If Angels Fall Read Free

TEACHER’S DEATH...WIDOW SUES S.F. STAR...TANITA’S
KILLER “IS OUT THERE”: POLICE...
     
    Reed removed his glasses, burying his face in his hands.
     
    The day after she buried her husband, Rona Wallace held a press
conference. It was on the same doorstep where Reed had questioned Franklin
Wallace moments before he locked himself in his daughter’s bedroom and fired
both barrels of a shotgun into his mouth.
    “My husband was a decent man, and a loving father,” Rona Wallace
read from a prepared statement. “He took successful counseling for his
problems, which occurred more than a decade ago when he was clinically
depressed over the death of his mother. The San Francisco Police and the FBI
have told me today, to my face, that my husband was initially checked and
quietly cleared as a possible suspect in the death of Tanita Marie Donner. He
knew and loved that little girl.” She sniffed.
    “I attribute his tragic death to the allegations raised in the
abhorrent and false reporting of The San Francisco Star and have begun
civil action. Thank you.”
    Rona Wallace took no questions. When she finished, she asked if Tom
Reed was present. “Right here.” Reed raised his hand.
    Cameras followed her as she walked to him, her reddened eyes finding
his. Without warning, she slapped his face. “You know what you are and you know
what you did.” She said, then walked away.
    Reed was stunned.
    Reporters pelted him with questions. He was speechless. The TV gang
loved seeing him get his comeuppance. The networks picked it up. Public
criticism from police made him a pariah. The incident ignited editorials and
columns across the country about press ethics. Reed couldn’t sleep without
drinking—he doubted everything in his life. He argued with Ann, screamed at
Zach, and was once on the brink of hitting him, squeezing his arm until he
yelped in sheer terror.
     
    “Wake up, Reed. I brought your medicine.”
    A steaming cup of coffee was set before him, the aroma mingling with
the scent of Obsession. “Anything shaking, Tommy?” Molly Wilson settled in at
her cubicle, next to his, her bracelets clinking.
    “A drunk knifed by a whore.” He sipped the coffee. “Thanks.”
    Wilson was hired four years ago from a small Texas daily. She had a
master’s degree in English literature. A relentless digger, she was a strong
writer. Her brunette hair was cut like Cleopatra’s, she had perfect teeth, and
always smelled good.
    “Why are you here, Wilson? It’s your day off.”
    She switched on her terminal, flipped open a notebook, and began
typing. “Got to finish a feature for Lana. She moved up my deadline.”
    Reed grunted.
    “Thanks for asking, Tom. It’s about men who kill, and the women who
love them. Hey, you’re being naughty. Can’t leave that Donner story alone.”
    Reed said nothing.
    “Why do you keep doing this to yourself, Tom?”
    “Do what?”
    “Forget the story. The police fried you because they screwed up and
needed a scapegoat. Benson suspended you because he needed a scapegoat too. It
was only a week. Everybody knows he put the entire thing on your shoulders. It
was a year ago. Forget it and move on.”
    “I can’t.”
    The muted clatter of the Star’s police scanners flared, then
faded. Reed and Wilson glanced across the newsroom at the summer intern
monitoring transmissions.
    “Tom, it wasn’t your fault.”
    “Yes, but if that dipshit in homicide had explained how Wallace’s
prints were on the evidence, like you begged him, you would have backed off.
You wanted more time on the Sunday School teacher stuff, but Benson was horny
for the story. They pushed hard, too. We will never know the truth, Tom.”
    Wilson’s eyes were sympathetic. She resumed typing. Reed went back
to the clippings.
    “Why do you have the Donner file, anyway?”
    “Anniversary’s coming up. I’m going to pitch a feature.”
    Wilson rolled her eyes. “You really are nuts. This rag is not going
to let you do that.