro en paz, fierro en Guerra. “Gold in peace. Iron inwar.” Florence said. “I know the city’s crest and motto. I’m a retired city taxclerk.”

“Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “Youcalled Homicide and said you heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess?”

“Yes, I did.” She returned Sydowski’s ID.

“You said you have evidence of that confession?”Sydowski said.

“Yes.”

“What sort?” Turgeon produced her notebook, but didn’topen it.

“He must never know it came from me. I’m afraid.”

“Who must never know?” Sydowski said.

“The killer.”

“We’ll keep it confidential,” he said. “What is yourevidence?”

“It’s on tape. I taped him confessing.”

Sydowski and Turgeon looked at each other.

“It’s on tape?” Sydowski was incredulous.

“I’ll play it for you. I have it ready.” Florence leftthe room to get it.

“Walt?” Turgeon whispered.

“I don’t fucking believe this.”

Florence returned with a micro-cassette tape recorder.She set it next to the Bible, turned the volume to maximum and pressed the playbutton. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices soundingotherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For thefirst few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he couldnot absolve him because he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he wassorry, he should go to police and give himself up.

The killer remained lost in his own fantasy world.

“…we took her to a secret spot I know in theTenderloin. Oh how she screamed…Then we took her…”

Turgeon struggled with her composure as the killercheerfully detailed what he did to Tanita. She kept her head down, takingnotes, bile seeping up the back of her throat.

The priest was gasping, begging the killer tosurrender.

Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita MarieDonner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the detailsthe confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to therecounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Likethe 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. Thekiller’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy killGabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to thefamilies?

MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.

MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.

MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.

Was it a countdown? Were they going to find morelittle corpses?

The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him,her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years ofcynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought wasimpenetrable.

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 hisbroken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that keptyou alive. The tape ended.

“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” hesaid.

I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his lastname.”

Turgeon was writing everything down.

“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snakeand 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 takingnotes, 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, isthere anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch withVirgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”

Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the churchalmost daily, to the shelter.”

“At the shelter, does he mention the children, DannyBecker, 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. Youhave to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezedher tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around againsoon.”

Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was theright 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 forthe meaning and purpose of her life had ended.

Buster chirped.

“May I use your phone?”