Kindhart’s kettle piped. He made black coffee forhimself only.
“Tell us about the last time you saw Wallace,”Sydowski said.
“Why should I? You’re just going to report me.”
“We are going to report you, but whether we tell thejudge you helped us with our investigation, or obstructed it, is up to you.”
Kindhart squinted through a pull of smoke and slurpedhis coffee. “I shared a cell with Wallace in Virginia and looked him up when Igot here. Being a Sunday school teacher he was plugged in, figured he couldhelp me get a job. I saved his ass inside. He owed me.”
“A real job, or something in the trade?” Turgeon said
“Look, I just take pictures, that’s all I do.”
“What about the three cousins, the little girl inRichmond, Virginia?” Turgeon said
“I just took pictures. They wanted me to.”
“And the two five-year-old girls last year in the Mission?”
“I told you I just take pictures when they want me to.They love to have their pictures taken. I don’t date them like Wallace did. Idon’t know anything about that shit with that little Donner girl last year andwhy he offed himself. I had nothing to do with it.”
“We never suggested you did.” Sydowski said.
“Right. Like I don’t know why you’re here.” Kindhartshook his head. “Ever since that boy got grabbed, it’s been all over the news again.I just take pictures, that’s all I do. I don’t date them.” Kindhart draggedhard on his cigarette, then pounded the magazines with his forefinger.“Besides, they’re all little prostitutes anyway. They know exactly what they’redoing. Always coming to the people who know. Wallace and his friend hadterrific insights into them.”
“What’s his friend’s name?” Sydowski asked.
Kindhart shook his head and took a pull from hiscigarette. “Only met him once out twice. I think he was from Montana or NorthDakota. Some far-off place like that.”
“Describe him.”
“Describe him.”
“Race?”
“White. A white guy.”
“Height.”
“Just under six, average.’
“Age?”
“Late forties, I’d say.”
“Anything specific you remember about him?”
“No…” Kindhart stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah.Tattoos. He had tattoos. Snake and fire, or something, here.” Kindhart brushedhis forearms.
“Where does he live? Where does he work?” Sydowskisaid
“Don’t know.”
“How did you know him?”
“Through Wallace. He was Wallace’s friend.”
“He do time in Virginia, too?”
“I don’t remember him, but he was a con.”
“How do you know?”
“Walked the walk. Talked the talk.”
“Where’d he do the time?”
Kindhart shrugged.
“Where’d you meet him?”
“Bookstore off Romolo. I was there with Wallace whenhe came in and started talking.”
“He like to date children?”
“Wallace said he did.”
“Ever take his picture while he was on a date?”
“No fucking way. I hardly knew the guy.”
Sydowski dropped a print of the Polaroid showingTanita Marie Donner sitting in the lap of the hooded man with the tattoos.“Who’s that man?” Sydowski asked.
Kindhart picked it up. Examined it, then put it down.“That’s Wallace’s friend.”
“How do you know?”
“The tattoos.”
“Who took the snapshot?”
Kindhart shrugged.”
“You used a Polaroid last year with little girls inthe Mission, didn’t you, Perry?”
Kindhart didn’t remember.
“Tell you what”-Sydowski closed his notebook andsmiled-“you better come over to the Hall with us while we get a warrant to tidyup your place here.”
“I told you I had nothing to do with Wallace and thatgirl.”
I’m sure you’re being truthful and won’t mind tellingus again after we wire you to a polygraph?”
“A fucking lie-detector?”
“you have a problem with that, Perry?” Sydowski asked.
“I want to call my lawyer.”
Sydowski slowly folded his glasses, tucked them intohis breast pocket, and stood. “You know what I find interesting?” He toweredover Kindhart. “I find it interesting how an innocent man with nothing to hidenever thinks of calling a lawyer. Now why would you need a lawyer, Perry?”
He didn’t answer.
Sydowski leaned down and whispered into his ear: “Did TanitaMarie Donner get to call a lawyer?”
Kindhart said nothing.
“Did Danny Raphael Becker get to call a lawyer,Perry?”
Sydowski clamped his massive hand firmly around theback of Kindhart’s neck and squeezed until it started hurting.
“Don’t worry, voychik. You can talk to yourlawyer about the big bad SFPD and your right to prey on children. And I’ll talkto the construction workers at Hunters Point about baby fuckers, skinners, andall around pieces of shit. Sound good?”
The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he smiled.“Good. Now, if you don’t mind. I think we should be on our way.”
TWENTY-SIX
BOY’S ABDUCTION HAUNTS MOTHER OF KIDNAPPED-MURDEREDBABY GIRL.
The head of The San Francisco Star’s lead itemskylined above the fold across six columns, over a four-column color shot ofAngela Donner in Tanita Marie’s room, hugging a teddy bear. A large familiarposter of Tanita dominated the background with REWARD emblazoned above Tanita’sface. “Murder” was, by chance, at Angela’s eye level. Photos of Tanita andDanny Becker accompanied the story by Tom Reed. It began:
Angela Donner can’t stop her tears as she hugs herdead child’s teddy bear and prays for Danny Becker who was abducted in the samearea where her daughter Tanita Marie was kidnapped and later murdered a yearago.
“I pray Danny Becker will come home alive, that hismom and dad won’t have to go through what I’ve gone through, and live withevery day. And I pray my baby’s murderer is brought to justice.” Angela, 21,cries softly in the first interview she’s given since her two-year-olddaughter’s slaying shocked The City…
Not bad, Reed thought, taking a hit of coffee at hisdesk in the newsroom after reading his package of stories. His lead pieceturned to page two and keyed to his feature on Martin’s group, the anchor pieceon the front of the Metro section.
He had beaten both the Chronicle and Examiner.Mixed with the satisfaction of scooping the competition and owning today’s Starwas Reed’s sympathy for Angela Donner. She was an obese, homely young woman whokept apologizing for her home, a dilapidated apartment permeated with a pungentodor. Her father was in his chair before a General Electric fan that oscillatedatop a TV supported by a wooden fruit crate. He was shrouded in a whitebedsheet. From time to time, his wrinkled hand would slither from under it togather ice chips from a plastic bowl. His skeletal jaw worked slowly on theice.
“Earth to Tom. Did you hear me?”
“Sorry. What?” Reed looked up from his paper and overhis computer terminal at Molly Wilson, typing feverishly.
“I said, how much longer are you going to admire yourwork? You’re worse than a summer cub with journalistic narcissism.”
All morning, Reed had accepted compliments on hisstories.
“You know,” Wilson said, “I half expect you to startdusting your awards and telling me about your glory days.”
“This is how it is with us old guys, Molly. It’s rarefor us to get it up. But when we do, the sensation is indescribable.”
Wilson halted her typing. “I wouldn’t know, Tom.”
Reed turned to the Metro section and the feature onMartin’s group. Whatever was happening here with Wilson did not sit right. Whatdid she want? A relationship? Sex? It didn’t matter. “Ann and I are trying toget back together.”
Wilson had a pen clamped in her teeth. She typedaggressively for several moments before removing it. “Would you go over thisfor me?” She was all business now.