Inmate 1577 (29 page)

“Yellow?”

Dixon leaned in closer. “Nope. Just plain old braided cord. Tan. Why?”

Vail furrowed her brow, then knelt beside Dixon.
What the hell’s going on here? Roberta Strayhan’s crime scene was different than the others. Purposely? Now her husband’s scene...subtly different. A different killer, who read Scheer’s article? Or the same asshole, just screwing with us?

“You’re obsessing over something,” Dixon said.

“Yeah.” Vail stood up. “The pedestal’s only a couple of feet off the ground, but he needed a pulley system. Strayhan’s only about five-five, can’t weigh more than, what—?”

Dixon moved back around to the front to appraise their victim. “Maybe a hundred fifty, hundred forty. But even for someone who’s physically fit, a dead body’s a tough thing to lift. It flops all over the place, and the UNSUB’s gotta keep it upright while he’s tying it to the statue. If there’s no one helping him, there’s really no other way of doing it. The rope made it easy.”

“So he wrapped it around Columbus’s shoulders or neck, then hoisted up the body. Anything else?”

“Until we can cut the body down—”

“That’d be my job.”

They turned around and saw Rex Jackson, kit in hand. He set it down and slung the Nikon from around his shoulder. As he lined up his first shot, Burden and Friedberg joined them.

“None of the staff saw anything,” Burden said. “Probably because that statue is so freaking big.”

“That ‘statue’ is a studly Christopher Columbus.”

“Columbus?” He looked up at the monstrosity. “Looks more like Hercules.”

“We’ve already been through that,” Dixon said.

“Robert,” Vail said. “What’s Columbus doing here? If there’s some reason why this statue is here, it might also tell us if the offender picked this spot for a reason.”

“It’s Pioneer Park. More than that, I don’t know.”

Vail contorted her lips
. Pioneer Park. Something with that? Does he see himself as a pioneer of some sort? How does that fit with the other vics and dump sites? And what the hell does it have to do with what I did in New York? New York...there has to be something with that. That’s the key—

“Karen,” Dixon said. “You okay?”

Dixon’s voice knocked Vail out of her reverie. She covered her concern. “I’m staring at another dead body. No, I’m not okay.”

“Anyone have any thoughts on what we’re dealing with here?” Burden turned suddenly, apparently realizing that Allman was standing directly behind them. “Clay, give us a minute, okay?”

He looked disappointed. “Yeah, sure.”

Allman walked back toward the officer as Friedberg tapped out a cigarette. “He left the body in front of Coit Tower. Maybe the UNSUB’s a frustrated volunteer firefighter.”

Vail said, “Probably better to leave the psychoanalysis to me.”

Burden turned to face the Bay. “Fair enough. So what do you think?”

Vail looked out at the fog-socked ocean as well. “Robert may’ve been right.”

Friedberg cupped his hands and lit the cigarette. “You think the guy’s a frustrated volunteer firefighter?”

Vail swung back and squared her jaw. “No. That the offender chose this location for a reason.” She faced the water again. “What’s special about this view?”

“From here?” Friedberg puffed on the lit Marlboro and looked out at the blanketing foggy white landscape in front of them. “Nothing that’s materially different from the other crime scenes. The Bay. The Pacific Ocean. Islands. Sailboats. Ships. Cargo boats. Two bridges. Well, the Bay Bridge is still visible,” he said, cocking his head east, to the extreme right. “Basically, it’s just another vantage point. Beautiful stuff, but it’s pretty much the same thing as what we’ve seen before.”

Two women and a man on Segways rolled by, on some sort of guided tour.

“Do you think the UNSUB meant for it to be this foggy? Did he mean for the view to be obscured?” Vail asked.

Friedberg took a long drag, then spoke while the smoke streamed out of his mouth. “Hard to say. Depends on the day. This time of year, fog like this is common. Sometimes it burns off, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“And the 122?” Burden asked.

Vail only shook her head. “The numbers seem to be all over the place. What if you add up the first three?”

Burden looked at the sky a moment, then said, “Whoa. One-twenty-one.”

“Well,” Dixon said, “121 is not 122.”

“No, it’s not.” Vail thought a moment, then said, “It’s reasonable to assume he killed Strayhan sometime after his wife, then posed him under the cover of darkness.” Vail craned her neck to take in her surroundings. “And the location was carefully chosen—a perfect spot, really, to place a dead body. No security cameras. When the public arrives in the morning, none of the staff is going to see the body because he’s blocked by the statue. But like you said, soon as people start arriving in the parking lot, bam. Max impact.”

“You had a problem with something,” Dixon said. “You spaced out on me when I pointed out the rope.”

“The rope,” Vail said with a nod. “There were some things at the wife’s crime scene that varied from the other vics. And there’s rope here, just like the one at that Palace place, but—”

“Palace of Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.

“Yeah. That one. The rope we found there was a specialized type that a climber may use. But the one he used here, it’s just plain old rope.”

“So things are a little different,” Burden said. “What are you saying?”

“It could be a copycat, going off what he read in Scheer’s article. Or it could be the UNSUB screwing with us. That’s what this kind of killer would do.”

“How can we be sure?” Dixon asked.

“Absent identifying forensics, behavioral analysis may hold the answer. Let’s refocus our efforts, drill down a bit, start with the basics.”

Friedberg blew out a plume of smoke and watched it zip away on the breeze. “And what are the ‘behavioral basics’ in a case like this?”

Vail spread her hands. “It all starts with the victims. Why these people? Why now?”

Burden glanced around the parking lot, then at the tower, then at Rex Jackson, who was processing the body. “So let’s go back to the war room and plot this out.” He nodded at Friedberg. “Where do we stand on the backgrounders you were putting together?”

“I’ve got the first four vics done. I was just getting started on the Ruckers.”

“What happened with your chat with that retired guy, Inspector—” Vail waved a hand, the universal sign for assistance. “The one who handled the ’82 Newhall case.”

Friedberg pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Millard Ferguson. He’s not doing so good. Throat cancer, looks like shit.”

“Sorry to hear the guy’s dying,” Vail said. “But the case. What’d he have to say about the case? Maybe we can prevent others from following him to the grave.”

“That’s cold,” Burden said.

Vail hiked her brow. “Am I wrong?”

“Not wrong...just...cold.”

Vail turned to Friedberg. “Did he give you anything we can use?”

“He only remembered certain things. Like that key. Thought there might be some connection to the building they found him in front of. But nothing panned out. They had a few suspects, nothing that excited them.”

“So a dead end,” Dixon said.

“A dead end,” Friedberg said. “For now. Maybe one of those old cases Clay’s got will pop up on our radar.”

A phone began buzzing.

Friedberg wagged a finger at Burden’s pocket. “You’re vibrating.”

Burden pulled his cell, read the display. He looked over at Allman, who was still standing beside the cop. “Text from Clay. Wants to know when he can come over, see the body.”

They swiveled their heads to look at Allman, who had his hands spread in anticipation.

“I think we can use his assistance,” Vail said.

Burden waved him over.

Vail held up her BlackBerry. “I’ll be right back, gotta make a call.” She moved away from Columbus and walked toward the edge of the parking lot, where it met the vegetation that led to the coastline. A wall of fog—of nothingness—stared back at her. A moment later, her phone connected to the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

“Lenka, this is Karen. Can you look something up for me?”

“How are things going in San Francisco?”

Now there’s a loaded question.
“I’d rather just discuss happy things.”

“That bad?”

“There’s a fresh dead body about thirty feet away. If you can look up Agent Mike Hartman and tell me where he’s assigned, it’ll make my day a little brighter.” She heard Lenka tapping the keys.

“Then this may make the sun shine. He’s right in your backyard. San Francisco Field Office.”

Vail felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. “You’re shitting me.”

“Just emailed you the phone number. You’ll have it in a sec.”

Vail thanked Lenka, then scrolled to her email. She clicked on Hartman’s number and got his voicemail. “Mike, it’s Karen Vail. Can you give me a call? It’s very important.” She left her number, then hung up and stared off into the fog a moment.

What does this mean? Can Mike Hartman be the offender? No. He wouldn’t implicate himself by leaving that note. And he can be a bit of an asshole, but he’s no psychopath. No, either Eugenia told somebody—the Bay Killer?—or it’s gotta be someone Hartman knows, someone who talked to him.

But why would Hartman tell anyone about me, and what I did in New York? Unless he’s trying to embarrass me, cause problems. If it’s someone Hartman talked to, the offender’s gotta know I’m gonna call up my former partner and ask who he told about it. Unless he doesn’t know Hartman’s the only living person who knows. Or the source was someone who bought the info from Eugenia.
Vail sighed.
Shit.

Vail turned and headed back to the knot of colleagues. Off in the distance, Vail saw Stephen Scheer approaching the officer who was maintaining the crime scene boundaries. She came up behind Allman and said, “You want to print something?” She did not wait for a reply; she knew the answer. “The offender missed something. He made some mistakes and we’re keying in on him.”

Allman’s gaze swung over to Burden, then back to Vail. “Really? I can print that?”

He missed the pun, the play on “key.” If he’d been listening closely, he would’ve realized I’m bullshitting him. Tough.
She plowed forward, because she did want him printing the fact that the offender had missed something. “Yeah. Really. You can print that.”

“Thanks,” he said, scribbling on his pad.

“But next time don’t use my name in an article without asking first.”

Allman looked up and did a quick study of her face. “Just a guess...you weren’t happy with that.”

“You’re a word guy, so I think the proper adjective would be ‘pissed.’ Not as pissed as I was at your buddy, Scheer. But pissed.”

“Scheer’s not my buddy.”

“What do you know?” Vail said. “We’ve got something in common.” She forced a smile. “I don’t like him either.”

August 31, 1960

Leavenworth

MacNally ruminated on his escape attempt for another three months, until John Anglin was let out of segregation. During that time, he observed the institution’s physical layout, lighting, officer routines—anything that would give him an added advantage. He also spent time with Rucker and got to know him, as much as two inmates can when their only common link is that they’re both criminals sharing a cell in a maximum security penitentiary.

Anglin remained MacNally’s best option as far as determining if Harlan Rucker was someone who could keep his escape aspirations a secret; preventing their lips from flapping was a notoriously elusive trait that did not bless many inmates.

MacNally casually met up with Anglin in the recreation yard, out of view of the guards. They made small talk for a moment, sharing thoughts on their time in the Hole, before MacNally brought up the failed escape.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Anglin said. “Word is you really got into it. Sent Wallace to the hospital.”

“It was pretty convincing.” A damp sweat had erupted under his clothing, a factor of the stifling Kansas humidity. “Broke a bone.” MacNally lifted his hand, which sported a knob on the middle knuckle. “Kind of lost myself there, actually. Took out some frustration, I guess. Poor bastard didn’t know what the hell was going on.”

Anglin glanced around, clearly checking on the guards. “I know I said I’d help you out, but things’ve changed. Risky even standing here talkin’. They gonna think somethin’s up.”

“What do you know about Rucker?”

“Decent guy. In for dealing heroin and robbing a five and dime. Beat the owner pretty bad.”

“Trust him?”

“Much as anybody here in this place can be trusted. Really. I mean, we’re all fucking criminals, right?” He laughed. “But even if they break the laws out there, knock off or kill a straight john, in here it’s a different deal. You don’t want no trouble? Don’t rat out other cons. It’ll get you in the ass. Really—it will. That’s a good one.” He laughed again, this time louder. “Rucker’s never been a problem for me. Haven’t heard no bad shit ’bout him, neither.”

MacNally looked around, his eyes darting across the compound. He needed to end this and get away from Anglin before they attracted attention. Despite what Anglin had just said, there were rats in Leavenworth. Just like Voorhees offered him the chance to tip him off to stuff, other officers had presented the same deal to other cons.

He’d heard some prisoners talking in A-Cellhouse about guys they suspected of being informants. They decided to set up one of them, planting bogus information to see if the guards acted on it. They did—and there was no longer any doubt who their source was. The snitch was shanked in the right kidney the next morning during breakfast. No one saw anything—and by the time the medical staff tended to the inmate, he had bled out.

MacNally was not integrated well enough into the population to know who could be trusted and who was working with the officers. That meant he had to take on some risk. Rucker was lean and looked to be in pretty decent condition, so he could fill the role as well as anyone else he could choose.