Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Rust watched Sydowski crunch on a Tums tablet.

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

“It’s him.”

“What makes you certain?” Ditmire said.

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

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

“’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 ofZodiac things?” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales unwrapped a cigar.

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

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

“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 hematches 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 ofInspectors, closed his folder of Shook’s file.

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

“Better be goddamn now, Leo. The mayor’s office andthe commission are chewing new assholes for us.” Roselli’s gaze went round thetable. “If he grabs another kid before we have him, this city will neverforgive us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Turgeon was silent leaving the meeting. She didn’tutter a word, walking to the parking lot with Sydowski. But once he started theunmarked Chevy, something inside her ignited.

“Why, Walt?”

“I’m sorry, Linda.”

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

“You weren’t my partner then. At the time, I waspretty well working Donner alone. I had to protect the integrity of the case. Inever meant to hurt you.”

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

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

Turgeon turned away from him, letting the street andthe 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 HuntersPoint.”

“Think we can squeeze anything more from him?”

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

She rolled her eyes.

Kindhart was not happy to have two Homicide detectivesquestioning him at his job. He told them that Shook may be living in aTenderloin flophouse and hanging out at a shelter somewhere. Then he threatenedto 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’sassociates in the Bay Area. They were new names that weren’t on his file. Theycame from a relative in Toronto.

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

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

“Nutcase?” Gaines scrawled on the printout,underlining the passage where Schafer claims she heard Tanita Marie Donner’skiller confess to God at Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman CatholicChurch on Upper Market.

Hadn’t they just built a new soup kitchen there? Turgeonremembered something about it in the papers. She tapped Sydowski’s shoulder.And Catholics confess their sins. She should know. Turgeon tapped harder. Andthe FBI’s profile said the killer lived in a fantasy world that could bestimulated by religious delusions. Turgeon was now pounding Sydowski’sshoulder, forcing him to cover the telephone’s mouthpiece.

“Jeez, Linda, what is it?”

She held Florence Schafer’s messages before his face.

“Walt, I think we’ve got our lead.

The yellow ribbon affixed to Florence Schafer’s mailbox quivered in the Pacificbreezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her framehouse. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, theirgaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.

“Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “Thisis Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on acase?”

“May I see your identification?” Florence said. Shesaw their unmarked car parked on the street. None of her neighbors appeared atthe windows. Florence inspected their badges.

“Please come in.”

Turgeon took in the living room, raising her eyebrowsat Florence’s books. All were about crime. Sydowski went to Buster, who waschirping on his perch, preening his olive green plumage.

“He’s a beautiful Scotch Fancy,” he complimentedFlorence, accepting a china cup of tea and joining her on the sofa. She sat onthe edge so her feet could reach the floor.

“You know something about canaries, Inspector?”