If Angels Fall (41 page)

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

Hadn’t they just built a new soup kitchen there? Turgeon
remembered something about it in the papers. She tapped Sydowski’s shoulder.
And Catholics confess their sins. She should know. Turgeon tapped harder. And
the FBI’s profile said the killer lived in a fantasy world that could be
stimulated by religious delusions. Turgeon was now pounding Sydowski’s
shoulder, 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 Pacific
breezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her frame
house. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, their
gaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.

“Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “This
is Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on a
case?”

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

“Please come in.”

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

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

“You know something about canaries, Inspector?”

“I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”

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

“It can be.”

Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragrance
of 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 many
crime books?” she said.

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

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

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

“Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “You
called 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’t
open 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 your
evidence?”

“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 left
the 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 play
button. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices sounding
otherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For the
first few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he could
not absolve him because he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he was
sorry, 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 the
Tenderloin. Oh how she screamed...Then we took her...”

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

The priest was gasping, begging the killer to
surrender.

Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita Marie
Donner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the details
the confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to the
recounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Like
the 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. The
killer’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy kill
Gabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to the
families?

MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.

MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.

MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.

Was it a countdown? Were they going to find more
little corpses?

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

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 his
broken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that kept
you alive. The tape ended.

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

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

Turgeon was writing everything down.

“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snake
and 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 taking
notes, 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, is
there anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch with
Virgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”

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

“At the shelter, does he mention the children, Danny
Becker, 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. You
have to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezed
her tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around again
soon.”

Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was the
right 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 for
the 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 Half
Moon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling green
hills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochure
for heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gulls
shrieking in the briny air.

He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippings
of Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratched
their heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half an
hour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he had
talked to earlier jogged up to him.

“Try Reimer,” she said.

“Who?”

“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter for
dinosaurs. 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 with
Keller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to Half
Moon 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 town
remembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a club
sandwich 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-snapping
university student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into the
duty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped through
the cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CD
headset, 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. Far
northwest edge, lots of shade.”

Keeping a vigil at the Keller gravesite was a huge
white marble angel. Its face was a sculpture of compassion, its outstretched
wings protecting the polished granite headstone. Over Joan’s name and those of
her children Pierce, Alisha and Joshua, their birth and death dates, the
epitaph read:

If angels fall,

I shall deliver them

And together we will

Ascend to Heaven

An icy shiver coiled up Reed’s spine. Inscribed next
to Joan and the children’s names was Edward Keller’s. His death date remained
open. A fresh bunch of scarlet roses rested at the base of the headstone with a
note reading: “Forever, love, Dad.”

Reed swallowed.

The ages of Danny Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Nunn
matched the ages of Joshua and Alisha Keller when they drowned.

Raphael and Gabriel were angel names.

If angels fall, I shall deliver them and together
we will ascend to Heaven.

This supported Molly’s theory. Had Keller carved his
plan in their headstone? Did Keller think Danny and Gabrielle were surrogates
he required for some twisted mission?