Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Score: Three to fucking zero.

A couple of weary inspectors were on the phone,pumping sources on the abductions. Files and reports were stacked next tostained coffee mugs. The Star’s edition was splayed on the floor, thefront-page headline blaring at him. The enlarged, city case map at one end ofthe room now contained a third series of pins, yellow ones, for Gabrielle Nunn.Someone was shouting in one of the interview rooms. A door slammed and amassive slab of Irish-American righteousness with a handlebar mustache, invogue for turn-of-the-century beat cops, stepped out: Bob Murphy.

“Who you got in there Bobby?”

Murphy had been up for nearly twenty-four hours. Heslapped a file into Sydowski’s hand. Sydowski put on his bifocals and beganreading.

Donald Arthur Barrons, age forty-three. Five feet,three inches tall, about one hundred pounds. Red hair. No tattoos. No beard.Nowhere near the description of the suspect. He was the flasher pervert whoseprints were lifted from one of the stalls in the girls’ washroom at theChildren’s Playground after the abduction. Witnesses put Barrons at the parkearlier that morning.

“Accomplice?” Murphy anticipated the question ofdescription. Barrons had molestation convictions. Worked downtown. Parking lotattendant.

“Vice picked him up about midnight at his apartment.”

“And?”

“We got zip. Sweet dick, Walt. I jumped him too soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“He admitted right off to being there. Said he goesthere to play with himself in the girls’ can. But he’s alibied solid. Wasworking his lot well before Nunn was grabbed. It checks. He’s got clock-punchedparking receipts. Witnesses. And a hot dog vendor remembers selling him acheese dog. So nothing.”

Sydowski went back to the file. Barrons worked forEE-Z-PARK, a company that owned several small lots in prime downtown locations.“Do you know if the Beckers and Nunns ever parked at his lot?”

“No.”

“Ask them. If they can’t be sure, get the company toshow you records. I know they computerize tag numbers of all cars. Check theFord and the partial tag with them, too. May be a common factor there.”

Sydowski slapped Murphy on the back and handed him thefile. “I’d kick Barrons loose, go home, and get some sleep.”

Murphy nodded. He was a good cop. The boys in Vice didjump Barrons too soon. Sydowski thought, starting a fresh pot of coffee in thecoffee room. He stared at the fading poster above the counter. A.38 Smith amp; Wesson with a steel lock through the action-“Keep it locked at home.”They may have blown it with Barrons. Damn. Too many divorced, heart-broken copsthinking like fathers instead of detectives here.

Notice of a case status meeting was scrawled on theblackboard: 8:30 A.M. Sydowski eyed the fax machine. Nothing from Canada. Hesipped coffee and flipped through a basket of the most recent tips and leadsthat had been checked, or dismissed. He went through the E-mail printouts. Lotsof advice on how to conduct an investigation. Cyber advice from around theworld pointing them to suspicious websites and kiddie porn stuff. Most of thetips came from crazies. Most of it was plain useless stuff. Sightings acrossthe Bay Area of a man fitting the general description. “Suspect spotted on BARTlast year, caller can’t remember when.” Impossible to check. Psychics andanonymous kooks such as: “Caller says she was instructed to inform police bythe Lord.” Sydowski shook his head.

One dismissed report came with a cassette recording.Sydowski rummaged through his desk for his machine, inserted the tape, rewoundit to the beginning, put on a headset, and pressed the play button.

“We’ve been in love for more than a year…”

The words hung in the air like a bizarre smell. It wasdifficult to determine the speaker’s gender.

“Danny is with me now. It’s better this way. He lovesme. He’s always loved me. Our first meeting was so beautiful, so innocent. Ithink it was preordained. Shall I tell you about it?”

Sydowski checked the accompanying report. The callerhad phoned in on the task force line, which was wired to record calls.

“I was walking through the park when we saw eachother. Our eyes met, he smiled. Have you seen his eyes? So expressive, I’mlooking at them now. He is so captivating. I won’t tell you how we madecontact, that’s my little secret, but I will say he communicated his love to meintuitively. A pure, virtuous, absolute love…” The voice wept, rambling forfive minutes until the line went dead.

Sydowski removed his headset, went over the accompanyingreport. The caller was Chris Lorenzo Hollis, a forty-year-old psychiatricpatient who called from his hospital room. The staff said he’d been mesmerizedwith the Becker kidnapping, and fantasized about being Danny Becker’s mother.He watched TV news reports, read the newspaper stories faithfully. He hadn’tleft the hospital in sixty days.

Sydowski went to another cleared report, opening thethin legal-size file folder containing a single sheet of paper sealed in clearplastic and a two-page assessment. The piece of paper was left that night onthe counter of the SFPD station in Balboa Park. Nothing on the person whodelivered it. It was in a blank, white letter-size envelope. No markings.Sydowski read the document.

Re: Kidnapping of Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn.

Dear Sirs: This material was channeled spiritually so it is open tointerpretation. The kidnapper is Elwood X. Suratz, born Jan. 18, 1954. He is apedophile who was in the city recently for counseling. He cancelled hisappointment when he became overwhelmed by his urges. While in a semi-psychoticstate, he went XXXXXX hunting for prey on the subway where he abducted DannyBecker…

The letter graphically described assaults on Danny,then detailed biographical material on Suratz. The accompanying two-page reportdismissed the tip as bogus. No such person existed. Every claim in the letterhas been double-checked. Not one item could be verified. The letter was typedon the same portable Olympia manual that was used for ten other similar letterssent to the police on ten different high-profile cases. Police suspect theletters came from somebody who thought they had psychic abilities. They didn’t.

Sydowski gulped his coffee just as the fax machinebegan humming. The first of twenty-six pages, via the FBI liaison in Ottawa, onthe Canadian police, prison, and psych records of Virgil Lee Shook werearriving, including copies of the most recent mugs of Shook. He was aforty-eight-year-old Caucasian, six feet tall, one hundred eighty pounds. Hehad light-colored hair. Put a beard on him and he fit the description in theBecker-Nunn cases. His tattoos matched those of the hooded man in the Polaroidswith Tanita Marie Donner.

Sydowski felt his gut tighten and popped a Tums.

Shook was born in Dallas and drifted to Canada afterhe was under suspicion for assaulting a four-year-old boy near La Grange,Texas. In Canada, he achieved a staggering record of assault on children. Inone instance, he claimed to be a relative and lured a seven-year-old boy and hisfive-year-old sister from their parents at a large park near Montreal. Shookkept the children captive for five days in a suburban motel room, where he tiedthem to the room’s beds, donned a hood, and repeatedly assaulted them. He tookpictures of the children and kept a journal detailing how he satisfied hisfantasies before abandoning them alive.

Shook was arrested two years later in Toronto afterthree university students caught him molesting a five-year-old boy in asecluded wooded area. Shook had abducted the boy from his inattentivegrandfather hours earlier off the Toronto subway. In court, Shook detailed hisattacks on scores of children over the years. His actions were born out of hisown misery. He said he was sexually abused when he was a nine-year-old altarboy by his parish priest. Shook was ten when his father died. His motherremarried and he was beaten by his stepfather. Shook grew up envying andloathing “normal” children. He would never overcome his need to exact a toll,“inflict damage” on them. After earning parole three years ago, he vanished.