Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “Safarik found that the killers of older women aren’t sophisticated, and they don’t mix genders. So, no. Unless I see something that totally contradicts this, this guy doesn’t fit. He’s a psychopath, and we’ve got our hands full.”

  Friedberg walked in. “I heard, ‘He’s a psychopath and we’ve got our hands full.’ That can’t be good.”

  “It’s not,” Vail said, sliding off the desk.

  “But what does that actually mean—for us?”

  “Labeling him a psychopath isn’t as impressive as it sounds. Ninety percent of serial killers are psychopathic. That’s by far the highest percentage among violent criminals.”

  “Someone actually studied that?” Friedberg asked.

  “Hell yeah. A third of rapists are psychopaths, half of all hostage takers. Two thirds of molesters. Like I said, psychopathy’s cornered the violent crime market. If we ever make contact with him—and I think it’s only a matter of time before we do—figuring out how to categorize him properly could prove extremely important.”

  “Categorize him how?” Burden asked.

  “There are four types, all with the same basic traits and characteristics. But they’re present in differing doses. I’ve got a decent idea of how to approach him, of how to talk to him, but let’s see how he reacts to Allman’s article.”

  Burden sat down at the table. “What if you get it wrong?”

  “I’d rather not go there. Let’s just say it could inflame the situation.”

  Friedberg shoved an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “More vics.”

  More vics. The story of my life. Vail looked away. “Yes. To complicate things, psychopathy could be co-morbid with other psychiatric disorders. But psychopathy is king and that’s what will resonate the strongest.”

  Friedberg pulled the Marlboro from his lips. “I’ve requisitioned the key from the ’82 case. Wasn’t easy because I had nothing to go on, but I think we found it.”

  “Assuming the key’s the same, or similar,” Friedberg said, “what do you think it means? The key to what?”

  Vail shrugged. “First thought is that it’s a taunt. See if you can find the key to the case. He’s left it right there in front of us. He’s saying, ‘Here’s the key. Can’t you see it? What’s wrong with you people’?”

  “What’s wrong with us?” Friedberg said with a chuckle. “Guy’s an insane nut case and he’s asking what’s wrong with us.”

  “Lose that thought right now,” Vail said. “And don’t bring it up again.”

  Friedberg looked around, his brow crumpled in confusion. “What’d I say?”

  “A psychopath is not crazy. He’s not insane, and he’s not a nut job. He’s in touch with reality and knows right from wrong. This is an important concept, especially when it comes time to interview him.”

  “You sound pretty optimistic that we’ll catch him,” Burden said.

  “We can’t take a defeatist attitude. I have to believe we’re gonna nail this asshole. I mean, don’t you?”

  Burden and Friedberg glanced at each other. In unison, they said, “Sure,” and “Yeah.”

  But their body language did not invite confidence.

  “Look at it this way,” Vail said. “This scumbag’s enjoying these murders. And he likes the cat and mouse game he’s set in motion. So it’s up to us. If we don’t figure this shit out, it’s gonna be hard to sleep at night. Because he’s not going to stop.”

  21

  MacNally pushed through the glass doors of First National Thrift. A chill wind slapped against his exposed lips, but he was only vaguely aware of it. He made eye contact with Henry, who was in the Chevy, idling double-parked at the curb. He popped the passenger door open as MacNally slid between the chrome bumpers of the stationary vehicles, then jumped into their car.

  MacNally slammed the door. “Go!” But he did not need to say that—before he could finish the one syllable word, Henry had already accelerated hard, shoving MacNally against the seat, his head whipping backwards.

  In the corner of his eye, MacNally saw the guard he had passed on his way out of the bank come bursting through the doors, yelling and pointing at them. “Shit.” It escaped MacNally’s mouth without much thought. He didn’t want to distract Henry from doing what he needed to do: Drive. Fast, yet in control. He yanked off the ski mask and tossed it in the backseat.

  “Did you get the money?”

  “Got the money. Just concentrate on getting us out of here.” He looked over at his son. Henry was just a kid. What was he thinking involving him in something like this? But it wasn’t like he could’ve robbed the bank, found his car in the parking lot, and then made a successful getaway.

  As had been the case the past three years, he had Henry and Henry had him. That was it. No friends, no neighbors, no one else they could rely on. Fortunately, Henry was tall for his age, and wise beyond his years. Both made this job possible.

  “Whoa—” Henry yelled as he swerved to avoid a car that had run a stop sign.

  MacNally had to grab the heavy satchel, which had flown off his lap and onto the bench seat between him and Henry.

  “How much did we get?”

  Clutching the overstuffed bag, MacNally had been wondering the same thing. “Don’t know. Don’t worry about it—just concentrate on driving.” He shifted the satchel on his lap. “A lot. That was a good bank, lots of wealthy customers.”

  “Guess I won’t need to mow anymore lawns.”

  A simple comment, but it was like a dagger to MacNally’s heart. He pushed the guilt aside and brought his thoughts back to the road ahead of them. “We need to make a few turns. And we should change cars, too.”

  Out of MacNally’s peripheral vision, a green sign whizzed by: Welcome to Georgia.

  “Why?” Henry asked.

  “Back when we left, I think I saw a guard come out of the bank. If he got a look at the car—”

  Before MacNally could complete his sentence, the whine of a siren wound to life behind them.

  Henry and MacNally shared a glance. But it was quick, because Henry apparently made his own choice, absent discussion: he floored the accelerator and the Chevy’s engine muscled up with a vicious roar, propelling them forward as the speedometer needle wound around toward seventy. On a residential street, it was a dangerous move—but there weren’t many options. They had the money in hand, and—something MacNally had not thought of...he had used a handgun. That would make it armed robbery. He didn’t know the law, but he had read enough in the newspaper about Machine Gun Kelly and Bonnie and Clyde to know that associating weapons with banks led to long prison sentences.

  Such a prospect was something he would have to live with—he was an adult and he had made the decision to move forward with their plan. It was simple. He had to provide for his son. And given his circumstances, this was the only way he could think of doing that.

  But despite the wisdom beyond his years, Henry was not even a teenager. MacNally could not stand to think of a life behind bars for him. What did they do with kids, anyway? They couldn’t put them in cells with grown men, could they?

  All this ran through his head as Henry swerved, swung the car left and right, ran stoplights and generally did a yeoman’s job of handling a big, heavy vehicle. Still, MacNally wished it was him behind the wheel. He didn’t know if he could do any better, but he felt powerless to control their destiny.

  Henry accelerated again. MacNally twisted his torso to look behind them—the cops were about four car lengths off their rear bumper, falling back rapidly as they darted forward.

  Before they pulled away, MacNally saw that there were two officers in front. And they did not look happy.

  “Shit—”

  MacNally swung his head back around to see another police cruiser ahead of them, in the distance, its lights rotating. His eyes darted around, looking for a way out. “There—turn left!”

  Thirty feet ahead was a side street. Henry yanked the large wheel toward their escape route a
nd the Chevy tilted hard and fast—slamming MacNally up against the right passenger door.

  But their tire struck a pothole and the left side of the hulking vehicle left the asphalt and sent them skidding into the curb and up onto the lawn of a house. They smashed through the front window and came to rest with the hood protruding into the living room.

  Something was sticking into MacNally’s right thigh, pinning him down. He turned to Henry, whose nose was dripping blood from colliding with the steering wheel.

  “Get out. Go on, just run!”

  Henry popped open his door and fled. It slammed behind him and MacNally watched as his son darted behind the nearest house, out of sight.

  And in that moment, two police cars pulled into the street behind him. He leaned toward the driver’s seat, pulling on his leg—but a piece of metal was jammed against it and he was pinned in place.

  He looked down at the satchel stuffed with money. He thought of Henry, of a young son on the run. No money, and now no father, no mother. Nothing and no one.

  Tears filled his eyes as he heard guttural yells coming at him from both sides of the car.

  “Don’t move!”

  “Hands—gets your hands where we can see them!”

  MacNally craned his neck left and right. Officers stood on both sides of him, their pointed handguns staring accusingly at him through the two broken windows.

  He struggled to free his arms, then complied with their order.

  “Where’s the other guy?” one of the men said.

  MacNally looked up at the cop. “What other guy?”

  “The one who was driving.”

  “Just me,” MacNally said, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I was driving.”

  “That’s a load a horseshit,” the officer said to his partner. “His leg’s good and stuck, no way he was driving. ’Sides, I saw two men in that car.”

  “Me, too,” said a cop from the other cruiser. “Not a man. A kid. Maybe twelve, fourteen.”

  “Pete, Roger, search the neighborhood. Stan, call this in and tell ’em we got ourselves a fugitive. Then start a canvass. Find the sum-bitch. I’ll deal with this asshole.” The three men ran off.

  So that’s what he was now. An asshole bank robber who broke into an innocent woman’s house, terrorized her dog, and stole her belongings. For what?

  MacNally let his head fall back against the seat. Wondering how this had happened. Three years ago he was an upstanding citizen with a good job, a good marriage to a bright woman, and a young son.

  As he lay there, he realized that he no longer had any of them.

  22

  Vail had returned to her hotel at 1AM—Burden and Friedberg had left three hours earlier, telling her the lieutenant would never approve their overtime and had rules against working cases around the clock. Ballooning state and local budget deficits drove a lot of what happened in California these days, and not much of it was good.

  The next day passed uneventfully. They worked the forensics of the case and accumulated usable data—but none of it brought them any closer to identifying an individual or even providing them with a suspect pool to pick from. The crime lab was backed up with cases and evidence, and they did not get an immediate hit on the brass key. Identifying it was going to be a longer slog than they had hoped.

  They shifted their efforts toward identifying the portion of the key that had been ground away. Whatever had been stamped or struck in the metal must have contained a clue to where it was made and by whom, or at very least what it was used for. But the filing appeared to be sufficiently deep to obliterate the markings.

  Likewise, the video capture of their UNSUB led nowhere. Further analysis of screen shots only told them the killer wore a ski mask. And because it was black, or some other dark color, there was no way to evaluate shadows to discern his facial landscape. Like the rest of the case, his image was stuck in limbo and it became increasingly frustrating to look at the man and not be able to see him.

  Friedberg and Vail sat in Homicide staring at the whiteboard when Burden called out from his desk. “Email from Clay. His Trib story, photos and notes on the ’82 case.”

  “And?” Vail asked, walking over to his desk and bending over to see the monitor. Friedberg followed, taking up a spot over Burden’s other shoulder.

  “And I sent it to the printer.” He double clicked on the PDF and Acrobat opened. Scans of Allman’s article appeared on-screen.

  Vail read the headline: Bold killer Leaves Body in San Bruno, by Clayton W. Allman, October 25, 1982. A man was found seated on a bench in front of the Federal archives building, fully clothed. Head trauma. “Head trauma,” Vail said.

  “I see,” Burden said.

  Vail continued reading. A shoe was stuffed in the victim’s mouth. “That’s interesting.”

  “What, the tie?”

  “Haven’t gotten to that yet. The shoe. Stuffing a shoe in his mouth is fairly obvious, and it’s pretty much what you might think it represents—like the vic snitched on the killer, or said something that offended him. He stuffs the shoe in the mouth as if he’s gotten the last word.”

  “I know the inspector who handled the case,” Burden said. “Millard Ferguson. He was retiring when I was promoted. I can look him up, see if I can find him, see what he remembers.”

  “Anything he gives us is more than what we’ve got now.”

  “I’ll get someone on it.” He rose and walked out.

  “The tie?”

  Friedberg said, “Read further down. Vic had a silk tie wrapped around his neck.”

  “Is there another article?”

  Friedberg sat down in the chair and scrolled through the document. “Yes. Ten days later.”

  They both went silent as they read.

  Friedberg pointed at the screen. “Cause of death.”

  “Strangulation. The tie.”

  “Vic’s name was Edgar Newhall. And—”

  “He was fifty-seven. Much younger than our current vics.”

  Friedberg leaned back in the chair. “So you think this case isn’t related?”

  Vail hiked her brow. “Hard to say at this point. He’s an older male, but a totally different victim group. That said, there’s a lot more we need to find out about Mr. Newhall. Who was he?”

  “Who was who?” Burden asked, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  “The vic,” Friedberg said. “Name’s Edgar Newhall. A lot younger than our current vics, and I’d like to know why. We need to find out more about this guy. I’ll take that, you find Millard Ferguson.”

  Burden’s phone rang. He reached in front of Friedberg and lifted the handset. “Burden.”

  “He doesn’t answer his phone ‘Birdie?’” Vail said.

  Burden made a flapping motion with the hand holding the papers. Be quiet. “Say that again?” he said into the receiver. As Burden listened, his shoulders rolled forward.

  I know that body language. A new victim.

  Burden hung up, then tossed the papers on his desk. “Let’s go.”

  THE TEMPERATURE HAD DROPPED INTO the low fifties and the fog had returned. It blew by the skyscrapers with abandon, American flags mounted atop the buildings stretched tight, proudly displaying the stars and stripes.

  “Where are we?” Vail asked, seated in the back of the Taurus, her head rotating left and right.

  “You mean the area, or relative to the other murders?”

  “Relative to the other murders. I’m trying to figure this out spatially, because I have a feeling that’s going to be significant.”

  “Why’s that?” Friedberg asked.

  “The male bodies, the ones left outside. Those locations were chosen by the offender for some specific reason.”

  Burden nodded. “Find the reason, and we may be on our way to identifying the offender.”

  “I’m pretty sure of that,” Vail said.

  “From Palace of Fine Arts,” Friedberg said, “the new vic’s between a mile and a half and two miles. Fr
om the Cliff House, about five miles.”

  Not as close as I’d hoped.

  “Remember I mentioned geographic profiling? The mental mapping thing? We’re dealing so far with a closed city environment. I’ve got a friend who does it. Could help.”

  “You can find out who the UNSUB is based on where he kills?” Burden asked.

  “Not exactly,” Vail said. “By evaluating the pattern and location of the victims, we can learn what type of predator he is, how he searches for his victims, and why he goes after the women he does. And by understanding that, we can zero in on where he might strike next. It’s not perfect, but it can be surprisingly accurate.”

  They arrived at the corner near 700 Bay Street well after sunset. Sodium vapor streetlights gave off an inadequate, orange-hued glow. Headlighted cars moved along the local streets, but traffic was lighter than what Vail envisioned it would be for a city, even if it was near the end of rush hour.

  Burden turned right up the adjacent sloping street and left the Ford in a No Parking zone behind a vacant police cruiser. The officer was twenty feet away, standing in front of yellow crime scene tape he had strung around a wide swath of the immediate area, thumbs poking out through the loops of his utility belt as he paced, watching to make sure kids or dogs didn’t stray across his makeshift boundary.

  Beyond the cop was the purpose for their call: a man standing upright, pinned against a telephone pole.

  “Well that’s just lovely,” Vail said. She swung her body around, taking in the landscape. Off in all directions, homes similar in style to the ones in the neighborhoods where the Andersons and Ilgs lived. Storefront businesses. And a downward angled street running perpendicular to Bay.

  A car slowed alongside the crime scene, then parked. Out stepped Rex Jackson, Nikon hanging from his neck and a toolkit from his hand. “This guy’s busy,” he quipped. “And he’s keeping us busy. We haven’t even finished processing his last scene.”