If Angels Fall (40 page)

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

Florence placed
The San Francisco Star
flat on
the table and sighed. Her reading glasses fell from her face, catching on her
chain, and she massaged her temples. The kettle screamed to a boil. Feeling the
weight 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 Marie
Donner, 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 police
three times and no one has come to see me.”

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

Now she had proof.

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

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

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he
urged 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 Danny
Becker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

Silence.

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

“Absolve me, priest.”

“I cannot.”

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

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

Silence. A long moment passed. When the killer spoke
again, his voice was softer. “Father, if I am truly repentant, will I receive
absolution 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. I
had to. She was an evil little prostitute. I had to do the things I did to her
and the others. Their faces haunt me, but it is God’s work that I do. Franklin
helped me with Tanita. He was a Sunday school teacher. He knew the magnitude of
my work. That’s why he helped me.”

“God does not condone your actions. You misinterpret
His message and that is what brought you here. Please, I beg you, surrender
yourself. The Lord Jesus Christ will help you conquer your sins and prepared
you 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 hands
in her lap. She couldn’t bear another word. She had heard every horrifying
detail before. She knew what she had to do now.

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

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

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

“Which case? What kind of evidence?”

“I will only talk to Inspector Sydowski.”

Florence enjoyed a measure of satisfaction at being in
control 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 and
sipping her tea. Again, she studied the news pictures of the children, their
cherub faces. Florence now understood the purpose of her life and no longer
felt alone.

“They are mine
, just like Tanita is mine in paradise. My little NUMBER ONE.” The
printed words bled in blue felt tip across a news feature on the
Nunn-Becker-Donner case torn from
The San Francisco Star
. “MY LITTLE
NUMBER TWO”, covered the article’s photo of Danny; “MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE”,
obscured Gabrielle’s face. The note was signed “SON OF THE ZODIAC” and was
accompanied by a Polaroid of Tanita Marie Donner on his lap. A picture no one
had seen before.

The items were sealed in a plastic evidence bag which
Special FBI Agent Merle Rust slid to Sydowski at the top of the emergency task
force meeting at the Hall of Justice.

Sydowski slipped on his glasses; his stomach was
churning.

“It was intercepted this morning by U.S. Postal
Inspectors,” Rust said. “We just got word they caught an identical one for
Nunn’s parents an hour ago.”

“We’re lucky the families haven’t seen these,” Turgeon
said.

“He send copies to the press?” Inspector Gord Mikelson
said.

“We suspect he hasn’t,” Special FBI Agent Lonnie
Ditmire said. “No confirmation calls.”

Rust watched Sydowski crunch on a Tums tablet.

“What do you make of it, Walt? You know the file—is it
him?”

“It’s him.”

“What makes you certain?” Ditmire said.

“the hold-back is a neatly folded note in blue
felt-tip pen that he left in Tanita Marie Donner’s mouth. I told nobody about
it.

“Gonna tell us what it said, Walt?” Rust opened his
notebook.

“’My little number one.’”

Someone at the table muttered: “Fucking serial.”

“Any trace evidence on the note, Walt?” Rust asked.

The note was clean.

“Tanita Marie Donner’s mother got one of these Son of
Zodiac things?” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales unwrapped a cigar.

“So far, no,” Ditmire said. “It was mailed three days
ago at a box near the BART station at the Coliseum in Oakland.”

“Ain’t that a fucking coincidence?” Gonzales lit his
cigar.

“We’ll send this stuff to the lab for prints and saliva.”
Rust tapped his Skoal canister on the table. “I would say it’s Virgil Shook.
We’ve all read his Canadian file. His history gives him a pattern and he
matches the profile. You agree, Walt?”

Sydowski nodded. The new Polaroid, the reference to
“MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE,” the article from the
Star
. It was Shook.

“Why haven’t we found him?” Nick Roselli, chief of
Inspectors, closed his folder of Shook’s file.

“We’ve got people on that; we’re pushing street
sources hard. We’ll get him, Nick.” Gonzales clamped hard on his cigar.

“Better be goddamn now, Leo. The mayor’s office and
the commission are chewing new assholes for us.” Roselli’s gaze went round the
table. “If he grabs another kid before we have him, this city will never
forgive us.”

“Why don’t we splash him? Call a news conference and
splash Shook’s face to the world,” Ditmire suggested.

“He’ll disappear if we do that,” Sydowski said. “He
wants to play games like his hero. He’s going to stick around to see what we
do. If we can buy a few days, just a few days to find him—I’ve got a few
hopeful leads.”

Turgeon, already angry at Sydowski for not telling her
about the hold-back note, barely concealed her surprise.

“All right.” Roselli gritted his teeth. “We’ll give it
a couple days and make a full court press on the street to find Shook. We’ll
freeze every undercover operation possible and we’ll hammer the streets until
the fucker pops up. But if he goes to the press with this shit”—he nodded to
the intercepted note—“we’re fucked.”

“What’s the status on everything else?” Roselli said.

“We like Shook for Donner, but we have nothing to put
him to Becker and Nunn, except for the stuff today,” Mikelson said. “Nothing
back yet on the blood on Nunn’s severed braids. Shook also matches the general
description of the suspect in Becker and Nunn. But it’s not enough.”

Inspector Randy Baker, a young, bright Berkeley
graduate, said they were using the bar code from the meat wrapper found at the
Nunn home to pinpoint the store where the hamburger used to lure Gabrielle’s
dog was purchased.

“And we’re using the partial tag we have on the
suspect pickup, cross-referencing it with owner’s registration, driver’s
license pictures, and specifics to create a suspect pool,” Gonzales said.

“If that’s it”—Roselli rolled up his file on Shook and
slapped it against the table—“Then make a goddamn arrest and clear this file.”

***

Turgeon was silent leaving the meeting. She didn’t
utter a word, walking to the parking lot with Sydowski. But once he started the
unmarked Chevy, something inside her ignited.

“Why, Walt?”

“I’m sorry, Linda.”

“But why? Do you know how humiliating that was? Do you
have any idea? I thought we were partners. I requested to work with you.”

“You weren’t my partner then. At the time, I was
pretty well working Donner alone. I had to protect the integrity of the case. I
never meant to hurt you.”

“But you could’ve told me about the note in her
mouth.”

Sydowski said nothing. What could he say? He was an
arrogant Polish cocksucker and he knew it.

Turgeon turned away from him, letting the street and
the minutes roll by. “What the hell are your ‘hopeful leads,’ Walt?”

“Well, I’m still hoping for them.”

Turgeon smiled. “You are a son of a bitch.”

“I am.”

“Where you taking me, your prick?”

“We’re going to visit Kindhart, on the job in Hunters
Point.”

“Think we can squeeze anything more from him?”

“Maybe. If you offer him sex, he might give us Virgil
Shook.”

She rolled her eyes.

Kindhart was not happy to have two Homicide detectives
questioning him at his job. He told them that Shook may be living in a
Tenderloin flophouse and hanging out at a shelter somewhere. Then he threatened
to call a lawyer if they didn’t stop harassing him.

“Either charge me, or stay the fuck out of my face.”

Sydowski and Turgeon returned to the Homicide Detail.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had called with the names of two of Shook’s
associates in the Bay Area. They were new names that weren’t on his file. They
came from a relative in Toronto.

As Sydowski talked on the phone with the Mountie from
Ottawa, Turgeon read their messages. She went through them quickly. Routine
stuff, so she set the batch down and opened Shook’s file. But something niggled
at her. Did one message say something about evidence? Turgeon shuffled them
again. Here it was, from a Florence Schafer. Gaines had taken the call.

“Schafer says she has crucial evidence in one of your
major cases, Walt,” Gaines wrote. He ran Schafer’s name through the Task Force
hotline. Schafer had called three times before, according to the caller history
printout Gaines attached to the latest note.