Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”

“It must be a relaxing hobby for a man in your line ofwork.”

“It can be.”

Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragranceof guest soap, reminding her of childhood visits to her grandmother’s home.Doilies under everything, even the King James Bible on the coffee table.Turgeon kept her tea on her lap. “Excuse me, Florence. I’m curious. Why so manycrime books?” she said.

“Oh yes, well crime is my hobby.” She smiled atSydowski. “May I please see your shield again, Inspector?”

Sydowski obliged her. It was obvious Florence washappy to have company. Too happy, maybe. Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged quickglances. They’d give this nutbar another five minutes.

Florence admired the shield with the city’s seal andmotto in Spanish. Oro en paz, fierro en Guerra . “Gold in peace. Iron inwar.” Florence said. “I know the city’s crest and motto. I’m a retired city taxclerk.”

“Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “Youcalled Homicide and said you heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess?”

“Yes, I did.” She returned Sydowski’s ID.

“You said you have evidence of that confession?”Sydowski said.

“Yes.”

“What sort?” Turgeon produced her notebook, but didn’topen it.

“He must never know it came from me. I’m afraid.”

“Who must never know?” Sydowski said.

“The killer.”

“We’ll keep it confidential,” he said. “What is yourevidence?”

“It’s on tape. I taped him confessing.”

Sydowski and Turgeon looked at each other.

“It’s on tape?” Sydowski was incredulous.

“I’ll play it for you. I have it ready.” Florence leftthe room to get it.

“Walt?” Turgeon whispered.

“I don’t fucking believe this.”

Florence returned with a micro-cassette tape recorder.She set it next to the Bible, turned the volume to maximum and pressed the playbutton. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices soundingotherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For thefirst few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he couldnot absolve him because he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he wassorry, he should go to police and give himself up.

The killer remained lost in his own fantasy world.

“…we took her to a secret spot I know in theTenderloin. Oh how she screamed…Then we took her…”

Turgeon struggled with her composure as the killercheerfully detailed what he did to Tanita. She kept her head down, takingnotes, bile seeping up the back of her throat.

The priest was gasping, begging the killer tosurrender.

Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita MarieDonner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the detailsthe confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to therecounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Likethe missing pieces of a shattered glass doll, every aspect came together,matching the unknowns. This lead broke the case. But it came at a price. Thekiller’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy killGabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to thefamilies?

MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.

MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.

MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.

Was it a countdown? Were they going to find morelittle corpses?

The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him,her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years ofcynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought wasimpenetrable.

In death, she had become his child.

But sitting there in Florence Schafer’s living room,his face was a portrait of indifference, never flinching, never betraying hisbroken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that keptyou alive. The tape ended.

“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” hesaid.

I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his lastname.”

Turgeon was writing everything down.

“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snakeand flames. A white man, mid-forties, about six feet, medium build,salt-and-pepper beard, and bushy hair.”

“Where does he live?” Sydowski said.

“I don’t know.” Florence looked at Turgeon takingnotes, then at Sydowski. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she said,“Please, please, he must never know I’ve spoken to you. I’m afraid of him.”

“It will be okay, Florence,” Sydowski said. “Now, isthere anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch withVirgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”

Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the churchalmost daily, to the shelter.”

“At the shelter, does he mention the children, DannyBecker, Gabrielle Nunn? Talk about the news, that kind of thing?”

“Oh no.”

“Is he friends with anyone at the shelter?”

“Not really. He keeps to himself.” Florence sniffed.“Inspector, what if he has the other children with him? I pray for them. Youhave to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezedher tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around againsoon.”

Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was theright thing to do.”

Florence nodded. She was terrified.

“You are a good detective, Florence,” he whispered.

A warm, calm sensation came over her. Her search forthe meaning and purpose of her life had ended.

Buster chirped.

“May I use your phone?”

Some twenty-five miles south of San Francisco along Highway 1, Reed pulled into HalfMoon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling greenhills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochurefor heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gullsshrieking in the briny air.

He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippingsof Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratchedtheir heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half anhour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he hadtalked to earlier jogged up to him.

“Try Reimer,” she said.

“Who?”

“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter fordinosaurs. If anyone would remember that story, Reimer would.”

“Where do I find him?”

She glanced at her watch.

“Gloria’s on Main Street. Go there and ask for him.”

“Thanks.”

Reed was optimistic. He had to be on to something withKeller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to HalfMoon Bay, he had driven to Philo, where Keller’s wife, Joan, had grown up.After checking the old Keller mansion on Russian Hill and reading Joan’s diary,he figured it was a logical place to go. But no one he talked to in townremembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a clubsandwich at a Philo diner, it struck him that before heading for Half Moon Bay,he should stop at the cemetery. Maybe Joan was buried there.

The groundskeeper was a helpful gum-snappinguniversity student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into theduty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped throughthe cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CDheadset, it was quiet and soothingly cool. “All right.” He pulled a card,bobbing his head to his music and mumbling. “Section B, row two, plot eight. Farnorthwest edge, lots of shade.”