I know how you feel. “The husband,” Vail said. “You said he’s an attorney. I assume he’s got no criminal record.”
“I’m sure there’s some crude joke here about lawyers, but no, Mr. Anderson’s got a clean sheet. Like I said, we’ve got an APB out on him.”
“I’m trying to eliminate him as a suspect.”
Burden pushed the toaster back in place, then gave a final look around the townhouse. “Looks like all plugs and appliances are intact. Which means he probably brought the electrical cord with him.”
“So,” Vail said, “he’s either killed before or he intends to kill again. He might also be keeping the tool as a reminder, kind of like a trophy. A way for him to relive the murder.”
“I thought a trophy was something of the victim’s, like a lock of hair or a photo.”
“It can be anything,” Vail said. “Something that has psychological significance to the offender that allows him to relive the kill. I’m not saying this electrical cord is a trophy, but it could function for him like one. Or it could be that it’s a tool in his murder kit.”
Burden sat down heavy in a soft overstuffed living room chair while Vail walked over to the bay windows. The fog was lifting a bit. She could now see more of the Golden Gate’s tower.
“You think this UNSUB will kill again?”
Vail watched the fog roll by. It moved swiftly, tumbling and swirling, like time-lapse photography.
“Unless there’s something else you want to see here, we should get over to the morgue.”
She pulled herself away from the window. “Drive me around the neighborhood a bit so I can get a feel for the area.”
“One thing’ll be obvious,” Burden said as he pushed out of the deep chair. “This isn’t the kind of place you’d expect something like this to happen.”
Vail chuckled. “Thing is, Burden, this shit can happen anywhere. Anytime. To anyone.” Vail glanced back at the bedroom. “Even, unfortunately, to old ladies.”
7
January 20, 1958
366-1/2 Service Creek Road
Independence Township
Aliquippa, Pennsylvania
Walton MacNally blew on his hands, then replaced his worn leather glove. He looked over at Henry, who was fiddling with the radio dial. “Shut the radio, son. It’s time.”
“But it’s Elvis, Dad.”
MacNally tilted his head but did not reply. His stern look said enough. Henry reached over and turned off the radio.
“This isn’t exactly the way I thought we’d be spending your tenth birthday,” MacNally said. “I figured we’d have a party, with candles and friends and lots of gifts.”
“But I don’t have any friends.”
MacNally felt a deep sadness wash over him. Henry was right. They had moved so often it was impossible to forge meaningful relationships. Just when he’d settled into a school, they had to uproot and go somewhere else to find work. It was a process they had done more than a dozen times over the past three years, and it was getting tough to continue the trend. He didn’t want Henry to grow up without friends, because they gave depth and meaning to a child’s youth.
He was no expert on children, for sure. Henry was his one and only source of knowledge. His experience was limited, and god knows he’d made a ton of mistakes. But he always did everything within his power to give his son a happy childhood.
MacNally had seen a headline in a local paper a couple of years ago that the police had charged a man for Doris’s murder, a drunkard who had robbed another neighborhood home and killed the man who lived there. MacNally wanted to see the guy, shake him, spit on him—yell at him, maybe. Tell him the pain he had caused. But what would that do? Doris was gone, and his and Henry’s lives had been irreparably changed.
In the intervening years, MacNally had become Henry’s one and only friend. They fished together, hunted together, bowled together and, more recently, even snuck into a few Pittsburgh Pirates ballgames at Forbes Field. But he knew that was no substitute. It was simply the best he could do.
Lately, though, his best was not enough. Money was short, food was scarce, and work was not just sporadic, it was almost nonexistent.
“I know you don’t have any friends, son. And I’m sorry about that. If we didn’t have to move so much, things’d be different. A lot of things.”
“I don’t need friends. I’ve got you.”
Tears formed in MacNally’s eyes. He turned away so Henry wouldn’t see him cry. His thighs were so cold they were numb. He rubbed his gloved hands across the threadbare denim of his Levi’s to get some feeling back into his legs. It gave him something to do while he composed himself.
“I wanna turn the radio back on,” Henry said.
“We need to go through things one more time.” MacNally pulled at his muffler, straightening out the folds in the thick wool where it crossed his neck. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Sit here and wait for you to come back. Keep a watch on the bank’s entrance. When I see you come out, I put the car in drive. You get in and I floor it.”
“Yeah, but don’t press the pedal too hard too fast. Do it just like we practiced, okay?”
Three weeks ago, MacNally had taken Henry to a parking lot in a Pittsburgh suburb, where he taught his son how to handle a Chevy just like this one. Henry was tall for his age, just like his father, and had no difficulty reaching the pedals. They practiced for a solid week in secluded parking lots until he had demonstrated good control of the vehicle, then graduated to streets, after dark, that saw little traffic.
When they abandoned that Chevy—they’d stolen it in Florida and had been driving it too long for MacNally’s comfort—he was intent on finding as close a match as possible to ensure Henry would be able to handle it properly under pressure.
“It’s important we do this right. It’s dangerous. But we need the money for food. We don’t have much of a choice. Besides, banks have a lot of money, they aren’t gonna miss the few bucks we’re gonna take.” He reached over and brushed back Henry’s dirty blond hair. “And I’m gonna buy you a birthday present. Tomorrow, as soon as we get to a safe place.” What was safe, MacNally didn’t know. But he didn’t want his son to be nervous. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want nothing.’”
“Anything. You don’t want anything.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“So c’mon. What would you like?”
Henry looked around a moment, thinking. “An Elvis record.”
“Nah, we’ll get you something better than that. It’s your tenth birthday. How about a bike?”
Henry sat up straight. “Really?”
“If we do this right. Yeah. I’ll get you a bike.”
“I never had a bike. Can it be a Royce Union?”
“Sure.”
“A black one?”
MacNally smiled. “If that’s what you want. Black it is.” He looked at his watch, then leaned forward in his seat and let his eyes roam the street ahead and behind them. “I don’t know how long we can sit around in this car. And I don’t know how good the cops are in this city. We’ve just gotta do it and get as far away as fast as possible. You ready?”
“Ready.”
MacNally pulled his gaze over to his son. “Okay then. Just like we planned. I’m going to pull up in front and when I get out, you move behind the wheel.” He got a nod from Henry, then he drove a block east and took an open curb spot in front of Township Community Savings Bank. He shoved the gear into Park, then looked out the window at the blue and black TCS logo on the brick building.
MacNally took one last glance at Henry, gave the boy a smile and a wink to mask his own building apprehension, and then popped open his door.
8
Vail followed Inspector Burden into the Hall of Justice, home to the SFPD Homicide Detail. They passed through the metal detectors, then walked across the vast seventies style lobby, which was appointed with
green marble walls and a thirty-foot ceiling.
After reaching the fourth floor, they hung a right toward Room 400. Above a set of opaque glass doors, anachronistic metal Helvetica lettering spelled out Bureau of Inspectors.
Inside, Burden led Vail through the administrative area, where several blue-walled cubicles were arranged behind a maple countertop. Mounted over the entryway that led to the office space where the inspectors worked, a hand-carved wood sign, with irregularly shaped letters, read Bureau of Investigation.
“The facility is tired but the people are topnotch.”
“Tired,” Vail said. “That must be California-speak for ‘old and desperately in need of renovation. Ten years ago.’”
Burden chuckled as he led her to his cubicle. “No argument from me. Money’s tight, so we put it into stuff that helps us clear cases.”
“Money well spent, for sure.”
“Have a seat.” He motioned to a black fabric chair, then sifted through the messages on his desk. Off to the side sat a thick paperback book of sudoku puzzles.
Vail picked it up and thumbed through the pages. “Don’t tell me you’re into this.”
Burden moved a file, then found an envelope and pulled it out. “Some people are addicted to cigarettes. Drugs. Booze. Me? I’m addicted to sudoku. Keeps my mind sharp. Maybe that’s why I wanted to be a detective. What we do, it’s like solving complex puzzles, right?” He handed Vail the envelope. “Your copy of the case file.”
Vail took it and removed the folder. “Thanks.”
Burden’s phone buzzed. He consulted the screen and said, “Mrs. Anderson’s waiting for us. And she’s getting cold.”
“To quote Twain, it’s summer in San Francisco, right?”
“That’s not the quote, Karen.”
“Yeah, whatever. I got the gist, didn’t I?”
VAIL AND BURDEN WALKED INTO the morgue and met the medical examiner, Dr. Beth Chow. She disposed of pleasantries with a wave of her hand, then pulled back the sheet on the chilled Maureen Anderson.
Anderson looked surprisingly good for her age. That is, if you could get past the severe bruising and wounds.
“The discoloration, the ecchymoses all over the face,” Vail said. “Would you agree that indicates Mrs. Anderson was still alive when the trauma was inflicted? And that she lived for a bit after the beating?”
“That’d be correct,” Chow said.
The ME was a stout woman, thick in the neck with the puffiness of adipose tissue smoothing out the normal age-induced facial wrinkles.
“Inspector Burden tells me she was tortured. With the electrical cord.”
“Yes. I think it may’ve caused the heart attack that ultimately killed her. Disrupted her heart rhythm, which wasn’t good to begin with.”
“How do you know that?” Vail asked.
Chow moved back a step and pointed to a bulge below the woman’s left collarbone. “Implanted pacemaker.”
“I thought it was a multiple COD,” Burden said.
Chow flexed her gloved fingers. “Yes and no. We’re splitting hairs, really. The blows to the head were so violent that the trauma caused a great deal of bleeding between the surface of the brain and the bony skull—which obviously can’t expand. So the bleeding compressed the brain tissue, causing massive dysfunction. And all that was happening around the time that her heart stopped. Regardless, the damage to the cortex from the pressure it was under would’ve been deadly on its own.”
“Brain damage,” Burden said.
“Rather severe.”
Vail leaned over the body to view the head wounds. “And the penetration?”
“The sexual penetration came first. Condom, no semen. And she was sodomized, rather brutally. Substantial injury to her internal organs. It was an angry attack.”
Vail looked up at Chow. “I think we should refrain from classifying it as emotional, or not, for now.”
Chow chuckled. “Her uterus was torn to shreds. All her sexual organs, for that matter. And the liver, too. I don’t think it was a friendly act.”
“The liver was damaged?” Vail asked, straightening up. “That’s like...what, a foot up into her abdominal cavity?”
“He used an umbrella, Agent Vail.” Chow said it with disdain, then shook her head. “Whether anger was involved on the killer’s part, you’re right. I can’t say. I’ll let you people determine that. But what I can tell you is that for Mrs. Anderson it was, unequivocally, an extremely unpleasant death.”
Vail clenched her jaw, trying to wipe the violent image from her brain. A moment passed before she asked, “Which came first? What did he do to her first?”
“Based on the bruising and capillary bleeding, I’d have to say he raped her first, then sodomized her, then he kicked her, then he burned and shocked her with the wires.”
“Jesus Christ,” Burden mumbled. “This guy...when we catch him...if there ever was a guy who could serve as the poster child for the death penalty, this one’d be it.”
Vail could not pull her eyes from the corpse. “Couldn’t have put it better, Burden.”
The three of them stood there a moment before the inspector’s cell phone began vibrating. He answered it, listened, and then said, “We’ll be right there.” He hung up and turned to Vail. “My partner found the husband.”
9
Walton MacNally felt the glass door behind him close, springing against his buttocks. It nudged him forward, as if it were the survival portion of his brain urging him on, telling him that if he did not complete this act, he and his son would go without food.
Could it really be that simple? Was the money in Township Community Savings there for his taking?
Yes. Sometimes society provided for those who were less fortunate. Wasn’t that in the Bible? It had to be. It made so much sense.
MacNally let his eyes roam around the bank’s interior. Women with reading glasses perched on their noses and coifed beehive hairstyles counted money, stamped slips, and chatted politely with their customers. It was a small institution, with wooden desks to his right and doors along the far wall ahead of him.
MacNally walked in slowly, glancing around, looking for security guards. Were they armed? He had no idea. He realized now that he had not thought this through very well. He had been so focused on how he would get away—and preparing Henry for driving the car—that he hadn’t devoted any time to figuring out how he would even get the money. Could he merely go up and demand it? Can it be that simple?
He walked over to a desk that stood thirty feet from the wall of tellers. The nameplate read G. Yaeger, but Mr. or Mrs. Yaeger was apparently on a break at the moment. Next to a blotter that sported messages and notes along its edges sat a flyer that read, Introducing New Rates for 1958, with the text below urging customers to place their money in a certificate of deposit. At the edge of the blotter in front of him lay a gold Cross ballpoint pen. He picked it up, turned the advertisement over, and scrawled, in nervous caps:
THIS BANK IS BEING ROBBED. I DON’T WANT TO SHOOT ANYONE BUT I WILL IF I HAVE TO. PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN A BAG. DO IT QUICKLY AND DON’T SAY A WORD.
MacNally looked around again. There—about a hundred feet away, an overweight man with graying hair wearing a uniform and octagonal cap stood near the end of the line of tellers. His head was down, reading what appeared to be a newspaper. From this angle, MacNally couldn’t tell if he had a sidearm.
He turned back to his note and reread it. The threat of shooting them was good. MacNally did not have a gun—he had never even held one—but the woman with the money didn’t know that. Still, to “sell it,” he had to convince her with the look on his face. Anger was the key. He needed to channel the pain he felt most nights as he lay awake in bed picturing his wife lying on the floor of his home, murdered. He closed his eyes and thought of the man who had killed her, who had turned his life upside down.
His heart raced. Perspiration prickled his scalp.
He really did not want to do this. H
e had never taken anything from anyone that didn’t belong to him. Yet so much had been taken from him, and Henry, what was a little money? Money was replaceable. Doris was not.
But they needed food and shelter, and MacNally had to take care of it. He didn’t see a choice.
He opened his eyes, tightened his lips, tensed his hands.
MacNally scooped up the note and marched over toward the other customers and took his place in line. As he stood there waiting, he realized he didn’t have anything to wrap across his face. Did that matter? He was going to leave town right away. Still... He should’ve thought of this. What if the teller described him to police?
His eyes darted around for something—a hat, a kerchief, anything that would cover all or a portion of his face. His muffler. He pulled it off his neck and tossed it over the opposing shoulder, draping it across his nose and mouth. It was cold out, so he wouldn’t look out of place, and although half his features were still visible, it was enough to provide doubt in a witness’s mind.
“Next,” called a smiling woman in her late fifties. She was ten feet away. All he had to do was hand over the note.
MacNally clenched his jaw, put his head down, and walked forward.
10
Burden pulled his gray Ford Taurus into the parking lot that served the Exploratorium and Palace of Fine Arts entrance. Vail swung her legs out of the car and rose, then craned her head skyward. Ahead of her were groupings of thick, Corinthian columns that stretched more than thirty feet into the sky.
“What is this place?”
“The Palace of Fine Arts. Part of an exposition the city had in 1915.”
Vail knew that voice. She turned and saw a man in a black overcoat sporting a crew cut, a Marlboro dangling from his lips. “Inspector...Friedberg, right?”
The man grinned and approached with his right hand extended.
Vail took it and shook. “My personal historian.”
Inmate 1577 Page 4