If Angels Fall (49 page)

Sydowski chided himself for drifting, the key aspect
escaping him stemmed from the Donner file ... a common denominator with Donner ...
Christ, it was at the forefront of his memory, sitting there slightly out of focus.
Something Angela Donner had told him.

Gonzales moved the review along. “Now I’ll turn it
over to Bob Hill of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia. He
flew in this morning. Bob.”

A self-conscious smile of acknowledgement flashed across
the long face of the lanky soft-spoken supervisory agent. Hill was in his late
forties and had a gently cerebral air about him.

“As you know, I’ve been assisting on the profile in
this case since Danny Becker’s abduction, when the unit was contacted. I’d like
to caution you about putting all your eggs in one psychological basket. The
profile is only a tool, as you know.” Hill was acutely aware many case-hardened
investigators view psychological profiling as mumbo jumbo. “But each
development helps us to sharpen it. May I use the board, Lieutenant?”

Gonzales helped reposition the board so everyone could
see. Then Hill took a finger of chalk, and summarized the profile.

“Based on our reading of everything so far, you have a
profoundly wounded Caucasian, late forties, early fifties, traumatized by some
horrible life-altering event involving children. He either caused it, witnessed
it, or was close enough to it to be affected. We could assume it involved his
children. And given his age and the ages of the kidnap victims, it likely
happened twenty to twenty-five years ago. He has likely sought some kind of
therapy, or help which failed to ease whatever psychological pain he has
suffered.”

A detective had a question. “Could this guy have been
sexually abused as a child, and is grabbing the children as a form of payback?”

“Traditionally, that is the case in
abduction-sexual-homicides with children. In fact, based on what we know of the
Donner-Shook matter, I would say that’s what happened there. Predatory pedophiles
usually seize their prey when no one is watching. Tanita Donner was stolen from
her home when nobody was around to see. But what you have with Becker and Nunn
is rare, bold daylight abductions of young children from their parents in
crowded, public places. Your guy is on a mission, he feels protected. He’s so
far gone in his fantasy that he thinks nothing can touch him. Andrei Chikatilo,
the Russian serial killer who murdered fifty-three boys, girls, and young women
between 1978-1980, told police after his arrest that during his killing spree,
he felt at times that ‘he was concealed from other people by a black hood.’
Well, I believe our guy here is similar in that he thinks he is on a righteous
mission.”

“What kind of mission?” someone asked.

“A religious one.”

“What makes you think so?”

“A couple of things. What we heard today from the man
who sold him the pickup and boat.” Hill glanced at his file folder of notes.
“Mr. Urlich described the buyer as a ‘holy man’ who muttered about it being
‘destiny’ that he found the boat, and rambled about ‘life, death and
resurrection.’ That he needed the boat to ‘find his children.’”

The room fell quiet.

“And there is one other element that may or may not be
another indicator of your guy being driven by a religious fantasy and that’s
found in the full legal names of the children.” Hill printed them on the
chalkboard: Daniel Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Michelle Nunn. “Raphael and
Gabrielle, if spelled this way” -- Hill printed “Gabriel” on the board -- “are
the names of angels.”

“Angels?” someone repeated.

Hill heard the comment as he placed the chalk in the
tray.

“In Christian theology, angels are supernatural
intercessors for God. Our guy may think the children are angels of some sort. I
believe he looked for these children because they have ‘angel’ names, that his
mission is directly connected to his personal tragedy, which he has either
relived or plans to relive with Becker and Nunn.”

Hill brushed chalk dust from his hand.

“If you find out who this guy is and learn his
background, you have a shot at learning what he has done, or plans to do.”

At that moment the elusive lead hit Sydowski full
force.

You know, Inspector, I’ve been participating in the
university bereavement group.

Reed wrote about it in the
Star.
And Reed came
to him after the press conference on Gabrielle’s abduction, after seeing the
blurry video!

Walt what if I recognize this guy? He looks like
someone I met.

Reed had met Angela Donner’s study group, but no one
in the task force had thought to investigate those people -- people who had
suffered traumatic psychological pain involving children!

“Zach?”

Why didn’t he answer her? Ann Reed pulled herself
together, taking stock of the woman staring back from her dresser mirror.
Tousled hair, tearstained eyes, the lines of her face.

“Zachary?”

She concentrated on hearing a response. Nothing. Give
it time.

What a pathetic sight she was. A grown
thirty-three-year-old woman, mother of a nine-year-old son, a university
graduate with her own business. And where was she? Living in the same room
where she played with Barbie dolls, looking into the same mirror she looked
into when she was a child, dreaming of how perfect her life would be.

How had this happened? How had it all turned to shit?

“Zach, please come in here, we have to talk.”

No answer. Must be angry at her and his father. Could
she blame him? They had put him through hell. Maybe he was jet lagged after
this morning’s flight from Chicago and was napping. That was fine. She craved
sleep herself. But she had too much to do. She had to put this mess on a back
burner and check her stores. She needed a shower.

Her mother was right, she thought, as the hot water
soothed her. She came down hard on Tom. She had overreacted. He was working
hard. The kidnappings were a big story, out of the ordinary. And the paper
putting him on probation didn’t make it any easier for him.

The taps squeaked as she turned off the water.

Tom must be in agony.

Let him stew for awhile. She would call him tonight
and they would decide where to go from here. She still loved him and was
willing to attempt a salvage operation. If he was.

“Zachary?”

Ann pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a fresh T-shirt,
brushed her hair, then knocked softly on her son’s bedroom door.

No answer. Ann opened the door.

“Zach -- ” Ann stopped dead. He was gone. “Where is
he?”

Calling his name, she searched upstairs, the
bathrooms, the other bedrooms. Not a trace. Strange. He must’ve slipped
downstairs. “Zachary!” Where the hell could he be?

Ann stomped through the house. “Zachary Michael Reed!”
He hated his middle name. She only used it to telegraph anger to him. No Zach.

She went outside, slamming the door behind her. He was
starting to piss her off. Didn’t she tell him to go upstairs and stay in his
room? She checked the garage. His bicycle was untouched. The front and
backyards. Nothing. Hands on her hips, she exhaled her irritation. She didn’t
need this. Not now.

Zach wasn’t in the street, or at the corner store with
the pinball machines he loved, or in the small vacant lot where the
neighborhood kids played a half-block away. Two boys there, about twelve,
clothes streaked with grease, were struggling to replace a chain on an
overturned bike. “Hi fellas.”
They traded glances, then sized her like she was an invader. Parents never
entered this realm looking for kids. Beckoning was done by little sibling
messengers. Reading Ann’s face, defense shields went up. Whoever Zach was, he
was in serious shit. One of the pair moved his foot stealthily, nudging a pack
of Lucky Strikes under a jacket lying on the ground. Ann pretended she didn’t
notice.

“You sure you haven’t seen him a little while ago,
guys? His name is Zach Reed. He’s nine-years-old, blondish hair, wears new
sneakers, uh, Vans, and a Giants ball cap, uhmm – ”

“Zach? The little kid from across the Bay living with
Granny down the street?” asked the bigger kid. He possessed the aura of a
bully.

“That’s right! Did you see him?”

“Yesterday, but not today.”

She studied these boys -- strangers to her but known to
her son, realizing she had opened a secret door to Zach’s life, that she no
longer knew every detail of the child she had brought into this world. Nine
years old and he knew older boys who smoked, boys who were practiced liars. It
scared the hell out of her.

The smaller boy squinted up at her. “Is he in big
trouble?”

Ann covered her mouth with her hand, eyes watering.

“No. I just want to find him.”

After calling his name and searching a three-block
radius around the house, it enveloped her: the cold fear that Zach was missing.

Ann grabbed the phone and began punching the numbers
for her mother at the library. No. She sniffed and hung up. He didn’t know his
way on campus. But maybe he did? But Mom would call if he suddenly
materialized. Ann returned to his room. Maybe he was back?

“Zachary?”

His room was empty.

Defeated, she sat on his bed, shaking as she wept.
Where
are you? Why are you doing this to me?
Zach’s black nylon travel bag yawned
from the foot of the bed, opened, but not unpacked. It appeared as if he
started unpacking, and took a few things out before changing his mind. She
looked around his room. Where was his portable computer game? His CD player?
His little knife? He treasured those things. She went to the dresser and lifted
it slightly. His stash of cash, savings from his allowance, was gone. She
looked around again. So were his jacket and school backpack.
He’s run away
.

She called Tom’s place, letting the phone ring. His
machine clicked on. She left a message, urging him to call her immediately. She
hung up and dialed another number. She had an idea.

“San Francisco Star
newsroom,” said a hurried voice.

“I’d like to talk to Tom Reed. This is his wife. It’s
urgent.”

Her request was met with an unusually long silence.

“Hello?” Ann said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, uh. Tom was, uh -- ” the voice dropped to a
confidential whisper. “He ... as of yesterday, he no longer works here. I’m
sorry.”

She hung up and sat down. That was what he was trying
to tell her. It explained why he missed them at the airport, why he had been
drinking. He was fired. She buried her face in her hands.

Time to get it in gear, Annie. Where was the most
likely place Zach would go? To his father’s.

Okay. She would drive across the Bay to Tom’s rooming
house. She stood. Wait! What if Zach returns? She should wait here.

She brushed her tears away, grabbed the phone, and
punched Tom’s number in again, letting it ring and ring and ring.

She would keep calling until she broke that freaking
machine.