If Angels Fall

FORTY-NINE

Florence Schafer sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning papers. Herface turned ashen.

The families, friends, and supporters of Danny Beckerand Gabrielle Nunn displayed yellow ribbons across the city on doors, carantennas, in shop windows, on trees, billboards, and in schools. Volunteers whoanswered phone tips and went door to door with MISSING-REWARD flyers wore themas arm bands. When they came to her house. Florence agreed to hang one from hermailbox. A group of mountain climbers affixed a giant yellow bow on the southspire of the Golden Gate. It was the manifestation of collective anguish andhope the children would come home alive. Consequently, the San Francisco presscalled the investigation “The Yellow Ribbon Task Force.”

Days after Gabrielle’s kidnapping, the case remained frontpage news and the lead or second item of every local newscast. And when thePresident and First Lady offered sympathy to the families of “San Francisco’stragedy,” during a presidential visit to the city, Tanita Marie Donner, DannyBecker, and Gabrielle Nunn became household names across the country. Thenational press gave the story strong play.

Florence placed The San Francisco Star flat onthe table and sighed. Her reading glasses fell from her face, catching on herchain, and she massaged her temples. The kettle screamed to a boil. Feeling theweight of the world on her shoulders, she made a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea.What was she going to do? She had to do something. The faces of Tanita MarieDonner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn beckoned from the paper. Buster, her budgie,chirped from his perch in his cage by the kitchen window.

“What should I do, Buster? I’ve called the policethree times and no one has come to see me.”

What had she done wrong? She had told the police sheheard Tanita Donner’s killer confess to God that he murdered her. She left hername and number. The last officer she talked to was like the others. He didn’tbelieve her, she could tell. He kept asking how old she was, did she livealone, and as a devout Catholic how often did she go to church, what kind ofmedication did she use? He thought she was an old kook. She knew. He doubtedher because she wouldn’t give him details or proof she heard the killerconfess.

Now she had proof.

Florence’s Royal Doulton teacup rattled on the sauceras she carried it to her book-lined living room. She found comfort in this roomwhere she enjoyed her crime books, but nothing in them had ever prepared herfor this. The real thing. She was scared.

Time to check it, once more. She could only stand tohear a little bit. Florence picked up the cassette recorder, and pushed theplay button. The tape hissed, then Father McCreeny cleared his throat.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” heurged the person in the confessional.

“It’s me again,” the killer said.

“Why haven’t you turned yourself in? I implore you.”

The killer said nothing.

“Are you also responsible for the kidnappings of DannyBecker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

Silence.

“I beseech you not to harm the children, turn yourselfin now.”

“Absolve me, priest.”

“I cannot.”

“You took an oath. You are bound. Absolve me.”

“You are not repentant. This is a perverted game foryou. I do not believe you are truly sorry. There can be no benediction.”

Silence. A long moment passed. When the killer spokeagain, his voice was softer. “Father, if I am truly repentant, will I receiveabsolution and the grace of Jesus?”

McCreeny said nothing.

“I need to know, Father. Please.”

Silence.

“Father, you do not understand. I had to kill her. Ihad to. She was an evil little prostitute. I had to do the things I did to herand the others. Their faces haunt me, but it is God’s work that I do. Franklinhelped me with Tanita. He was a Sunday school teacher. He knew the magnitude ofmy work. That’s why he helped me.”

“God does not condone your actions. You misinterpretHis message and that is what brought you here. Please, I beg you, surrenderyourself. The Lord Jesus Christ will help you conquer your sins and preparedyou for life everlasting.”

“We had to cleanse the little harlot of her impurities.We took her to a secret spot I know. Oh how she screamed. Then we-“

Florence snapped the machine off and clasped her handsin her lap. She couldn’t bear another word. She had heard every horrifyingdetail before. She knew what she had to do now.

She went to her clipping file and retrieved theyear-old article of Tanita Marie Donner’s case, staring at one of the newsphotos of SFPD Inspector Walt Sydowski. He was in the TV news footageyesterday, a member of the Yellow Ribbon Task Force. His face was warm,friendly, intelligent. He was a man who would understand. A man who knewTanita’s case, knew people. A man she could trust. She went to the phone andthis time, instead of calling the Task Force Hotline, she called the SanFrancisco Homicide Detail and asked for Sydowski.

“He’s out now. Like to leave a message?” some hurriedinspector told Florence, taking her name, address, and telephone number.

“Tell him I have crucial evidence in one of his majorcases.”

“Which case? What kind of evidence?”

“I will only talk to Inspector Sydowski.”

Florence enjoyed a measure of satisfaction at being incontrol of her information. At last, she was being taken seriously.

“He’ll get your message.”

She sat in her living room, staring at the tape andsipping her tea. Again, she studied the news pictures of the children, theircherub faces. Florence now understood the purpose of her life and no longerfelt alone.