Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  Vail sighed heavily. “If Allman’s right, and this offender’s the same guy who killed back in ’82, it’s not a matter of if he’s going to kill again. It’s a matter of when.”

  19

  MacNally closed the door behind him. He stepped over the broken shards of glass and moved to the threshold of the kitchen: and came face to face with a snarling German shepherd.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The dog sat there, piercing eyes riveted to his own, powerful shoulder muscles tensing. MacNally smiled and forced his body to relax. “Good dog,” he said, bringing his voice up a few octaves.

  He held out the palm of his hand, low, nonthreatening, then stepped forward. The dog did not move his head, but his eyes followed MacNally as he moved slightly to the right so he could enter the kitchen.

  “How’s my boy?” MacNally sung. Another step closer. He started to kneel, to get down to dog eye level. He had a feeling this was not a good idea—but he was committed. What was he to do? If he turned and ran, the shepherd would be on his back in half a second. If that.

  As he knelt, the dog bared his teeth. Not a good sign. MacNally straightened up and kept his body still, moving his eyes around the kitchen, looking for something—anything—to use as a defensive weapon. Sitting on the stove was an iron skillet. He didn’t want to hurt the dog, but if it came down to him or the pooch, there was not much of a choice.

  MacNally inched to his right, closer to the stove. The shepherd, teeth still bared, growled long and low. Clearly, he did not care for that move. Fair enough—but MacNally didn’t have time to screw around with this. He would have to chance it because he wasn’t going to just stand there until Emily returned home and called off the dog. Or told him to attack.

  MacNally lunged for the skillet—and, as suspected, the shepherd took offense. He went for MacNally’s left arm—and although he grabbed hold, instantly let go when the heavy iron connected with this skull. The dog slunk to the floor.

  “Shit,” MacNally said. “Shouldn’t have done that.” He knelt down and felt the dog’s chest. He was breathing—just unconscious. MacNally stroked his head and apologized—as if the dog would understand—and found the metal leash and choke collar in the hall closet. He slipped it over the shepherd’s head, and then fastened it to the oven handle.

  The kitchen was not usually a place people stored cash, other than a cookie jar or coffee can filled with loose change. He wasn’t a snob—money was money—but he didn’t know who, if anyone, was due to walk in the front door, and when—so he wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. And that meant prioritizing his objectives.

  Emily no doubt had insurance to cover any loss, so he didn’t feel too guilty about taking her things. He would not steal anything that appeared to be family heirlooms or otherwise carried sentimental value. His goal was not to cause Emily any harm but rather to improve his own lot enough to enable him to care for Henry until he could find a solution to his employment dilemma. How he was going to do that he was not sure. But that was a long-term plan, and his present concern was more immediate: putting food on the table and clothes on their backs.

  The living room offered more promise. The furniture appeared fresh and well kept, with clear plastic covers protecting the gold and brown paisley embroidery from dirt and dust. On the cherrywood bureau along the far wall, elaborate silver picture frames stood proudly facing the room. MacNally lifted the one on the far left and examined the black-and-white photo: Emily in a wedding dress with her husband, both coifed and smiling stoically for the camera.

  He set that frame down and moved to the next one. A young boy sat on his proud parents’ laps. Emily looked similar to how she appeared when he had seen her in the bank, so this was likely taken recently.

  MacNally could not help but mentally draw the comparison to his own life, and what could have been. His own Doris, taken from Henry and him, denied the joy of building memories together as a family. Photos on the bureau. Fancy sofas and wood furniture. A home. His job, an income, a future. Promise. Instead, he had none of that. Taken from him as if ripped from the clutches of hope.

  Next photo: Emily’s husband, dressed in military garb, with medals pinned to his chest. Apparently, he was a World War II soldier, and had done well for himself—most impressively, he made it home alive. How could a man dodge bullets and bombs, enemy aircraft and ambushes half a world away in a hostile foreign country, and return home alive—yet Doris could be murdered in the safety of her own home in a middle-class New Jersey suburb? It didn’t seem likely, and it didn’t seem fair.

  The final picture showed Emily’s war hero soldier wearing a police uniform. The man was a cop. MacNally felt a sense of urgency well up in his stomach. He had better hurry and secure what he needed, then get the hell out of there.

  He climbed the plush olive carpeted stairs to the second floor, and moved through the rooms. He learned that the boy’s name was Irving, and that Emily’s husband was James. MacNally slipped into the master bedroom where furled bed sheets were neatly folded, frilly pillows topping the mattress. Very little mess or clutter.

  He checked the dresser drawers and found an unlocked metal box that contained a stack of used bills—twenties and tens, from what he could tell. He didn’t stop to count it—he would do that later, in the safety of his car—and continued pulling out drawers.

  MacNally ran his hand amongst the clothing, feeling for anything of value that might be hidden beneath. In the fifth drawer on James’s side of the chest, his index finger jammed against something hard. MacNally separated the folded sweaters and found another metal box. He pulled it out and popped it open. Inside, a black handgun. It was worn around the edges and sat atop an index card with hand scrawled writing: “Luger P08 taken off the body of a German soldier I killed, Battle of the Bulge, 1/20/45.”

  MacNally lifted the weapon out of the box and stared at it a moment, then realized it could be of use to him. He slipped it into the waistband of his pants.

  In a hinged wooden box, MacNally found a silver high school ring—which he left, figuring it had some value to James—and a gold-toned bracelet with two halves that inserted with a spring lever into one another. Engraved on the face were two block letters: J. and S. He looked at it a long moment—it could fetch him some decent money—but this, too, might mean something to its owner, so he wouldn’t take it; he would merely borrow it.

  He almost had everything he needed, with one exception: he slid the door to James’s closet aside and found a leather satchel on the top shelf. He splayed it open, then selected a few shirts and several pair of pants, estimating by visual inspection that they would be close to fitting him. The saying Beggars can’t be choosers came to mind—or, in this case, Thieves can’t complain too heartily if the stolen pants are a little baggy.

  He tossed in a few pair of socks, a belt, and sunglasses, and was about to zip the satchel when he saw a cardboard box on the floor marked “Winter.” He pulled it out and checked inside: gloves, a knit ski mask—which he shoved into the satchel—wool socks, and two scarves.

  Somewhere off behind him, the shepherd began barking. MacNally whirled, his heart rate suddenly galloping, and remembered he had tied down the dog. But it served as a reminder that he needed to get moving. If the animal kept barking like that, someone might call the police—and when they realized which house it was, the cops would double time it over.

  MacNally slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder and ran out, down the stairs, and was headed to the back door—avoiding the dog, who had now identified the man who’d given him the headache—when he stopped and returned to the living room. He grabbed one of the silver picture frames, shoved it into his bag, and left.

  AS THE AFTERNOON SUN STARTED fading and moving toward the horizon, MacNally sat in the car beside Henry, the engine idling. “You sure you’ve got this down?”

  “I’m sure. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

  MacNally grinned. He liked Henry’s confidenc
e. “Sure do.” He gathered the items he needed to bring in with him, then pushed open the car door. “See you in five minutes, with a few bucks in my pockets.”

  “Hopefully it’s more than just ‘a few.’”

  MacNally pushed through the double doors and entered. First National Thrift was a knot of activity, with several people in line and all the teller stations full. Emily September was where she had been when he was last in the bank.

  He walked over to the counter and pulled out a piece of paper from a cubbyhole beneath the glass top like he had seen another customer do on one of his earlier visits, and removed the ballpoint pen from its slot. He wrote his note as he had rehearsed it countless times in his mind. He folded it in half and took his place in line.

  There were five people ahead of him, which would give him time to get everything sorted out. He removed the ski mask from his pocket and pulled it over his head, leaving it rolled up above his ears. Next came the silver frame he had taken—the beauty was that he was going to return it to its rightful owner—and then carefully slipped the Luger from his pocket, shielding it with his body from the three security guards.

  Everything was in place. He looked up and realized he was next. But Emily had just taken a new customer—shit, he had not planned on this. His eyes darted around, analyzing each teller and where each was in her transaction. No—he had to see Emily, or his plan would not work.

  “Next person in line,” a woman two stations down from Emily said.

  “Oh,” MacNally said, chuckling. He turned to the man behind him and said, “Go on. I forgot something.” He looked down at the floor—at nothing—and pretended to be busy. He no doubt looked foolish, but he continued the charade while the customer walked around him and up to the teller.

  He did this once more—had anyone been watching they would’ve known something was wrong—but Emily was now available, and MacNally nearly jumped when she called for the next in line.

  He slipped on the stolen sunglasses as he stepped up to her window. Emily’s eyes smiled back at him as if she recognized him, though she likely could not remember from where.

  He needed to be efficient and get out of there before the guards took notice and let their gazes linger. Best for him to clear the front doors before they started after him. To speed the process, MacNally placed the frame on the counter in front of her.

  Emily squinted, no doubt instantly recognizing the item from her home. The photo of James and Irving. Her eyes widened in fear.

  MacNally placed his note atop the frame. It read:

  EMILY SEPTEMBER PAY ATTENTION. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I’VE BEEN IN YOUR HOUSE. I’VE BEEN IN IRVING’S ROOM. I MEAN YOU NO HARM IF YOU DO AS I ASK. I NEED MONEY, EVERYTHING YOU HAVE IN YOUR DRAWER. I’VE BEEN OBSERVING THE BANK FOR DAYS SO I KNOW ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU HAVE THERE. COOPERATE AND I WILL LEAVE THIS TOWN FOREVER AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN. PUT ALL THE MONEY IN THE BAG. DO NOT LOOK AT THE GUARDS. DO NOT REACT. JUST SMILE. IF YOU CROSS ME, I WILL USE THE GUN IF I HAVE TO. DON’T MAKE ME HAVE TO.

  MacNally watched her face carefully. He could tell when she reached the important points in his note, particularly the one where he mentioned Irving. Then she looked up at him. Her eyes riveted to his, conveying a blend of anger, fear, and hate—no, contempt. But he did not take it personally; he would probably feel the same way if the situation was reversed.

  MacNally tilted his head, then canted his eyes down to the letter, reminding her she had better follow his instructions. He slowly moved the Luger onto the countertop, in such a way that only Emily was able to see it. Then he lifted the leather satchel, rested it on the frame, and pushed both toward her. She moved the photo aside, with a lingering glance at the image that stared back at her. Cooperate and I’ll leave you and your family alone. He could see on her face what was running through her mind. Exactly what he wanted to convey.

  Emily pulled the satchel’s metal hinge apart and began placing packs of money inside. MacNally reached into his left pocket and felt James’s ID bracelet. He slowly pulled it out, then dropped it at his feet. If cops later searched the bank, they would find it—and perhaps think that the robbery was an inside job—perpetrated between Emily and her husband. Even if it only caused them to hesitate for a minute or two, it would serve as a welcomed cushion.

  MacNally wanted to chance a look at each of the guards, but he did not want to risk making eye contact. Instead, he moved his right hand to the Luger, which attracted Emily’s eyes for a moment. She stuffed in the last packet of bills, pulled the satchel closed and zipped it, then hoisted it onto the counter. She shoved it toward MacNally. He pulled the Luger back, then slid the weapon into his belt and grabbed the bag. It was full, and sufficiently heavy.

  “Thank you, Emily,” MacNally said. “If all goes as planned, you’ll never see me again. You made a wise choice.”

  Her hard facial features demonstrated her emotional shift from fear and contempt to pure derision. She tightened her lips and said, “You’d better keep your word and go far and fast, because my husband’s gonna find you if you don’t. He’s a cop. But you probably already know that.”

  “I do. And that means he has to follow the law. I don’t.” With that, MacNally turned and walked toward the exit, wanting to glance at the guard closest to him to gauge his reaction, but he instead kept his face forward, his eyes focused on the door.

  He had no way of knowing that the next few moments were going to have a formative effect on the rest of his life.

  20

  Vail, Burden, and Friedberg returned to the Hall of Justice and took the elevator up to four. Friedberg stopped by evidence control to inquire about obtaining the brass key they had secured from the 1982 crime scene, while the others began laying out their case on a large whiteboard that spanned a wall facing the Bryant Street windows.

  An hour later, Vail stood back to take in the murder board, and its victims, which now numbered four—five, as soon as Clay Allman sent over his materials on the 1982 murder. The linkage was tenuous for now, but it was an intriguing break in the case. An offender’s first kill—if it was the same guy, and if it was his first—often provided more clues about the man than his later crimes. As an inexperienced criminal, he was not likely as careful as he would be so many years later, when he had time, and presumably other victims, to hone his trade.

  And if there was a victim in 1982, there were likely others in the intervening years. It was not a certainty, but it was a strong possibility.

  Vail looked over at Burden, who was seated at his desk. “We’ve got four, maybe five vics, and probably a whole lot more we don’t even know about. And we’re nowhere in finding this guy. And he’s not going to stop killing to give us time to catch up.” She turned back to the crime scene photos of Maureen and William Anderson, Russell and Irene Ilg. “But I do think he’s trying to tell us something.”

  Burden joined her at the murder board. “Like what?”

  “He’s placing the male bodies in specific locations, out in public. And he’s leaving something at the female vic crime scenes. That key. I think it was meant for us.”

  “Okay, so what does that mean? What if he’s telling us something and we’re not hearing him?”

  Vail rested part of her buttocks on the edge of the desk. “It could get ugly—I mean, uglier. It’ll frustrate him. Remember BTK?”

  “Bind, Torture, Kill. How could I forget that asshole?”

  “Dennis Rader, in his BTK persona, sent the cops a note basically saying, How many do I have to kill before I get my name in the paper, or some national attention? Part of his positive feedback loop was attaining fame. He gave himself a media-ready nickname, for chrissake.”

  “So maybe we should let Allman run with his story. Are we making things worse by not mentioning the key, which he’s purposely left for us? If he thinks we didn’t find it, won’t it piss him off?”

  Vail sighed. Her eyes flicked over to the brutalized bodies of Anderson and Ilg. I really don’t want
to see this happen again. Goddamn it. What’s the right call here? “I’m honestly not sure if I have enough info yet to make an informed decision.”

  “We’ve got five goddamn bodies,” Burden said, anger lacing his tone. “How many more do you need?”

  Vail banded her arms across her chest. “You have five seconds to apologize. I don’t fucking deserve that.”

  Burden turned away and faced the whiteboard. “You’re right. That was out of line. I’ve been a detective for over twenty years. I should be able to work this case without relying solely on your analysis.” He thought a moment, then said, “How sure are you about this key?”

  “That it was left for us? I’d like to know if the key from thirty years ago matches the one we just found at the Ilg’s. If they do...but how do we define match? An exact match? It’s the same key, just a copy...or a similar type of key...or same type of lock?” She thought a moment. “If Allman’s memory is right, and the ’82 key is very similar or identical to the one we just found, then that’s significant. Assuming for a minute that it’s not an incredible coincidence, it’s a very specific ritual behavior. My gut tells me it has meaning to the offender—and because it doesn’t appear to have been used to maim or mark the victim, I really do think it’s meant for us.”

  “I’ve asked Jackson to see if he can get us some info on that key. It’s large and its shape is a little odd, with a shaft that’s not your usual pin setup. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Burden tossed a cluster of papers on the desk. “Knowing what we know now, are you still convinced this isn’t the type of killer who preys on elderly women—the offenders that Safarik’s studied?”

  “I’m more convinced now than I was before,” Vail said. “There’s no secondary financial component to his act; he doesn’t, as an afterthought, take money, jewelry. A typical sexual killer of elderly women is unsophisticated, disorganized, and of lower intelligence. They certainly wouldn’t interact with the police. That’s an intelligent act, a sign of psychopathy. And displaying the bodies in public places—it’s just not their way. Let alone the fact that half his vics are male.