Inmate 1577 (33 page)
Authors: Alan Jacobson
He had made it about twenty paces, his humidity-induced sweaty palms chafing against the cotton, when an alarm sounded—followed instantly by two bullets that buried themselves in the brick wall, inches to the right of his torso.
“Stop right there!”
“Don’t move!”
“Not one fucking muscle, you hear?”
Different voices. Multiple guards. He did not dare turn around because he did not want to lose his balance. But he did as ordered, and froze in place.
“Get down here. Now,” said one officer.
“Slowly,” yelled another.
MacNally descended the wall and dropped the last ten feet. His ankles burned, but his heart ached more. Henry. That was all he thought of as four men converged, shoved his face into the dirt, and snapped metal handcuffs and leg irons on him.
“Where do you think you were going, asshole?” a guard said by his ear.
MacNally was yanked to his feet by two of the officers.
“Where’s your buddy?” another hack asked.
“On his way to hell.”
The man stepped closer, his jaw set. He apparently did not care for that answer.
“Gone, over the wall. That’s all I know. He screwed me. I hope you find him, because I’m—” He stopped himself. He needed to contain his anger, because anything he said could cause more problems for him. And as it was, he was now in enough trouble.
MACNALLY SAT IN SEGREGATION, HIS head bowed. The morning came but he had not slept. He cried silently much of the night, knowing that he had lost his best shot at getting out of Leavenworth. Once he was released from the Hole, he would be watched more closely. If he was released. He had no idea how seriously they would treat his offense. Probably very.
Three days passed, but they seemed like weeks. He didn’t need the prison counselor to tell him he was in a bad way emotionally. He had stayed in bed most of the time, trying to sleep. Rather than bars and masonry and homemade ropes, this was an escape of a different sort: something less concrete... He was attempting to avoid his thoughts. And consciousness. Or perhaps life itself.
As he lay on his bed, he heard the click of an officer’s boots on the glossy cellhouse floor. Voorhees appeared, an open envelope in hand.
“This just came.” He slipped it through the bars and held it out for MacNally.
MacNally lifted himself up and swung his legs off the cot—which took all his energy. He tore open the letter and pulled out the single piece of paper. The note read:
I figured this was better revenge than just killing you for blinding Gormack. He sends his regards. Have a nice time in the Hole, motherfucker.
Hatred surging through his veins, MacNally looked out at the officer, doing his best not to react. Revenge, that was what this was about. Did Anglin know that when he vouched for Rucker?
Voorhees stared back, but did not speak. MacNally had to give the man credit: though he knew what was in the letter and knew what it meant, he was not gloating. He did not use the opportunity to lecture him. Then again, he had already expressed his thoughts the last time they had spoken. What more needed to be said? What more could be said?
Voorhees maintained eye contact. “You’re being transferred this afternoon.”
“Transferred,” MacNally said. “To a different cellhouse?”
“Different prison.”
MacNally stood up and grasped the bars, the letter in his hand crumpling around the curve of the metal. “Why?”
“When a guy gets outside the institution like you did, he’s considered an escape risk. Adding in your attack on Wharton and Gormack and the Anglin escape attempt...” He shook his head. “The warden’d had enough. He figured you were too big a risk to stay at Leavenworth.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means your time here’s done. Officers’ll be by in thirty minutes to get you. You’ve got an afternoon flight.” Voorhees turned to walk off. “You’ve been a big goddamn disappointment, MacNally. Good luck where you’re headed. You’re gonna need it.”
“Hang on,” MacNally called to the back of Voorhees, who was already moving down the corridor. “Where am I going?”
“End of the line, a place you’ll never escape from,” he yelled back. “Alcatraz.”
Vail and Dixon returned to the Hyatt and spent the remainder of the evening in their room gathered around Dixon’s laptop, pouring over the crime scene photos Friedberg had given them. They had a pad full of theories and notes, but nothing that took them in a particular direction worth pursuing.
Vail had been tempted at various points in their brainstorming session to confide in Dixon about the private note the killer had left her last night. But she could not get herself to broach the topic.
Dialing up her stress—as if it wasn’t high enough—Hartman had still not called back. If she didn’t make contact with him in the morning, she would go through the switchboard operator and have her walk the message over to his desk—or she’d have to pay him a visit in person.
She slept fitfully that night, her mind unwilling to shut down and her heart rate breaking speed barriers. She finally rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Dixon, and went down to the lobby. She sat there for an hour, staring at the lights. At one point, she laid down on the cold tile floor beneath the rows of bulbs and let her eyes roam them, counting them, hoping that sleep would come to her.
Fortunately, no one ventured into the lobby—because it would’ve been difficult to explain her behavior to a rational human being. Finally, at three o’clock, she lifted herself off the ground and rode the elevator back to her room. The last time she looked at the clock it was 3:49am. She fell off to sleep shortly thereafter.
Now, as she and Dixon drove back to Bryant Street, Dixon turned to her and said, “I know you, Karen. Something’s bothering you. Wanna talk about it?”
Vail did not look at her. “Tell you the truth—” The vibration of her phone made her jump. She pulled the BlackBerry off her belt. “Robby. What’s up? How are things going?”
“I’m about to head into a stakeout so I only have a minute. But everything’s good. I took Jonathan to dinner a couple times, we played some Xbox. I helped him with a math project, and now he’s off to that Aviation Challenge thing. How’s your case going?”
Vail’s eyes slid over to Dixon. She desperately wanted to tell Robby what was going on—what was really going on—but she couldn’t, not now, and certainly not over the phone. She wasn’t proud of what had happened back in New York—more like how she had handled it—and it was something best discussed in person, not over the phone. Robby would understand. How could he not, given his background?
After a long hesitation, Vail said, “It’s going.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Why the hell is everyone asking me what’s wrong?”
Because something
is
wrong.
“Do I really have to answer that?” Robby asked. “Come on.”
Dixon brought the car to a stop at a red light and turned to face her.
“We’ve got what I think is a fairly accurate profile coming together, but we’re not very far into figuring out who this asshole is. And I feel like I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something. More than something.”
“You’ll eventually figure it out, Karen. You always do.”
You always do.
I do, don’t I? But I’m not Wonder Woman. What happens when I hit a case where I don’t?
“And when the time comes that you don’t,” Robby said, “what do you think will happen?”
Did I say that out loud?
“I’ll feel like a failure.”
“That may be. But you’ll really just be human. I seem to remember you telling me something about that.”
A smile lifted the corners of Vail’s mouth. “I miss you, Hernandez.”
“Tell Robby I say hey.”
Vail turned to Dixon. “Roxxann’s with me. She says hi.”
“Tell her I still hope to get back out to Napa for a real vacation with you. We’ll kick back, taste some wine, do a mud bath—”
“I told you. I’m not lying in horseshit again. Once I found out what it was...I just can’t get past it. Besides, you’ll have to carry me kicking and screaming back to California.”
“Kicking and screaming, huh? Sounds like just another day in the life of Karen Vail.”
Dixon pulled into the SFPD parking lot and found a spot near Burden’s Ford. At least, it looked like Burden’s—there were about a dozen Tauruses, and they were all blue or gray.
“Gotta go,” Robby said.
“Call me when you get a break.” They said good-bye and she hung up, then got out of the car with Dixon.
“Did you leave the room last night?”
Vail glanced at her partner as they walked toward the building. “You’re a light sleeper. Yeah, I was tossing for a couple hours, so I finally gave up and went down to the lobby.”
“And did what?”
“And...I lay down on the floor and gazed at the lights.”
Dixon looked at her friend with squinted eyes. They went through the magnetometers and nodded at security as they passed through the lobby. “Should I be concerned about you?”
Vail stifled a wide yawn, then waved a hand. “Let’s solve this case. Then everything will be fine.”
As they walked into Homicide, Vail told Dixon she needed to make a call, then ducked back into the hallway. She sent Robby a text telling him to give her a call when he had a chance. Then she phoned Hartman. It again went to voicemail and she left another message, then redialed and worked her way to the operator, who placed Vail on hold before she had a chance to explain what she needed.
After a moment’s wait, the man returned to the line.
“This is Special Agent Vail out of Quantico. I’m trying—”
The Homicide door flew open and Burden emerged. “New vic,” he said. “C’mon.”
Crap.
“I’ll have to call you back.” Vail disconnected the call, then fell in behind Dixon.
“Where’s Robert?”
“Following up with Scheer’s cell carrier on the way in. Hoping to get us somewhere on that anonymous informant buddy he had.” Burden shouldered the stairwell door and started galloping down the steps. “I texted him, told him to meet us there.”
“Where is ‘there’?” Vail asked.
Burden grabbed the handrail as he turned and headed down to the next floor. “Inspiration Point.”
“Then maybe we’ll get lucky,” Vail said. “And inspired.”
THEY ARRIVED AT THE PRESIDIO’S picturesque overlook to find Stephen Scheer already onsite. A United States Park Police vehicle was parked at the mouth of the minimalist parking lot, blocking its entrance. News vans were parked on the side of the road. Two cameramen, their tools of the trade balanced on a shoulder with cables snaking along the floor at their feet, stood at the ready. Primped blond and brunet reporters waited outside the crime-scene tape beside Scheer.
“So much for avoiding TV,” Dixon said as they pulled to a stop a few dozen feet from the news vehicles.
Burden slammed his car door and asked, “What are you people doing here?”
Scheer stepped in front of the TV crews. “I was at the Presidio on another story when my editor texted me. Apparently, your killer called it in to the papers and TV station himself. He obviously wanted us all here.”
Vail frowned. “Obviously.” She grabbed the thin plastic tape and pulled it above her head, then she, Burden, and Dixon slipped beneath it.
“Mind if I tag along?” Scheer asked.
Vail faced him with narrowed eyes. “What do you think?”
“Hey, this one you can’t blame on me,” he said.
Forty feet away, on a semicircular slate tile plaza, a tall black man in a well-tailored dark suit and bright red tie chatted with a woman wearing an FBI jacket, “Evidence Response Team” emblazoned across her back.
A narrowed walkway split the terrace down the center, with a wood bench on either side of its entrance facing outward, providing a spectacular view of the Bay. The glowing sunburst dome of the Palace of Fine Arts stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding bed of richly hued evergreen and cypress trees that lined the hilltop. A light haze hung over the mountains in the distance across the Bay, but the water was a deep baby blue.
The Evidence Response Technician pointed her Canon at the left bench, where an elderly man sat, seemingly staring ahead at the scenic view.
Vail, Dixon, and Burden stepped alongside the criminalist and made introductions to the suited man, United States Park Police Major Crimes Detective Peter Carondolet. They explained that this victim was likely part of a case they had been working in the city.
“Looks like we got a new member of our task force,” Burden said.
Carondolet held up both hands. “No. Wait. Hang on a minute—I’m buried in a huge case. I’m here as a favor to a buddy. I’ll— Why don’t we play it by ear. Keep me posted if you come across useful info, and I’ll do the same with you people.”
Vail, Burden, and Dixon shared an uneasy look.
“Detective,” Vail said, “the offender, the guy who killed the victim in front of us, has murdered several men and women, and just might be responsible for a number of others going all the way back to ’82. It’s a major case. You work in the Park Police’s Major Crimes division, no?”
Carondolet shifted his feet. “I’m not saying I won’t help. But I—I’ll do what I can. Let’s leave it at that for now. Why don’t we just focus on what we’ve got here and now? We can always reassess. I mean, we’re not even sure it’s the same killer.”
Vail appraised their latest victim. A number 25 was scrawled on his forehead. She swung her head back to Carondolet. “Yes, Detective. I’m sure. Same killer.”
Carondolet regarded her with a twisted frown. “You look at the vic for five seconds and decide it’s the same guy?” He snorted. “I don’t think we pay you profilers enough.”
“I don’t like to waste time dicking around,” Vail said. “And I’m very, very good.”
“She is,” Dixon said.
Carondolet’s gaze shifted between Burden, Dixon, and Vail. He chuckled mockingly and said, “If you say so.”
Burden turned back to the victim. “Interesting.” He nodded at the body, which was decked out in a black shirt and Roman collar. “A man of the cloth.”
Vail frowned. “What was your first clue?” She shook her head. “And they call you a detective?”
“Actually, they call me an inspector.”
“Whatever.”
Burden turned to Dixon. “What’s gotten into her?”
“Something’s bugging her.”
“Hello?” Vail said, waving a hand. “I’m right here. You got a question, ask me.”
“Fine,” Burden said. “What’s bugging you?”
Vail banded her arms across her chest. “Nothing.”
Burden threw both hands in the air. Can’t win.
“Are you people always this dysfunctional?” Carondolet asked.
“You want to know what’s bugging me?” Vail gestured at the body. “He’s sitting. All the other males were tied to a column or a pole or a post of some sort. Why is this guy on a bench?”
Dixon rotated her head, taking in their surroundings. “No poles. Maybe he had no choice.”
“Maybe,” Vail said.
But I don’t think so. Something’s different about this victim.
“Do we have an ID?” Burden asked the criminalist. “You are?”
“Sherri Price. And no, no ID yet.”
The slam of a car door caused all of them to look up. Clay Allman had arrived.
Price said, “Go on. I’ve processed the body but I haven’t checked his pockets.”
Burden slipped a gloved hand inside the man’s coat and removed a worn wallet. “Ralph Finelli. Father Ralph Finelli.”
Dixon knelt in front of the bench, to the left of the man’s right knee. “Rosary beads still in his hand.”
“Any thoughts on what that means?” Burden asked.
“Where do you start?” Vail said. “It could be another taunt. It could be referring to the Mysteries of the Rosary. The mysteries recount the life of Jesus—but the UNSUB may be using it to thumb his nose at us... The mysteries he’s leaving behind for us that we’ve been unable to solve.”
“Where’s Robert when we need him?” Dixon said.
“You texted him, told him to meet us here,” Vail said. “Right?”
“I did.” Burden consulted his phone. “He didn’t reply.” He began tapping out a new message on the keypad.
“Who’s Robert?” Carondolet asked.
“Another member of our team,” Burden said.
“I think there are twenty mysteries.” Vail looked at Burden and Dixon for confirmation. They shrugged.
Dixon pulled out her iPhone and began a search. “I hope those twenty mysteries don’t correspond to the number of vics he’s planning to kill.”
“Amen to that,” Burden quipped.
Vail scrunched her face. “That was awful.”
“You’re right,” Dixon said, reading off the screen. “Twenty mysteries. Joyful, Luminous, Sorrowful, Glories—”
“Penance,” Vail said. “Maybe the father’s holding the rosary to signify that he’s done penance after confession. His penance being his murder.”
“Speaking of awful,” Burden said. “Killing a priest, a man of God...”
Dixon leaned in closer for a look at the rosary. “I don’t think this offender’s concerned about heaven and hell.”
“I’m sure there are other explanations and religious undertones,” Vail said. “Friedberg can probably give us a whole freaking recitation on the history of the rosary.”
Burden squinted. “Don’t count on it. He’s Jewish.”
“Did he say when he’s gonna be here?”
“Still hasn’t responded.” Burden shook his head and reholstered his phone. Before he moved his hand aside, the device began vibrating. “Hang on—” He lifted it from his belt. “Robert just texted me. Says he’s tied up at the moment.”
“Great.” Vail tilted her head and looked at the body, then stepped back a few steps to get a broader perspective. “Something else is different.” Her eyes moved from shoes to head and— “That’s it. He’s wearing a hat. Do priests wear hats?”
“No idea,” Burden said. “But why not?”
Vail shook her head. “It’s more than that. None of the other males had hats on.” She stepped up to the body, then stopped. “Price—gloves?”
Price pulled out a couple from her kit and tossed them to Vail, who stretched them across her hands. She lifted the hat—and a note fell into Father Finelli’s lap. Vail carefully unfolded it. In printed computer text, the note contained one sentence:
where is inspector friedberg?
