Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interviewroom, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’dstruck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, wascontrolling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfullycoaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat.Kindhart would roll over-all he needed was a little nudge. When the ramblingsof Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about hispassion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.
“How ‘bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgersand some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.
Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned,Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.
“Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order thoseburgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in thefile, sifting papers.
“What’s to clear up?”
“Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on yourcamera.”
“That’s a fucking lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.
“And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the labreports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace andthe hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”
“Bull-fucking-shit.”
“And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out anotherbluff.
“What note?”
“Wallace’s suicide note.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’msorry.”
Kindhart was dead silent.
Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhartlooked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’sstomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. Thewheels were turning.
Here it comes, Sydowski knew.
“Did that little fuck try to implicate me? After whatI did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is about?”
“Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker waskidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.
“Modesto. I told you.”
“Can you prove it?”
“People saw me there.”
“Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner wasabducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.
“I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhartdragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.
“Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studiedthe file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here,Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you knowthem.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone.“You have the right to remain silent-“
“Hold every-fucking-thing.”
Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Mirandarights?”
Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak becausethe room was wired, they were recording the interview.
“We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving yourrights?”
“I’m waiving my fucking rights because I was notinvolved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’snot what you think. It’s not the truth.”
“Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.
Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both ofthem. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him andhis new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for aday, then let her go.”
“When was this?” Turgeon asked.
“Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”
“What was the date?” Sydowski asked.
“I don’t know. I figured it was the Donner kid.”
“Why?”
“Franklin said it would be a little one who couldn’t ID anybody.”
“What happened?” Sydowski asked.
“I never went.”
“Why?”
“I had to see my parole officer that day.”
“What day?” Turgeon asked?
“The day Tanita Donner went missing. I know you cancheck it out. I know from the news reports the time she was grabbed, and I waswith my parole officer.”
“Convenient, Perry,” Sydowski said. “Ever call a guyby the name of Tom Reed?”
“Who’s that?”
“You just said you followed the news reports.”
“I’m supposed to know this guy?”
“How do we know you weren’t involved?” Turgeon said.
“Because I wasn’t. Franklin came to me that night andasked me if I wanted to come to their party. I said no. I didn’t like hisfriend. He scared me. An iceman.”
“The friend came to your place, too, that night?”Sydowski said.
“No.”
“So what happened?” Turgeon asked.
“I let Franklin borrow my camera, which was stupid. Hedropped it off the next day and that was the last time I ever saw him. Afterthe news on the girl and Franklin’s suicide, I wiped my camera clean.”
“Where were they holding her?” Sydowski said.
“All he said was that it was a safe place.”
“What about the mystery man, Mr. Tattoo?” Turgeonasked.
“I only met him the one time at the bookstore about amonth before it happened. I swear.”
“Why didn’t you tell police this last year?” Sydowskisaid.
“Because with my record, I was afraid. And I wasafraid Franklin’s friend might come after me.”
“Can you tell me anything more about Franklin’smystery friend?”
“All I know, and I swear this is all I remember, isthat he is a skinner con from Canada and Franklin once called him ‘Verge’.”
They released Kindhart, put him under surveillance,then called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Correctional Service ofCanada. It was a government holiday in Canada and with only a first name as anidentifier, it was going to take several hours before the Canadians could runchecks and start faxing files on possible suspects. Sydowski used the break tosee his old man.
Sydowski was optimistic about the lead. It could bethe turning point. Usually he dismissed the mysterious-person-did-it alibi, butthere was a mystery man involved in this. Kindhart was in Modesto whenBecker was grabbed, that checked out. And Kindhart didn’t fit the suspect’sdescription. No tattoo. Not even close. Sydowski was driving north, passingSharp Park when his cell phone rang.
Maybe the Canadian faxes had arrived. “Sydowski.”
“Walt, it’s bad.” Turgeon said. “We’ve got anotherabduction.”
“Another one!”
“Five-year-old girl, from her mother in Golden GatePark. A man in a pickup. Bearded. Fits with the Becker case.”
“I’m on my way.”
Sydowski hit his emergency lights and siren.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Gabrielle.The girl’s name is Gabrielle. Her mother kept screaming her name,”seventy-three-year-old Fay Osborne from Ottumwa, Iowa, said as Tom Reed wrotequickly in his notepad.
He had taken Fay and Arthur, her seventy-five-year-oldhusband, a retired farmer, aside.
“This is a son-of-a-bitchin’ thing to do to a littlegirl.” Arthur repositioned his John Deere ball cap each time he patted hissweating head with his handkerchief. Reed hid the Osbornes from the otherreporters who swarmed Golden Gate Park.
The Star had sent Reed, Molly Wilson, and twophotographers to the park. Other staff were en route. Wilson was at thecarousel with the two teenage girls who saw the kidnapper, getting theiraccounts just before police took them away for statements.
Reed was having trouble hearing Fay and Jack Osborneover the TV news helicopters and satellite trucks roaring into the parking lot.Local stations were taking the story live. Shielding her eyes, Fay regarded ahovering chopper. The cradle-to-grave tribulations of a life bound to Iowa soilwere written in her face, eyes, and sturdy hands. Probably attended churchevery Sunday, Reed figured.