Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Burden said. “I mean, the guy’s displaying these bodies in public because—what—I assume it’s to make a statement. Right?”

  “Could be. Could be he’s going for shock value. Could be these places mean something to him. Or he could be taunting us.”

  “Taunting us?” Burden asked. “How?”

  A whistle echoed in the tunnel. The three of them turned and saw the silhouetted figure of a man headed toward them, carrying a toolkit.

  “Our CSI,” Burden said. He turned back to Vail. “What do you mean? How is he taunting us?”

  “Could be taunting us. I don’t know. But it’s a possibility. Like I said. The symbolism. We’re supposed to see something here, with these vics.”

  “Yeah, but we ain’t seeing shit.”

  “And that,” Vail said, “could be a potential problem. But think about it a second. He could pose or leave the bodies in any public place, places that don’t require the same level of effort and risk. But no. He picks these places for a reason. It’s more than just for shock. And while I don’t doubt there’s some taunting involved, it’s probably much more than that, too.” Vail turned to face Russell Ilg’s body. “Maybe we need to shed some light on the subject.”

  Burden gave her a look.

  “I don’t mean that as a joke. We need more information. Now that we’ve got three, and likely four bodies, we can fine-tune our theories. Hone the profile.”

  “What happens if you’re right, and he really is leaving us clues that we’re not seeing?”

  “One possibility is that he’s going to get frustrated. He’ll keep killing until we ‘get it.’ No matter what, he’s going to contact us somehow, somewhere. You may want to tell your office staff and operators to be aware of any suspicious calls.”

  “On it,” Friedberg said. He lifted his phone and started dialing.

  “You really think that’s what we’re dealing with here?” Burden asked.

  Vail tilted her head, looking at Ilg’s face, which was oriented straight ahead. “Unfortunately, we’re going to find out. Sooner or later.”

  17

  MacNally returned to First National Thrift twice more that week, pretending to request information on opening an account. Fortunately, no one had noticed that he was wearing the same clothes—he owned only one pair of dress slacks and a single button-down Oxford.

  On his second trip, he decided on the woman he wanted: Emily September. He had never known anyone named September—had not even realized it could be a real name. She was pert and on the younger side of thirty, with well-styled blonde hair and a tight knit sweater hugging her chest like it didn’t want to let go.

  MacNally made small talk with her, then realized he had better leave before she—or anyone watching—would realize he hadn’t transacted any business.

  He walked out and returned a couple of days later. Now, as noon approached, he watched Emily September push out the double doors of First National Thrift and turn left, headed toward the parking lot. MacNally followed her around back and watched her get into a light turquoise Ford Thunderbird. He didn’t know a whole lot about cars, but he did know that a T-bird was an expensive luxury car—and a sharp one at that. It was a convertible with a simple, elegant curved windshield, clean lines, and broad whitewall tires.

  MacNally started the sky blue Buick Century he had stolen a few miles outside town and followed Emily as she maneuvered the vehicle onto the main drag. Her blonde hair flowed back off her shoulders in the breeze.

  A Thunderbird? For a bank teller? She had money. Or, at least, it looked like she did. This presented an interesting dilemma: go after pretty Emily September when she arrived at home and steal what she had in the house, or go after the more risky—but potentially higher reward job—the bank.

  He followed a good forty yards behind her, wondering if it was too great a distance. If she made a light and he did not, he would lose her. And how long could he keep this car before the police would discover it was stolen? Before they would find him and Henry?

  He made sure to narrow the gap between them, taking care not to get too close: she had seen him—spoken to him—in the bank, and he didn’t want to risk her seeing him again. It could make her suspicious, or she could think he was following her around. Worse still, if he did rob the bank, she would be able to provide an accurate description of him to the authorities.

  Ten minutes later, Emily pulled into a well-tended neighborhood with two- and three-story homes lining the green-lawned avenues. She hung a left into a driveway and parked. MacNally drove past her house and parked at the curb. He shut the engine and waited.

  Emily went inside and was there for nearly forty minutes before getting back in her car and heading off in the direction of the bank. She must have come home for lunch and was now on her way back to work. MacNally waited until she had cleared the block and then got out of his car. Moving swiftly but cautiously, he walked down the street and into Emily September’s backyard.

  The landscape was meticulously groomed, with several mature deciduous trees shading the grass from sunlight. A redwood picnic table sat in the center of the plot. MacNally moved past it and stepped up to the back door. He peered into the window, bringing his hands up to his face to block out the light. He looked around but did not see anyone. As expected—there had been no other cars in the nearby vicinity, so it made sense that no one was home.

  MacNally balled up his shirt around his fist and looked for the best place to penetrate the door. He would be in and out as fast as possible. But first he would see if he could find some cash—or anything else of value that could be sold with ease.

  “Okay, Emily. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

  18

  Burden, Friedberg, and Vail arrived at Irene Ilg’s home on Ortega Street in the Sunset District as a foggy dusk settled in over the city.

  While climbing out of Burden’s Ford, a man whistled at them.

  “Birdie!”

  “Allman, my man, how’s it hangin’?” The two men met on the sidewalk behind the car and launched into an elaborate handshake.

  Vail leaned into Friedberg. “Who is that?”

  “Police reporter for the Tribune.”

  “What the hell are they doing?”

  “Some kind of fraternity thing.”

  Vail hiked her brow. “I never took cop reporters as the fraternity type. Rebels. Loners, maybe.”

  “You’ve actually profiled reporters?”

  “Not exactly,” Vail said. “I’m just saying.”

  Friedberg shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. But in every profession there are outliers.”

  Vail gave him a look. “You getting philosophical on me, Robert?”

  “Who tipped you?” Burden asked as the two men approached Vail and Friedberg.

  Allman sported graying temples but otherwise a full head of wavy brown hair. Small capillaries zigzagged the side of his sharp nose, suggesting he enjoyed his time on a bar stool a bit more often than his physician would recommend. But his smile was broad and infectious, inviting in a magnetic way. A battered tan leather messenger bag was slung across his shoulder.

  “You don’t really expect me to divulge my sources, do you?”

  Burden tipped his chin back.

  “Okay, fine,” Allman said. “No source. I heard it on the scanner.” He noticed Vail and his eyes widened. “Who’s the beautiful lady?”

  “Oh, please,” Vail said. Please say more.

  “This is Clay Allman, police reporter for the Tribune. Clay, this is Special Agent Karen Vail. She’s out from the BAU.”

  Allman’s head swung over to Burden, then back to Vail. “You’re a profiler?”

  “Ah, goddamn it,” Burden said. “That’s off the record. Got it?” he asked, poking Allman with a stubby finger.

  “Sure,” Allman said. “Give the dog a bone, then yank it from his mouth. I’m left salivating.”

  “Now
there’s an appropriate metaphor,” Friedberg said.

  “Robert,” Allman said with a big grin. He gave Friedberg’s hand a firm shake. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “Jeez. Haven’t seen you since...well, since the last murder in town.”

  “You make police reporters sound like the grim reaper.”

  Friedberg laughed. “Hey, man...if the shoe fits.”

  “You related to the brothers?” Vail asked.

  Allman cocked his head. “What brothers?”

  “Gregg and Duane,” Vail said. “Allman Brothers. ‘Ramblin’ Man,’ ‘Midnight Rider’—c’mon, I know you’re old enough to know their music.”

  “Yes,” Allman said. “And no. Yes, I know their music. No, we’re not related. But I do play a mean guitar.”

  “That’s true,” Burden said. “If by ‘mean’ you really meant ‘horrible.’”

  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 recor
ds 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.”