Inmate 1577 (13 page)

Allman frowned at Burden, and then swung his gaze over to Vail. “So...about the DB.”

“What about it?” Vail asked. “This is a crime scene. When homicide inspectors respond, there usually is a dead body.”

Allman’s eyebrows rose. “Whoa. Do I detect a little...attitude?”

“You detect a lot of attitude,” Burden said.

Vail cleared her throat. “I can speak for myself,
Birdie
. Thank you very much.” She looked at Allman. “And yeah, I don’t believe reporters should be trampling a crime scene before the investigating detectives even get a chance to look things over.”

“Okay, okay,” Allman said, raising both hands. “I’ll wait. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just—it’s my job to cover crimes.”

“I got that,” Vail said, “when Burden introduced you as the
Tribune
’s police reporter.”

Allman looked to Burden, who shrugged.

“Don’t take it personally. Agent Vail treats everyone the same way. She doesn’t play favorites.” Burden nodded at Friedberg and Vail to follow him. “We’ll have a look around,” he called back to Allman. “If you’re still here when we’re done, I’ll let you take a look. These days you’re not even supposed to have access, so I know you’re good with that. Right?”

“Of course. And since I’m a man of words, although it goes without saying, I’ll say it anyway: I do appreciate it.”

Burden led the way through the decorative iron gate into an arched alley, then up to the townhouse’s front door. Friedberg handed Vail and Burden baby blue booties and latex gloves.

As they slipped them on, the SFPD officer gave them a report: “I did a well check, figuring I’d find her deceased, based on...well, based on dispatch’s warning. She’s upstairs, in bed. I backed out the way I came.”

Vail and Friedberg followed Burden through the front door. Inside, off to the left, sat a living room filled with austere antique furniture upholstered in paisley fabrics that were long in the tooth. They moved through the room, then into the dining room and the kitchen.

Vail checked the rear door with a gloved hand. Locked. A small square backyard stared back at her through the window. A well-tended vegetable garden sprouted tomatoes and squash, and what looked like the ends of carrots peeking through the soil.

“No sign of a struggle,” Vail said. “No nothing. Everything looks like I’d expect it to.”

“Ten-four,” Burden said. “Let’s go up. After we get a look at the body, we can come back down, take a fresh pass down here.”

They moved toward the front of the house and headed up the narrow staircase to the second floor. Two bedrooms and a bathroom sat before them.

Vail led them into the only one with an open door. The odor of death was pungent and flared her nostrils. But as intense as the smell was, it was nowhere near as impactful as the image of what lay before them.

Sprawled out on the bed lay an elderly woman. Vail wanted to turn away but could not. It was one thing seeing the body in the morgue. This one was relatively fresh. And she bore a slight resemblance to her mother. She bit down on her bottom lip.

“Shit,” Friedberg said. “I knew what we were gonna see, but does anything prepare you for a scene like this?”

Maybe a lobotomy.

Burden backed out of the room. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Are you—you’re shitting me,” Vail said. “What exactly have you seen?”

“Enough. I’ve seen enough. Same as before, same as the last one.”

“You don’t mind if I take a closer look?”

“Be my guest. I’m gonna go check for missing electrical cords.”

“You and me, then,” Vail said to Friedberg. She carefully moved to the side of the bed and examined the body visually. “Burn marks,” she said, pointing at an area overlying the abdomen. “Same as the ones on Maureen Anderson.” The woman’s blouse had been pulled up over her chest but was not covering the face.

Friedberg smacked his lips, as if trying to hold back an upchuck of bile. “Violated, like Anderson.”

Vail stepped back and took a look around, viewing the victim from different angles. Her shoe nudged the edge of something hard. “And I just found his preferred tool.” She looked down at her foot. It was touching the tip of a blood-soaked black umbrella.

They remained with the body for another ten minutes, then checked the other rooms. As they were headed downstairs, CSI Rex Jackson was walking in the front door.

“She’s upstairs,” Vail said.

They found Burden in the kitchen, staring out the back window. “This guy isn’t gonna stop, is he?”

“No,” Vail said. “Offenders like him, they’re going to keep killing until we grab him up. There’s a lot going on here. A lot for us to figure out.”

“Anything we need to know down here?” Friedberg asked.

Burden hiked a shoulder. “No sign of forced entry. I’ve got some officers out canvassing neighbors to see who these people were so we can build on our victimology.”

“Good,” Vail said.

Burden’s gaze remained out the window. “The Andersons have a daughter. She’s out of the country. Lives in France. We’re trying to get word to her. The Ilgs apparently have two kids, a boy and a girl. With families of their own.”

“Electrical cords?” Vail asked.

“All here. In fact, this crime scene is a near copy of the other one.” He turned to face them. “So what’s the deal? Why these people? Another husband and wife. Any significance to that?”

“For now, it’s still possible the UNSUB wants something from the man, so he tortures the woman until he gives it up. But...”

“But what?”

“But I’m not sure that’s right, or maybe it’s not all that’s going on. There are a lot of behaviors left at the scene. This guy is a psychopath, that much is clear. It might not be about information or material things that he wants.”

“How do we find out what he wants?”

“The answer may be in what he left behind at the crime scene. But we may not know enough yet to interpret it.”

Burden’s phone buzzed. He lifted it to his ear and said, “Talk to me.” He listened a moment, then nodded. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Well?” Vail asked.

“Our male vic, Russell Ilg, was an IRS auditor. He retired several years ago and had been working for a consulting company giving lectures to groups on avoiding tax pitfalls.”

“Auditors aren’t well-liked individuals,” Friedberg said.

“What do a white-collar attorney and an IRS auditor have in common?” Vail asked. “Besides brutally murdered spouses and a reservation at the county morgue.”

“Irene worked as a librarian,” Burden said. “She still goes in—went in—twice a week.”

“So did she come into contact with our offender through the library?” Vail asked. “Not sure how we’d track it, but we should see if we can get a list of people who were in the library on the days she worked. Let’s go back a few months.”

“I’ll get on it,” Friedberg said, “though I doubt they have any records like that. But who wouldn’t like a librarian?”

They fell quiet. Vail used the time to think through what she had seen. “You know...it might not be a personal thing. I’m starting to think these victims are conduits.”

“Come again?” Friedberg asked.

“A conduit. It looks personal. The violence, the umbrella, the torture with the electrical shocks. But we’ve now got four vics and two women brutally murdered. His violence is mostly instrumental. It’s cold-blooded, predatory, and mission oriented. I don’t think it’s a personal thing. The vics—the wives, or the husbands, or both—represent someone who wronged him at some point in his life.”

“Great,” Burden said. “Now we gotta figure out what these people are supposed to represent. Back to that symbolism bullshit. That’s fucking great. Where the hell do you go with that?”

“Small steps, Burden. Otherwise it’ll overwhelm us.” Vail gestured with her head. “Did you look around down here?”

Burden waved a hand. “Nothing of interest. They look like an average old couple. Just like the Andersons. No unusual letters. No computer. Did you find one upstairs?”

“No. It’s possible the PC age passed them by. How old are they?”

“Russell was eighty-four. Irene was seventy-nine.”

Vail looked around the kitchen. Appliances were used but not original; they had been replaced at some point in the past decade. She moved into the living room. Family photos stared back at her from the walls. The Ilgs had two children and five grandchildren, from what she could ascertain. Everyone looked happy. It wasn’t just that they were smiling; it was more than that. Their faces and demeanor looked like they weren’t burdened by stress.
That’ll change when they find out what happened to their loved ones.

They remained in the apartment another twenty minutes, then walked outside. Leaning against his car was Clay Allman. He pushed off his Toyota and headed toward Vail, Burden, and Friedberg.

“Okay?”

“You’ve got three minutes,” Burden said. “And leave your bag and phone here.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I’d rather not have to answer for missing evidence or unauthorized photos in court.”

Allman shoved his phone in the satchel, then slipped his arm through the strap and dropped the bag at his feet.

Vail watched him sprint down the street, then point back at them while talking with the SFPD officer manning the door.

Burden gave the man a signal, and he admitted the reporter.

Vail said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Years ago he had complete access. These days, it’s a no-no. But I’ve known Clay a long time. He’s covered dozens of murders in this city, and I’ve never had a problem with him screwing us over.”

“Then give him a medal,” Vail said. “But it’s got nothing to do with anything. We need to control the release of information.”

“I’m with Karen,” Friedberg said. “I don’t think it’s smart.”

Burden turned to face them and shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Look. He’s got integrity and he’s been a friend of SFPD for—what? Thirty years?”

Friedberg grumbled. “I don’t like people going through my crime scenes. You know that. Never have.”

“It gives us leverage when we need things in return from him.” Burden checked his watch. “This is the guy I mentioned before, Karen. Back at the Cliff House. The one I thought can help us.”

“What are the dangers?” Friedberg asked.

Vail cocked her head. “We certainly don’t want to say anything in the media that could encourage the offender to continue his killing—or escalate and accelerate. If I’m right about our guy being a psychopath, he’s a narcissist. Not acknowledging all he’s done, how great and unusual a killer he is, it could piss him off—and even challenge him. Incite him. Years ago, I interviewed Joseph Paul Franklin, a serial sniper back in the late 70s. As he continued to murder, he was aggravated that his ‘peers’—Bundy and the Unabomber—were getting all the attention. So he decided to kill two young black boys, figuring that would ratchet things up for him, that he’d get more attention—which is what he wanted. And he was right.

“So back to your question about the press, and the dangers. From what I’ve seen, the offender’s content with the public knowing about him. He seeks it out, like Franklin did. Other than the symbolism, that could be the reason why our offender leaves his male vics in high profile places.”

“So what if we just have Clay report the facts and leave out the details? Just that Russell and Irene Ilg were found murdered. Nothing about the Cliff House cave, nothing about the brutal torture.”

“You’re assuming your buddy would do that. But besides that, it could piss off the offender, frustrate him,” Vail said. “And if he’s leaving clues for us that we’re not getting, that could make things worse. But like I said before, it could also force him to contact us somehow, set us straight by leaving more clues. Like bread crumbs.”

Friedberg turned around. Allman was approaching.

His face was taut and his lips thin. “I’ve seen a lot of violent shit over the years. But... Jesus Christ, Birdie. What the hell was that?” He turned to Vail.

Burden shook his head slowly. “No fucking idea.”

Allman swung his gaze back to Burden. “Really?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. Really.”

Vail held up a hand. “I wouldn’t say that—”

“Well that’s what I’m saying.” Burden’s slumped shoulders spoke louder than his words.

“So can I print that?” Allman asked.

“What do you think?” Friedberg almost yelled. “No, you can’t print that.”

Burden glanced at his friend and gave a slight head shake.

“Birdie. I’m a reporter, remember? We sell newspapers. I write the stories that go in those papers. Give me something I can use.”

Vail turned to Burden. “We need to do it right, in a controlled way, saying what we want it to say.”

“What’s she talking about?” Allman asked.

Burden looked off at the townhouses in front of him. “Fine. Use this: ‘SFPD is investigating the death of a San Francisco woman that appears to involve foul play.’ Good?”

“The idea is to sell newspapers, not bore people to death. That totally sucks.”

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a homicide inspector, not a writer.”

“You sure I can’t use the ‘No fucking idea’ comment? Don’t worry, I’ll leave out the expletive.”

Burden looked at him.

Allman turned away. “How about you give me something, I give you something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vail asked. “You know something, you’d better not hold out on us.”

“Or what, you’ll have me arrested for obstructing an investigation, and then we get to play a little constitutional game of chess?”

Vail took a step toward Allman, but Burden placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a slight push back.

“We already gave you something,” Vail said. “Access. Remember?”

“What do you have in mind?” Burden asked.

Vail shrugged off the inspector’s hand. “This is not a negotiation, Burden. Besides, he’s bluffing.”

Allman ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. After a moment, he said, “Killer from past returns to haunt city. That’d be the headline. Assuming my editor approves.”

“What killer from the past?” Vail asked.

“Shouldn’t you be telling me?” Allman said. “You’re the crack profiler.”