“When do you think you’ll have that for us?”
“This isn’t TV,” Jackson said. “Just like you don’t solve cases in fifty-nine minutes, we can’t process a ton of info in a matter of hours. We’re running with a thin staff and a thinner budget. You’ll have it when we have it.”
“No rush—whenever you get around to it,” Vail said.
Jackson ignored her dig, setting down his kit and shooting photos. He made an adjustment to his camera and took another test picture. Satisfied, he swung left and began documenting the scene.
“Since Rex is here,” Burden said, “let’s leave him alone to process everything before we trample it.”
Forty-five minutes later, Jackson gave them the thumbs up and they moved closer to the victim.
The body was fastened to the pole with the same type of fishing line as the prior victims. He was dressed in a loose-fitting suit. And a number was scrawled across the vestiges of a scar on his forehead.
“Another goddamn number,” Burden said.
Vail tilted her head. “Thirty-five. So, we’ve got thirty-seven, forty-nine, and now thirty-five. A pattern?”
“None I’m seeing,” Burden said. “And it’s pissing me off.”
“What’s the deal with poles,” Friedberg asked. “They’ve all been secured to poles of some kind.”
“Phallic,” Jackson said as he snapped his toolkit closed.
“You could be right,” Vail said. “But it might simply be a means to an end: the act of leaving his victims erect, standing and facing the people who find him, may be what’s important to him. The pole is the easiest way for him to do that.”
“So this is an attempt to shock?” Burden asked. “Get a rise out of the people who discover the body?”
“We can’t rule it out. Let’s see if we can find some surveillance cameras in the area.”
Burden called to the first-on-scene officer, who was standing near his vehicle, and asked him to look for businesses or homes that had closed circuit systems.
A car came down Bay far too fast. It stopped in the middle of the street and the passenger window rolled down.
“Hey!” It was Clay Allman, leaning across from the driver’s seat. “You didn’t call me?”
“We’re a little busy,” Vail said. And our first call isn’t to the press, dickhead.
Allman parked a few cars down and jogged back toward them. He stood there a moment, outside the crime scene tape, sizing up the victim. “Okay, that’s a little weird.”
“A little,” Vail said.
Allman made a face, then turned to Burden. “You sure this isn’t personal?”
“Nah, she’s like this with everyone.”
Vail frowned. “Sorry. Murders tend to put me in a bad mood. I’m funny that way.”
“I accept your apology,” Allman said.
“She was being sarcastic,” Burden said.
“Whatever.” Allman pointed at the body. “Who’s the vic?”
“Haven’t gotten to that yet.” Friedberg reached into the man’s suit and felt around. He found the wallet in his trousers, and then flipped it open. “Harlan Rucker.” He pulled out his driver’s license. “Says here he’s seventy-eight.”
“Home address?”
“Hmm. Interesting.” Friedberg turned to Vail and Burden. With Allman only a few feet away, he was not going to read it aloud.
Vail’s phone started vibrating. She reached down and checked the Caller ID: Roxxann Dixon. “Hey, how’s it going?” Vail asked as she huddled with Friedberg and Burden around the license.
“I figured I’d touch base with you about doing dinner,” Dixon said. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“You’re calling because you’ve got an elderly female who’s been brutally raped and tortured, then kicked in the head. And there’s a brass key nearby.”
There was silence.
“Roxx?”
“What are you, a witch?”
“Nothing so exciting. You’ve got one of our vics. Text me your address. We’ll meet you.”
“Where?” Allman asked. “Another vic?”
Vail looked at him, then stepped in closer to Burden and Friedberg. “Got a call from a friend. She’s just caught a case in American Canyon, just over the Napa County line. One of our female vics.” Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. “And I’ve got the address.” She consulted the screen. “Matches the one on Rucker’s CDL.”
“Hey,” Allman called out behind them. “I keyed you guys in on the ’82 case, gave you my files. How about cutting me in on the scoop?”
Vail looked at Burden. “You’re not considering it.”
“He’s just trying to do his job. He’s always been fair with us. What’s the harm?”
Vail shrugged in resignation. “It’s your case.”
Burden turned around to face Allman. “Fine. We’ll text you the address in half an hour, so we have some lead time. I want to check things out before you get there.”
They spent another ten minutes with Harlan Rucker, then released the scene to the officer and trudged back to their car. This case had just taken a turn—which was not good.
They hadn’t even figured out what was going on when it was moving in a straight line.
23
They pulled up behind an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. It was the same one in which Vail had spent about ten days driving around Napa while working the Crush Killer case with Dixon.
The American Canyon neighborhood was at the southernmost tip of Napa County, a thirty-five-minute drive from the last crime scene. A bedroom community of both San Francisco and the heralded wine country, American Canyon was a solid middle- to upper-middle-class neighborhood incorporated in the early nineties.
The house was a production home in a residential area. It looked like it had been treated to a fresh coat of paint recently and the front garden appeared to be similarly maintained. Vail greeted the officer at the front door and led Burden and Friedberg into the house. Lights were on in the hallway, and Vail could hear voices in a room off to her right.
As she approached, Roxxann Dixon stepped into the corridor. “Karen,” she said with a wide grin.
The two women embraced, and then Vail introduced her to Burden.
“Inspector Friedberg,” Dixon said. “How’s the city treating you?”
“Not so good these days. These murders are pretty brutal. But I don’t have to tell you that.”
A man emerged from the bedroom.
“Brix,” Vail said. “Good to see you.”
“Who woulda thought? I figured when you left Napa three months ago, we were finally rid of you.”
“Guess I’m like that piece of chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe.”
They all enjoyed a knowing chuckle.
“Detective Lieutenant Redmond Brix,” Vail said, “Inspectors Lance Burden and Robert Friedberg—who helped us out with the Crush Killer case, over by Battery Spencer.”
“Right, right,” Brix said as he and the crew exchanged handshakes.
“So what’re you doing here, Roxx?” Vail asked. “Did your transfer go through?”
“I gave it a little push,” Brix said. “Guess it was more like a shove. It took the sheriff a little while to free up the cash for another detective, but I told him he couldn’t afford to miss out on Roxxann.”
“Came through last week,” Dixon said.
“Hell of a first case,” Vail said.
Dixon brushed back her blonde hair. “No shit. What you described on the phone...it was dead-on. No pun intended.”
“Let’s take a look,” Burden said.
They walked into the sizable master bedroom, where a CSI was bent over a body that lay supine. He snapped a photo, straightened up, and then shot Vail a less than friendly look.
Matthew Aaron. Not a pleasant memory from her time in the wine country.
“Where’s that key?” Vail asked.
Aaron reached into his kit and removed a clear evid
ence bag. It was properly identified and tagged.
Burden took it and held it up so he and Friedberg could get a closer look.
“We’ve got two others like this,” Friedberg said. “Well, one in our possession and one on the way.”
“On the way from where?” Dixon asked.
Vail explained the 1982 Edgar Newhall murder. “We don’t know enough yet to say if the cases are related, but it sure looks that way.”
Burden motioned to the woman in front of him. She displayed nearly identical burn marks, the same gruesome vaginal and anal injuries, and bruising around the head. “What do we know about this vic? I assume her name’s Rucker?”
“Cynthia Rucker,” Dixon said. “When I saw what we had here, I called Redd. He told me to call Karen. The sheriff went through the FBI’s National Academy training, so they felt it was best to find out if we were dealing with a psychosexual killer.”
“Kudos to all of you,” Vail said. “We’re getting away from using that term, but that is what we’re dealing with here. And that’s not all. There’s a lot more to this case. I’m not sure what, just yet, but we’re dealing with a very volatile and unstable killer.”
“Great,” Brix said.
Vail moved around the bed and examined Cynthia’s head wounds. “Thing is, his recent murders—if he did the one in ’82—have been confined to San Francisco. In fact, her husband, Harlan, is in the city. In case you were wondering.”
“We were,” Dixon said. “Any chance we can get a sit-down with him? Obviously, we’ve got a lot of questions.”
“He’s tied to a telephone pole,” Vail said. “I don’t think your sit-down would be too fruitful.”
Dixon and Brix shared a look.
“Karen thinks there’s geographic significance to the killer’s choice of victims,” Friedberg said.
“Yeah.” Vail shifted her feet. “About that. I’m not so sure. This one kind of throws a monkey wrench into that theory.” She thought a moment. “But maybe not.”
“Worth checking into?” Burden asked.
Vail shrugged. “Yeah. But—this case is very unusual to begin with. Married couples being offed is odd enough—but he’s transporting the males and leaving them, in some cases, miles away. To my memory, none of that’s ever been done before. I can turn this over for a geographic profile, but it’s going to make for a challenging analysis.”
“I’m done here,” Matt Aaron said, snapping his kit closed.
“The contact at SFPD is Rex Jackson,” Vail said. “Can you make sure he gets copies of everything you—”
“I know the procedure, Agent Vail.” He rose and faced her, standing a little closer than what would normally be considered a comfortable distance. “You know, it sure was nice not having you around. I already have a few bosses. Don’t need someone like you looking over my shoulder.”
Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. Calming her. Vail didn’t feel calm. But she forced a smile and said, “You must be really, really good on all the other cases you handle in Napa County. Because from what I’ve seen on the two you handled while I was here, your professionalism left a lot to be desired.”
Aaron dropped his kit. “I’ve had—”
“Okay,” Brix said, shoving his arm in front of his criminalist. “That’s enough. Matt, if you’re done here, you can go.” He waited for Aaron to react.
He did—he bent down and picked up his case, then threw Vail a stern look.
“I’d appreciate if you two weren’t like two cats in heat all the time,” Brix said. “Learn to get along. We’re on the same goddamn side.”
Aaron frowned at Brix, then pushed his way out of the room, through the crowd of detectives.
“He does have a point,” Brix said.
Vail looked at him. “And what point is that?”
“Things have been a lot more quiet in town since you left.”
“Don’t you remember my nickname?”
“The serial killer magnet,” Dixon said with a grin.
Burden shook his head. “Oh, that’s fucking great. Couldn’t you have told us that sooner? I knew I should’ve insisted on Safarik.”
“What’s your procedure?” Dixon asked. “You’ve obviously got another jurisdiction involved. I’d like to be part of what’s going down on your end, help solve this thing together. Does SFPD set up major crimes task forces?”
“Only for drug and gang-related crimes,” Burden said.
Vail spread her hands, palm up. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. Meet in a room, either at Homicide or somewhere else. Not a task force—”
“But a task force,” Dixon said.
“Exactly.”
Burden shook his head. “The lieutenant won’t be happy.”
“We can have meetings, exchange info, that sort of thing,” Friedberg said. “As long as it doesn’t hit his bottom line, if we don’t ask for money or staff support, any shit like that, I think we’ll be fine. If we’re making progress, who’s gonna complain?”
“And if we don’t get results?” Burden asked.
Friedberg chuckled. “Then we deserve whatever heat the lieutenant sends our way.”
24
August 6, 1959
United States Penitentiary
Leavenworth
1300 Metropolitan Street
Leavenworth, Kansas
“The defendant is hereby sentenced to forty-five years’ incarceration in a Federal penitentiary, the location of which shall be determined by the Bureau of Prisons.” The judge rapped his gavel, and Walton MacNally’s fate was sealed tighter than the animal skin on the surface of a drum.
His arms were engaged from behind by two burly, sour-faced US Marshals. But MacNally was numb, unemotional, and not tuned in to the ramifications of the verdict. He understood the meaning, but he could not comprehend the depth behind the words.
As he was led out of the courtroom, MacNally objectively reviewed the previous week’s proceedings in his mind. Unlike his prior journey through the judicial system in Doris’s murder trial, this one had not gone well; in fact, there was not one hour during his six days of justice where he felt he had even the slightest chance of overcoming the charges.
His court-appointed attorney attempted to prepare him for the worst well before the trial began. He reviewed each of the pieces of evidence they had against him: the handgun found still tucked in his waistband—a rare brand of an unusual vintage for America—damning in and of itself because the weapon had been documented by a local newspaper when Lieutenant James September returned from his distinguished service in Germany. September had shot an enemy soldier who was attempting to stab one of his fellow infantrymen. The lieutenant then took the sidearm back to the States as a keepsake. The plan was for him to donate it at some future date to the Smithsonian.
That it was found on MacNally, along with the eyewitness identification made by the bank’s security guard and Emily September...and, of course, possession of the satchel stuffed with bills that matched some of the serial numbers purported to have been given to Emily only an hour prior, were more than enough to send the jury scurrying back to their room.
But there was more: the discovery of a gold Cross pen in MacNally’s pocket, with the name “G. Yaeger” engraved on the barrel, which matched an object reportedly stolen from Township Community Savings during a robbery two months earlier.
Although MacNally’s attorney pointed out that the Community Savings incident did not involve a firearm, the local police introduced MacNally’s handwritten letter, given by the defendant to the teller during the robbery, inferring the possession of a weapon and his inclination to use it. The writing and linguistic patterns contained in both notes matched, and they appeared to be strikingly similar to an exemplar the prosecutor asked MacNally to provide before the trial commenced.
A minor transgression at the time—the gold pen had some value, of course, to Mr. Yaeger, its rightful owner—but it carried far greater worth to the p
rosecution. The writing implement implicated MacNally in the earlier robbery and linked the two crimes, indelibly marking Walton MacNally a criminal who had committed multiple armed robberies. But not just armed robberies. Bank robberies. A federal crime.
And an innocuous comment made to a cop at the scene proved equally as damaging—if not the final nail. One of the officers involved in MacNally’s arrest stated that he saw another occupant in the vehicle—a young boy running from the scene when they arrived. MacNally did not want Henry’s involvement to be anything more than an unwilling passenger, so he initially denied it. But as the manhunt intensified, MacNally attempted to have it called off by telling them that the fleeing suspect had been his son, who was merely along for the ride because he had no place to leave him. He insisted that Henry had known nothing of the robbery, and, in fact, that he hadn’t even wanted to go with him.
Based on these admissions, the prosecutor added kidnapping to the charges. And because he had crossed into Georgia from Alabama, the federal “crossing state lines” statute added severity to his crimes.
As far as the jury was concerned, the prosecution’s case was as tight as the security at Fort Knox. They deliberated for twenty-one minutes. The verdict was read and the judge imposed his sentence.
Now, several months after being arrested, after watching Henry vaporize into a dusky evening, he was being flown to what would be his new domicile: the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Many famous criminals had called the prison home, from gangsters like Machine Gun Kelly to murderers like Robert Stroud. Now, the name of Walton MacNally would be added to the prison’s vaunted ranks.
The Boeing 707 taxied to a secluded runway at the recently constructed Kansas City Industrial Airport. The two US Marshals escorting Walton MacNally led their shackled prisoner off the plane and down the stairs before the remaining passengers disembarked. On the tarmac, another marshal and two Leavenworth guards took custody and escorted him to a waiting security van.
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