Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

One of the police phones rang. Ditmire grabbed it and said, “Onesecond,” then passed it to Sydowski.

“Give me the score, Walt.” It was Lieutenant Leo Gonzales. Sydowskitold him everything, while peering through the living room curtains at the halfdozen police cars, the unmarked surveillance van, and the news cruisers outfront.

“What about Donner, Walt? We got a serial here?”

“It’s too soon, Leo.”

“Probably. Can the father ID the bad guy?”

`Don’t know. We’re working on a composite.”

“We got people canvassing all night in Balboa and Jordan Park. We’llget vice and robbery to help,” Gonzales said. “We’ll shake down the registryand see what falls out. We’re also checking prisons and mental hospitals forescapees, walk-aways, recent discharges, and complaints. Halfway houses.”Gonzales promised a grid of the park and neighborhood at dawn and bodies to hitthe bars, porn, and peep clubs. “The mayor called the chief. We need this one,Walt.”

“You’re talking in obvious terms, Leo.”

“Sorry about your new partner. That was supposed to be official atthe hall on Monday.”

“Well, shit happens, Leo.”

“I love you too, dear. Keep in touch.”

Later, Ditmire was in the study with Nathan and the sketch artist.Turgeon was with Maggie upstairs. Rust was reviewing reports. Sydowski borrowedhis cellular phone. The press outside could not monitor its scrambledfrequencies. He wanted a moment alone and went to the kitchen. He noticed itsblack-and-white-tile floor, skylights, lace curtained windows, French doors ledto the patio and backyard. The table looked like maple. On the refrigeratordoor, at eye level, was a newspaper clipping with tips on quake readiness. Whatabout kidnappings? Below it, tiny Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse magnets held upa colorful finger painting with a “D” scrawled at the bottom. There was aSmurf’s calendar next to it. Danny’s doctor’s appointment was next Friday attwo.

Sydowski called his old man’s unit at Sea Breeze in Pacifica.

“Hahllow.”

“Hey, Dad. You got home okay?” Sydowski said in Polish.

“Oh sure, no problems. Sixty dollars for the cab. Do you believethat? I remember when you could buy a house for that.”

“So, who won the game?”

“A’s, ten to eight.”

“It got interesting after I left?”

“You going to be working all night on this. I saw it on the TV. It’spretty bad. It breaks my heart.”

“The ones with kids always break my heart, Dad.”

“Why do people do this? What does it prove? It’s crazy. Crazy.Better to shoot the sonofabitch.”

“Listen, I’m going to be working hard time on this one, but I’llcome down and see you when I can.”

“Sure, sure.”

“What are you going to do tomorrow?”

“I got to cut hair for John. Remember Big John?”

“The retired bus driver.”

“Yeah, I’m to give him a haircut.”

“Good. Well, I got to get back to work, Dad.”

“Sure. You better catch the sonofabitch. Shoot him.”

“I’m doing my best, Dad. Good night.”

Sydowski was tired. He poured coffee and took a bite of a pastramion rye, delivered by a deli. Turgeon entered.

“So, you killed a man., did you? Who handled the file, Ditmire?” Shesat down next to him. “Going to tell me about it?”

“Maybe.”

She smiled, took some coffee, brushing back the hair that hadcurtained over one eye. She was pretty. Reminded him of his daughters. Hisheart swirled with warm, then sad thoughts.

“I’m sorry, I never knew your dad.”

“It was a long time ago, too. Look”-Turgeon shifted topics-“I’d liketo go to the hall tonight and read the Donner file.”

“Forget Lonnie. I’ll bring you up to speed. It’ll be a long night.”

“Fine, but while we’re speaking of Ditmire. I appreciate your help,Inspector, but you don’t have to protect me.”

A scolding. He bit into his sandwich.

Dad, please. You’re suffocating me with your loving concern. Hisoldest daughter would chide him whenever he offered misgivings on her dates.Sydowski understood.

“And,” Turgeon said, “for the record, I asked to be teamed with you.Insisted, actually.”

“Let’s hope you won’t regret it. Getting what you want can sometimesbe terrible.” Sydowski finished his sandwich and coffee. “I need some air. Tellthe Hoover boys I’ll be outside with this.” He left with the cellular phone.

Strolling through the backyard to the park helped Sydowski think.The cool night air invigorated him. At the edge of the pond, he watched theswans sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings.

It could be the same guy who murdered Tanita Marie Donner. Catchthis guy and you could clear both. That was the department thinking. Results wereexpected fast before it got out of hand.

Sydowski picked up two round pebbles, and shook them like dice. Itwas just a little too pat. Could’ve been planned to appear like the first one.Could be coincidence. He looked up at the darkened windows of Maggie Becker’sstudio.

Sydowski threw the pebbles into the pond, startling the swans.

“I visited my baby’sgrave this morning.” Angela Donner felt the eyes of her weekly bereavementgroup upon her. It was always hard when her turn came.

Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed or afraid. We’re here together. Thatwas the group’s philosophy. Still, it was difficult to face them. Angela waspainfully self-conscious. She was an overweight, twenty-one-year-old, living onwelfare with her father, who had lost both his legs below the knee to cancer.She couldn’t help being uneasy when it was her time to talk. She apologizedwith a smile.

“Poppa went with me. We brought fresh flowers. We always do.”

Angela fingered the pink ribbon, bowed around the folded,grease-stained, take-out bag she held on her lap, like a prayer book.

“Today, when we got to Tanita Marie’s spot-it’s pretty there in theshade of a big weeping willow-I started pushing Poppa’s chair, he points andsays, ‘Look, Angie. There’s something on her stone.’ And I could see it. Thewind blew this bag up against it. Poppa wanted to complain to the groundsman.But I said no.” Angela caressed the bag, then squeezed it.

“I took the bag and folded it. I took the ribbon from the flowersfrom our last visit and tied it nice round the bag and saved it. Because of allthe hundreds of stones in the children’s cemetery, this bag came to my baby’sgrave. It came for a reason. Just like all of the babies in this city, mine wasmurdered.”

The room’s fluorescent lights hummed. Angela stared at the bag inher plump hands. The group listened.

“But, what’s the reason? Why was my baby murdered? I was a goodmother. I loved her. Why did someone take her? How could somebody be so bad?Poppa says somebody who would kill a baby must be dead inside already. But whycan’t the police find my baby’s killer? He’s still out there. He could killanother baby.” Her voice grew small. “I know it’s been a year, but sometimes,at night, I can still hear her crying for me.” Angela held the bag to her faceand wept softly.

Lois Jensen left her chair, knelt before Angela, ad put her armsaround her. “Go ahead and let it out, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

Lois knew the hurt. Two years ago, her thirteen-year-old son Allanwas shot in the head while riding his bike through the park near their home.Lois was the one who found him. She knew the hurt.

Dr. Kate Martin made a note on her clipboard. Her group wasprogression. Manifestations of empathy, comfort, and compassion were nowcommon. Not long ago, Lois, who was married to a lawyer in Marin County, wouldrefuse to open up as each of the others articulated their grief. Now, throughAngela, Lois was healing. Death, the great equalizer, had taken a child from eachwoman. Now, like shipwrecked survivors, they were holding fast to each other,enduring.