Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

He knew the hotdog would take a toll on his chronic heartburn, butwhat the hell? He smothered it with mustard, relish and onions as the oldquestions surfaced. What would he do if he retired? He was a cop. A homicideinspector. It was his life. To some, he was one of the SFPD’s best; to othershe was “the arrogant Polack cocksucker.” While he was traditionally assigned tobreak in new detectives, he maintained the detail’s highest clearance rate.Senior clicks told rookies Inspector Sydowski knew killers because he was one.

It was near the end of the war, Sydowski was what? Eight or nine?His family was working on a farm in southeastern Germany when he came up on adrunken Nazi soldier raping his twelve-year-old sister behind a barn. Sydowskigrabbed the soldier’s Luger and held it to the sweating man’s temple, forcinghim to kneel and beg for his life. Then he pulled the trigger, scatteringmaster race brain matter against the pigsty.

That was another life. Sydowski had erased the memory of it, orthought he had. Somehow the rage he felt then, rage he thought he would neveragain experience, had returned when he was given the case of a two-year-oldgirl. The worst part of the job was always the murders of babies. Looking downat their tiny bodies, knowing they never had a chance, that this world hadfailed them, and it was his job to avenge their deaths. Remembering how hewould go home brokenhearted, kiss Basha and the girls, and tell them it wasanother routine day.

Over the years he had managed to remain detached from his cases, enoughso that he could do the job. Although he won most, he accepted losing some. Hehad no choice. He couldn’t solve them all. But the abduction and murder ofTanita Donner was different. It was a year ago. He was the primary and hecouldn’t close it. At one stage, he felt he was close. Now he had nothing. Thething refused to be solved and it ate him up. Leo had suggested he let fresheyes go over it, that he concentrate on other files for a time. That didn’tlast. He had given a piece of his soul to the Donner case. How could he forgetabout that baby for one goddamned second?

It was raining when he arrived in Golden Gate Park with a rookie andlooked into the bag. He remembered the familiar foul smell, the flies andmaggots, how she was so white, the gash across her tiny neck, and how hereyes, those beautiful little eyes, were open and staring at him. Into him.Feeling something break inside, making him ache at that very moment to hold herto his chest, in front of all the cops, reporters, and rubberneckers, allstanding there.

Sydowski had crossed the emotional line with Tanita’s file. At themorgue, seeing her doll-size corpse, then taking Tanita’s teenage welfaremother and grandfather from their Balboa apartment to identify her. How hecaught the mother after she collapsed upon seeing her baby, hearing a groanfrom the grandfather, who covered his face with his hands. He was dying ofcancer and had already lost his legs. Remembering how his wheelchair was heldtogether by coat hangers, how the mother let her crumpled snapshot of Tanitafall to the floor and started screaming, and how Sydowski looked to theceiling.

He knew he would never give up on this one, never let it go. He hadtouched Tanita’s coffin at her funeral, vowing to find her killer.

“Here you go, Pop.” Sydowski handed a bag of popcorn to his old man,then took a couple of bites from his dog and tried getting back into the game.But he’d lost his concentration.

At the outset, the department had put half the detail on Donner. Itwas a green light. The FBI assigned a couple of humps to inflict itsjurisdiction. The senior agent was Merle Rust, a soft-spoken, twenty-year fedwith a three-inch scar on his chin from a bullet that grazed him during ashootout with The Order near Seattle in 1984. Rust was as fond of chewingtobacco as he was of his young partner, Special Agent Lonnie Ditmire, aby-the-book grad straight from the academy cookie cutter. He had anall-American smile and believed all municipal police were bush.

Despite the inevitable friction, everyone worked overtime. It wasalways that way with child murders. They hauled in suspects, Quantico kickedout a profile. They flashed information on the big screen of Candlestick Parkand offered a reward. As weeks, then months, passed, two network TV crime showsfeatured the case. The commission turned up the heat for an arrest. Posterssprouted in the Bay Area. But they had squat, until months into the file whensomething broke.

A beat cop, searching for tossed drugs in the playground in DoloresPark, found Tanita’s diaper and the weather-worn Polaroids of two men holdingher. The items were hidden in a bag among some shrubs. True to the profile: Twopeople were involved in the child’s abduction and murder. One of the picturedmen was Franklin Wallace, a Sunday school teacher who lived near Tanita’shousing project. Latents on the diaper matched his. They ran them anddiscovered Wallace had been convicted ten years ago of molesting a little girlin Virginia. Nothing was known about the second suspect, a tattooed man who wasmasked in the snapshots.

They kept the break secret, returned the items to the shrubs andwere about to surveil the site with the FBI when Sydowski got a call from TomReed at the Star , a reporter he knew and respected. Reed was on to thebreak in the case and wanted information for a story. Sydowski cursed tohimself over what he suspected was a dangerous leak, jeopardizing theinvestigation.

“What do you know, Reed?”

“Franklin Wallace is your boy. His prints are on her diaper andyou’ve got a picture of him with her. He’s a Sunday school teacher in theprojects with priors. A diddler from Virginia. Is that right?”

Reed was on the money. Sydowski had to be careful.

“Where did you get this?”

“A call out of the blue this morning.”

“Who?”

“Get serious, Walt, you know I’d never reveal a source.”

Sydowski said nothing.

Reed thought it over quickly, and lowering his voice, said, “If Ihelped you with information on the tip, do I get a jump on the story, Walt?”

“No deals.”

Reed sighed. Sydowski heard a pen tapping, heard Reed thinking.

“I don’t know who called. It was a man. Lasted a few seconds. Has tobe somebody sick of the commission’s shrieking, a cop likely.”

“You tape it?”

“No, it was too quick. So, am I on the right track, Walt?”

“No comment. And I wouldn’t write a word just yet.”

“Come on.”

“We never had this conversation.”

There was something triumphant in Reed’s silence.

“I’ll take that as confirmation.”

“Take it any way you like, I never spoke to you.”

The leak detonated a shitstorm at the D.A.’s office and at GoldenGate Avenue. Reed had called the D.A.’s office, seeking official confirmationfor his tip. He got nothing.

Wallace had not yet been formally questioned. Reed was forcing theirhand. Rust, Ditmire, and Rich Long, an assistant district attorney, descendedon the Hall of Justice and debated the merits of picking up Wallace without yethaving built a case against him or his mystery partner. Sydowski wanted Wallacegrabbed right away. The agents wanted Wallace under surveillance so he couldlead them to his partner. And could they stop Reed’s story? More importantly,Ditmire interjected directly to Sydowski, how many other reporters knew?

Offended at the implication that he was the leak, Sydowski stood toconfront his accuser, his chair scraping across the floor.

“Take it easy, Walt,” Rust said.

At that moment, they received word that Wallace was dead. Shothimself in the head after Reed showed up on his doorstep, asking about TanitaMarie Donner and his record in Virginia. Wallace left a note proclaiming hisinnocence. Nothing in his house linked him to Tanita’s murder.