Inmate 1577 (21 page)

Scheer pulled his eyes over to Vail. “Come on back to my cubicle.” He led them through a maze of low-walled dividers. Computer screens, stacks of papers, and file folders covered all available horizontal surfaces. The workspaces looked similar, the only variations being how neatly the materials were stacked, and how many photos the reporters and columnists had pinned to their walls.

Scheer stole two rolling chairs from adjacent, abandoned cubicles and moved them over to his workspace. Vail and Dixon took seats as Scheer fussed with clearing a stack of papers from his workspace.

Vail scanned the photos on display: one of a boy and a young teen, another of Scheer and the same children—presumably his sons—and pictures of what looked like his parents and maybe a sister. Off to the side, there was a snapshot of Scheer dressed in an Elvis costume at some kind of holiday party. There were no pictures of his wife.

Dixon elbowed Vail and nodded at a
Tribune
article pinned to his wall. A handwritten note scrawled below it read, “Wrong again, asshole. Fuck you.” Off to the right, two bullet casings hung in a Ziploc bag, skewered by pushpins.

Vail and Dixon shared a perturbed look.

“What can I help you with?” Scheer asked.

Vail wiggled a finger at his wall. “What’s up with that?”

Scheer swung his head over. “The article or the casings?”

“Both,” Dixon said.

“We get those kinds of notes and emails literally every week, and most of us keep a few hanging around the office as examples of how batshit the readers can be.”

“Batshit,” Vail repeated.

“And those bullets,” he said, waving a hand in their direction, “are from a murder in the Tenderloin. Transit reporters have toy trains on their desks, cop reporters have toy cop cars. I’ve got those bullets—and the Orgy Room key from the Mustang Ranch.” He opened a drawer and pushed a few items aside. “It’s here somewhere... Anyway, they’re mementos of the stories I’ve written.” He shoved the drawer closed. “Just a guess here, but you didn’t come over to discuss my office décor.”

“We saw your article this morning on the case you’ve dubbed the ‘Bay Killer,’” Vail said.

Scheer moved back in his seat. A subconscious but telling action. “Did you like it?”

“Can’t say we did,” Vail said. “See, you printed details about the case that no one knows. And that concerns us.”

Dixon added, “If you can just tell us where you got some of that information, we’ll be out of your hair.” She sat up straight, bringing her shoulders back.

Scheer noticed. He turned his head toward Vail, but his eyes followed a split second later. “I can’t—I can’t disclose my sources. I’m sorry.”

“We figured you’d say that,” Vail said.

“But see, what you did, well, it’s irresponsible,” Dixon said, maintaining a pleasing and reasonable tone. “Because you printed some things that weren’t right. And strategically, the things you wrote were downright dangerous. It’s putting the lives of a lot of elderly women in the city at extreme risk. And we certainly don’t want to do that—and I’m sure you don’t want to, either.”

“What can I do about that? I’m sorry if that’s what happened. But I can’t retract the article. What’s done is done. You can’t unring—”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “The bell. We know. But I’m gonna be blunt with you. We have a hole at the department. We need to plug that hole before more information finds its way into other people’s hands. Unscrupulous hands.”

Scheer shifted in his seat. “Well, I—I don’t want anything bad to happen, but I’ve got a job to do, and my job is to find credible information on a case and report on it. And since you’re here, I’ve obviously found credible information.”

“We’ve all got jobs to do,” Vail said. “And my job is to make sure more elderly women and men don’t get killed. Tortured. Raped. And sodomized.”

“I understand. But—”

“Is that your parents?” Vail asked. She pointed to the photo.

Scheer did not turn around. His face hardened. “Get to the point.”

“They’re around the age of the couples who’ve been murdered. Would you like to walk into a crime scene tomorrow and find your mother tortured, raped, and sodomized? As you were so apt to point out in your article, the killer uses an umbrella, and he shoves it up the woman’s rectum. Very hard. He tears her up inside. I don’t think I have to tell you it’s a very, very unpleasant death.”

Scheer’s eyes narrowed. His jaw jutted out. “Is this about Friedberg? Is that why you’re hassling me? Why didn’t he come here himself?”

“You’re not getting it,” Vail said. “This isn’t about Friedberg. It’s about the old woman who was brutalized and killed because of
you
.”

He rose from his chair. “We’re done here.”

Vail and Dixon did not move. “I don’t think so,” Vail said. “We know about your...personal problems. And we know you’ve somehow managed to keep them under the radar. Maybe you’ve got friends where it counts. But, see, we do, too. And all it takes is one phone call.”

Scheer’s face reddened. “Go to hell,” he said, then walked away at a brisk pace.

Vail sat back in her chair. “Well, that didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Definitely not as planned.”

“Definitely not.”

Vail watched him yank open the stairwell door, and then disappear inside. She eyed his desk, the papers strewn across it. The files likely contained information that could be material to their case. But she swiveled her seat away from Scheer’s workspace.
I’ve crossed the line too many times the past few months. I’ll get the info some other way. Somehow.

Dixon rose from her chair. “Just a guess. But I don’t think he’s coming back until we leave.”

Vail stood up as well, then pretended to notice Dixon’s outfit for the first time. “Jesus, Roxx. You don’t look very professional. Put your jacket on, will you?”

VAIL AND DIXON WALKED BACK to their car in silence, until they exited the building. Then Vail asked, “What do you think?”

“Not to be Captain Obvious, but he’s protecting his sources.”

“But what source could it be? Remember when we were looking at the wine cave murder a few months ago? I kept saying it was all about access. Who had access to the cave? Let’s approach this the same way. Who had access to the information found in Scheer’s article?”

“You, Burden, and Friedberg. The people who handle the files—the file room clerk and the guys at evidence storage. The crime lab. The ME. Potentially other inspectors. The lieutenant.”

“And the killer,” Vail said.

“And the killer.” Dixon chirped her car remote and the doors unlocked. They stood outside it. Dixon reached into the backseat and grabbed her jacket, shoved her arms through the sleeves.

“So...what do we do, start questioning all the people involved in this case?”

Vail thought a moment. “Who would have a reason to disclose the information?”

“Unless it’s something obvious, figuring that out could take a long time.”

“True,” Vail said. “Then how about a shortcut? Let’s look at the phone LUDs and see who’s been talking with Stephen Scheer.”

“If you can make that happen, it’d definitely save us some time.”

Vail pulled open the car door. “If they used their work phones, or department-issued cells, not a problem. If they use their personal cells for work, too, then that makes our job easier. We get everything at once. I’ll send Burden a text, let him know we struck out and see what we can get.”

She sat down, and as she hit Send, her phone buzzed. A text stared back at her. “Gotta be kidding me.”

“What?”

Vail let her head fall back against the seat. “Another vic.”

MacNally walked into his cell. The two men watched him but did not speak. The one on the top bunk was fat-large and bald, ink-blurred tattoos that appeared to be homemade adorning his neck and shoulders. A red and black bandana was wrapped around his thick head.

The man on the bottom bed was just as massive, but his bulk was the result of weight lifting in the rec yard. Body art also covered his upper torso, which was bare and sweat-moist.

MacNally cleared his throat. “How are you guys doing?”

“What’re you in for?” the obese man asked.

MacNally tossed his materials on the bed. “Armed robbery. You?”

“Armed robbery, double murder. Rape. You got a name?”

Double murder and rape. Shit. But what did he expect? This was one of the toughest maximum security penitentiaries. Did he think these inmates were going to be upstanding citizens? “MacNally. Guys call me Mac.”

“MacNally. Like the road maps?” The two men laughed.

MacNally laughed along with them. “Rand McNally’s Irish, like me. But he spells it differently.”

“I’m Carl Wharton,” the obese man said. “He’s Kurt Gormack.”

MacNally sat down on his bunk. “What about you, Kurt? What are you in for?”

“Lots a things, I guess. Take your pick.”

“Kurt beat a man to death with his fists. Caved in his skull. But it was justified.”

Justified? MacNally swallowed hard. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Kurt shrugged. “He owed me some money, and it didn’t look like he was gonna pay. I told him that wasn’t the way it worked.”

“How much did he owe you?” MacNally asked, at a loss as to how he should respond—but needing to say something to disguise his revulsion.

“Fifteen bucks. But the amount wasn’t the point. You let some dipshit like that get away with stiffing you, it gets around and your rep’s fucking shot.”

“Yeah. Of course,” MacNally said, hoping they would buy his weak attempt at giving the impression that he understood something he could not possibly comprehend.

Kurt sat expressionless, his thick chest rising and falling at regular intervals. He glanced up at Carl, who appeared to be studying MacNally’s face.

“So what’s there to do around here?” He wanted to get the hell out of there but didn’t want it to be obvious that he found his new cellies appalling.

Carl answered. “It’s fucking prison, Map Man. Take a hike around the cellhouse, get to know your new home. My guess, you’re gonna be here a while.”

“Forty-five.”

A crooked, salacious grin broadened Kurt’s face. “Then it looks like we’re gonna have some fun.”

MacNally didn’t know what his new bunkmate meant by that—but based on what Voorhees had told him, it left him with a sense of foreboding.

And he suddenly realized that “fun” was a relative term.

THE NIGHT WAS NOT MUCH cooler than the day. But the temperature was not the reason MacNally had a hard time falling asleep. He had taken a walk around the rotunda, strolled along the different cellhouses, and got his bearings. He ate dinner in the large mess hall and kept to himself. For a first day in a violent place, amongst men who were some of the worst society had produced, he felt proud that he had made it through unscathed.

But as he was soon to discover, it was premature to have congratulated himself.

Vail and Dixon arrived at the crime scene. The sun was bidding a quick farewell, dipping below the high-rises and bouncing a blood-orange reflection off the windows of the nearby buildings.

Dixon double-parked her Ford and they were met at the curb by the first-on-scene officer. Vail immediately shivered from the chilled air that blew against her the moment she stepped from the vehicle. She held up her creds and Dixon her badge.

“It’s still too shiny,” Vail quipped.

“Doesn’t bother me. What matters is what’s in here,” Dixon said, pointing to her head. “Deal with it.”

“Burden or Friedberg get here yet?” Vail asked, wrapping her hands around her torso.

“Inspector Burden’s en route,” the officer said.

“What’ve we got?”

“Some old woman. Pretty badly beat up.”

“How bad?” Dixon asked.

“Bad enough. She’s dead.”

“Hey. Vail!”

Vail turned and saw Clay Allman jogging toward them. His bushy hair was in flyaway mode, the wind whipping it in all directions as he ran.

“Congratulations. You almost made it here before we did.”

“I was on my way to Bryant when I heard the call over the scanner. I wanted to find out why you guys kept things from me.”

“It’s not our job to feed you information,” Vail said. “You know that.”

“Except when it fits your needs. A favor here, a favor there.”

Dixon wrapped her sweater tighter around her body. “There are times when we need your cooperation. For the greater good. It’s all about catching these assholes, Clay. It’s not doing us any favors. We get paid whether we catch the bad guys or not.”

Allman poked at his wire-framed glasses and slid them up his nose. “So what was up with that piece in the
Register
?”

“Yeah,” Vail said, “that’s what we’d like to know.”

“You helped out Scheer, but you won’t help me? How’s that helping the greater good?”

“We don’t owe you any explanations,” Dixon said.

Allman looked off, shaking his head. “I expected more of Burden. He’s a stand-up guy. For him to screw me like that—”

“He didn’t,” Vail said. “Scheer didn’t get his info from us.”

“Bullshit,” Allman said, his gaze boring into Vail’s. “Where else was a guy like Stephen Scheer gonna get stuff like that? He’s a hack.”

A car pulling up behind Allman caught Vail’s eye. “You don’t believe me, ask Burden.” She nodded at the Taurus.

Allman swiveled his body and moved toward Burden as he got out of the car. “I saw Scheer’s article.”

Burden sidestepped his open car door, then slammed it shut behind him. “What’s the deal? Is this one of our vics?”

“Just got here,” Vail said. “Where’s Robert?”

“Following up with those ice cream vendors. He said it looks like a dead end, but he’s crossing his t’s. If he wraps it up soon, he’ll stop by. But I don’t think he’s too eager to see another brutalized elderly woman.”

Who is?

“You gonna help me out here, or is Stephen Scheer your new best bud?” Allman stood at the edge of the sidewalk, hands on hips.

Burden stepped onto the curb, placed a palm on Allman’s shoulder, and said, “Clay. C’mon, man. Are we really doing this? We had nothing to do with Scheer’s story.”