If Angels Fall

TWO

A skeleton crew was onduty in the newsroom of The San Francisco Star when Danny Becker waskidnapped.

Tom Reed, a crime writer, was finishing a short hit on a seventy-twoyear old rummy stabbed with a nail file by a fifty-two-year-old whore. Somedive in the Tenderloin. The whore was watching the A’s game on the tube abovethe bar. The rummy wanted her to work her break. She was feeling bitchy, andwanted to finish her beer and her nails. His fingers went where they shouldn’thave and he bled to death at her table. Nobody noticed for half an inning.Turns out the guy had helped build the Golden Gate. He was the seventiethhomicide of the year. Reed summed up his life in two tight graphs, then puncheda command on his computer terminal, sending the story to Al Booth, theassistant metro editor working in the bullpen.

Reed downed the remainder of his tepid coffee. Three hours into hisshift. Could he stick it out today? Hungover. Again. Rubbing his temples,surveying the crap pinned to the half wall of his cubicle: Police numbers, ayellowing article on his winning his second national award four years ago forinvestigative reporting, a photograph of his wife, Ann, and Zach, theirnine-year-old son who wants to be a report. Like my dad.

Here was his life, or the illusion of it. Reed’s sources rarelytalked to him these days. His award-winning work was forgotten. It was comingup on six months since Ann took Zach and moved to her mother’s. His life wasdisintegrating, and like an animal gnawing at a wound that refused to heal, hereturned to the clipping file and the story that initiated his disgrace. Thecase of Tanita Marie Donner.

Reed had led the Star’s coverage of her abduction and murder,right up until the suicide, the lawsuit, and his suspension. It was nearly ayear since he last wrote about Donner and the man he believed had killed her.The case was unsolved and the paper, stinging from the scandal andembarrassment, was now content with superficial coverage of it. But Reedcouldn’t leave it alone, exposing himself to the headlines he had virtuallymemorized.

POLICE SEARCH FOR ABDUCTED BABY … SCHOOL GIRLS FINDTANITA: MURDERED … FEW LEADS IN MYSTERY SLAYING …

Then he came to the grainy news pictures of Franklin Wallace. Thebeginning of the fuckup, and it all came back to him. Hard.

He had rushed to Wallace’s home and rung the doorbell. He waschasing San Francisco’s biggest story. He had found Tanita’s killer.

The door was opened by a pudgy little man with a candle white face,thinning blond hair, a wispy mustache. Mid-thirties. Five-six.

“Franklin Wallace?” Reed said.

“Yes?” his voice had a southern lilt.

Damn the tip was true, Reed thought.

“Mr. Wallace, I am Tom Reed. I am a report with the Star-“

“Reporter?” Wallace’s expression darkened subtly.

“Did you know Tanita Donner? She lived a few blocks away.”

Wallace’s lips did not move. He was measuring Reed, remainingsilent, frozen. Reed repeated the question.

“Yes, I knew Tanita.”

“I understand she attended your Sunday school day care?”

“Once or twice. She was not a regular. What is this about?”

“Mr. Wallace, may I come in? I have some questions, importantquestions, I would like to ask you.”

Reed caught it. A twitch in Wallace’s eyelid, an unconsciousreaction so slight he almost missed it.

“What questions?”

“May I come inside?”

“What questions? What is this about?”

Wallace’s hand tightened his grip on the door frame. Reed was losinghim; this might be his only chance. “Mr. Wallace, do you have a record forchild molestation in Virginia?”

“What? A record?”

“I have it confirmed, sir.”

Wallace swallowed, licking his lips. ‘You have it confirmed?”

“Yes, just now. I would like to talk to you about some otherinformation I have. It is very serious.”

“Why? No. Please. That was long ago. Please, I have a family, a job.You must not print anything. Please, I don’t know what you’re driving at cominghere with this.”

“I’ve been told your fingerprints have been found on items linked toTanita’s murder.”

“What? I can’t believe that!”

What little color Wallace had melted from his face. He was wan, hiseyes, revealing the truth. He was guilty. Guilty of something. Reed knew it. Hewas standing inches from a child killer.

Wasn’t he?

At that moment, Wallace’s daughter appeared, clinging to herfather’s leg, a tiny “Leave my-daddy-alone scowl aimed at Reed. Red jam wassmeared on her chin, reminding Reed of blood.

“I had nothing to do with what you’re suggesting.”

Wallace slammed the door.

Reed cleared his throat and went to the next clipping:

SUNDAY SCOOL TEACHER COMMITS SUICIDE…“HE WAS INNOCENT”:WIDOW…REPORTER BLAMED FOR TEACHER’S DEATH…WIDOW SUES S.F. STAR…TANITA’SKILLER “IS OUT THERE”: POLICE…

Reed removed his glasses, burying his face in his hands.

The day after she buried her husband, Rona Wallace held a pressconference. It was on the same doorstep where Reed had questioned FranklinWallace moments before he locked himself in his daughter’s bedroom and firedboth barrels of a shotgun into his mouth.

“My husband was a decent man, and a loving father,” Rona Wallaceread from a prepared statement. “He took successful counseling for hisproblems, which occurred more than a decade ago when he was clinicallydepressed over the death of his mother. The San Francisco Police and the FBIhave told me today, to my face, that my husband was initially checked andquietly cleared as a possible suspect in the death of Tanita Marie Donner. Heknew and loved that little girl.” She sniffed.

“I attribute his tragic death to the allegations raised in theabhorrent and false reporting of The San Francisco Star and have beguncivil action. Thank you.”

Rona Wallace took no questions. When she finished, she asked if TomReed was present. “Right here.” Reed raised his hand.

Cameras followed her as she walked to him, her reddened eyes findinghis. Without warning, she slapped his face. “You know what you are and you knowwhat you did.” She said, then walked away.

Reed was stunned.

Reporters pelted him with questions. He was speechless. The TV gangloved seeing him get his comeuppance. The networks picked it up. Publiccriticism from police made him a pariah. The incident ignited editorials andcolumns across the country about press ethics. Reed couldn’t sleep withoutdrinking-he doubted everything in his life. He argued with Ann, screamed atZach, and was once on the brink of hitting him, squeezing his arm until heyelped in sheer terror.

“Wake up, Reed. I brought your medicine.”

A steaming cup of coffee was set before him, the aroma mingling withthe scent of Obsession. “Anything shaking, Tommy?” Molly Wilson settled in ather cubicle, next to his, her bracelets clinking.

“A drunk knifed by a whore.” He sipped the coffee. “Thanks.”

Wilson was hired four years ago from a small Texas daily. She had amaster’s degree in English literature. A relentless digger, she was a strongwriter. Her brunette hair was cut like Cleopatra’s, she had perfect teeth, andalways smelled good.

“Why are you here, Wilson? It’s your day off.”

She switched on her terminal, flipped open a notebook, and begantyping. “Got to finish a feature for Lana. She moved up my deadline.”

Reed grunted.

“Thanks for asking, Tom. It’s about men who kill, and the women wholove them. Hey, you’re being naughty. Can’t leave that Donner story alone.”

Reed said nothing.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Tom?”

“Do what?”

“Forget the story. The police fried you because they screwed up andneeded a scapegoat. Benson suspended you because he needed a scapegoat too. Itwas only a week. Everybody knows he put the entire thing on your shoulders. Itwas a year ago. Forget it and move on.”

“I can’t.”

The muted clatter of the Star’s police scanners flared, thenfaded. Reed and Wilson glanced across the newsroom at the summer internmonitoring transmissions.

“Tom, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, but if that dipshit in homicide had explained how Wallace’sprints were on the evidence, like you begged him, you would have backed off.You wanted more time on the Sunday School teacher stuff, but Benson was hornyfor the story. They pushed hard, too. We will never know the truth, Tom.”

Wilson’s eyes were sympathetic. She resumed typing. Reed went backto the clippings.

“Why do you have the Donner file, anyway?”

“Anniversary’s coming up. I’m going to pitch a feature.”

Wilson rolled her eyes. “You really are nuts. This rag is not goingto let you do that. They’ll pass it to a G.A., or some dink in Lifestyles.Besides, isn’t Tanita’s mother in hiding?”

“I have an idea, but-“

The scanners grew louder.

They turned to the small office tucked way in the far corner of thenewsroom. The “torture chamber.” A glass-walled room with twenty-four scannersmonitoring hundreds of emergency frequencies in the Bay Area. The incessantnoise inspired the room’s name. Experienced listeners kept the volume low, butwhen a major incident broke, the sound increased.

“Something’s happening,” Wilson said.

Simon Green, a summer intern, was monitoring the radios. His facewas taut when he stood, jotted a note, then yelled at Al: “Child abduction offBART! Balboa Park! They’re stopping the trains!”

Booth grimaced at the newsroom. No one on, except Reed.

“Are you clear?”

Reed nodded.

“Take it. Wilson, stick around, you might get overtime.”

Across the newsroom, the weekend photo editor radioed a photographerroaming the city to rush to the Balboa Park BART station.

Reed slipped on his jacket, grabbed one of the Star’s cellphones. “I’ve got number three, call me with updates, Molly.”

“This is eerie. Balboa Park.”

Tanita Marie Donner was abducted from the Section 8 housing complexwhere her teenage welfare mother lived. In Balboa Park.