27
“Let’s get that over to the lab,” Burden said.
Vail stood there staring at the paper.
“So what does this mean for us?” Friedberg asked. “He’s glad you’re here?”
“Read the next sentence.”
HAVE I SURPRISED YOU? I’VE GOT MORE IN STORE FOR YOU. YOU’LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH
“More what?” Burden asked. “More surprises or more murders?”
“Both,” Vail said. “What time did Allman’s article come out? When did it hit the street?”
“Heck if I know,” Friedberg said.
Vail looked at him.
“What. I’m not a walking encyclopedia. I know history, not mundane facts, like newspaper delivery schedules.”
“Let’s find out,” she said. “And find out when it was posted to their website.”
As Friedberg lifted his phone to obtain the information, Burden’s handset rang. “Yeah.” Burden listened a moment, then hung up. He sat down heavily in his chair. “We’ve got more problems. There’s another article, a reporter with the Register.”
“Not unusual to have two different papers covering news in a big city,” Vail said.
“Except that this article supposedly has details we didn’t release to the press. In fact, Clay’s the only one who knew any of this stuff.”
Friedberg set his phone down. “Allman’s piece was posted on the Trib’s site around 7pm. Paper delivery started at 5:30am.”
“Can you get Allman here? We need to discuss this article. And this guy who wrote the other one, for the Register. Let’s get a sit-down with him, make sure we’re all on the same page. No pun intended.” She pointed to the screen. “Can you pull it up?” As Burden played with the browser, Vail continued: “If Allman gives us a hard time and won’t cooperate, we might have another hand to play—this Register guy.”
“Play ’em off one another,” Friedberg said.
“I’d rather not—only if we need to.”
“Here it is,” Burden said. “Give it a minute, the internet sometimes slows to a crawl.”
Vail crowded the screen as the Register banner appeared, followed by the header and byline. While waiting for the rest to load, she said, “You asked me back at the crime scene what the harm was in letting Allman come along. Well, now you’re seeing it.”
Burden leaned back in his chair. “He’s a reporter, Karen. A really good one, too. Sometimes we use them, sometimes they use us. Mentioning your name went a little too far over the line—from our perspective. He probably thought it was innocuous. It certainly wasn’t malicious, right?”
“Probably not.”
“I’m not even sure we told him not to mention you. To me, the bottom line when dealing with a reporter, is integrity. If we come to trust each other, both parties benefit. And I’ve always been able to trust him. So my two cents is that playing one off the other is inviting trouble.”
Vail gestured at the screen, then squinted to read the reporter’s name: Szczepan T. Scheer. “Whoa,” she said. “A c sandwiched between two z’s. I don’t think the human tongue was made to be able to pronounce that.”
“I believe it’s Stephen,” Friedberg said.
“No way.” She looked at it again and tried it on for size. “Sztzeepin.” She lifted her brow. “Fine...if you say so.”
“Oh, c’mon. Doesn’t seem so difficult now, does it?”
“Speak for yourself,” Vail said. “Looks Greek to me.”
“Actually,” Friedberg said, “he looks like an average Joe Caucasian, but his name’s got Prussian roots. Some German and Ukrainian, too. Last name’s actually Mennonite.”
“Prussian and Mennonite?” Vail glanced sideways at the inspector. “I think that qualifies as a mundane fact, Robert. Not history.”
Friedberg grinned. “Okay, fine. You got me. That one I happened to know.” He grabbed the mouse and clicked on Refresh.
“Actually,” Burden said, “his real name is Stephen but he said he wanted to ‘honor his ancestry.’ Personally, I think he changed it to make it stand out more so people would remember it. Cops in town just call him Stephen.”
“I call him jerk,” Friedberg said. “Remember I told you about that reporter who put the screws to me about that phantom piece I supposedly dropped at the crime scene? This is the guy.”
The page finally loaded and Vail leaned in close to read:
San Francisco—A series of gruesome murders in the city has baffled local detectives and sent them in search of answers, a quest that landed them on the doorsteps of the FBI’s vaunted Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Special Agent Profiler Karen Vail has taken the case and arrived from Quantico sometime in the past week, but sources close to the investigation state that they have yet to make any significant progress, and that no arrest is imminent. That’s disheartening news for San Franciscans, as the Bay Killer has now claimed six lives...
“I want to know who his sources are,” Burden said.
Vail ground her molars. “I’ve got a lot more questions than that.” She skipped further down the article:
The killer has left an unusually shaped brass key at each of the crime scenes, which the police have, as yet, been unable to identify. It appears to be a similar, if not identical, key to one found alongside the murdered body of Edgar Newhall, a still-unsolved San Bruno case from 1982.
One thing that is known, however, is that the female victims, all elderly, were beaten about the head, tortured with an exposed electrical wire, sodomized with an umbrella and raped before being murdered. An odd twist is that their husbands were also found dead, in some cases miles from the original crime scene, with a number stenciled across the forehead. The only immediately identifiable signs of injury are apparently head trauma from what appears to be repeated kicks...
Vail skimmed—until she hit one particular sentence that mentally slapped her across the face:
It is believed the killer is a man of below average intelligence who has targeted elderly women because they represent his mother, who likely dominated him as a child and young adult.
“Shit,” Vail said, backing away from the screen. “I’ve seen enough. We need to find this Stephen Scheer. Right now.”
“How the hell does he know all this?” Friedberg asked. “Who’s his source?”
Burden splayed a hand. “That’s what I was saying.”
“This is worse than a major leak in the department,” Vail said. “He’s incited the killer. I don’t know where he got that bullshit behavioral analysis, but it’s not only wrong, it’s belittling to the offender, and that’s likely going to set him off big time.”
“How so? Because it’s insulting his intelligence?” Friedberg asked.
“Saying we have no leads is like the kiss of death with an offender like this. I’d much rather we imply the killer’s made mistakes and that we have a lot of good leads coming in. Someone saw him, heard him, whatever. An arrogant and self-confidant serial killer can’t stand the thought that he made mistakes. That could be the most effective button we press that makes him contact us.”
“He already contacted us,” Friedberg said.
Vail massaged her temples. Control the media. I told them that. It’s so important...“Yeah, but did he write his note before, or after, he saw Scheer’s article?”
“I’ll find out if they have a similar release schedule as the Trib,” Friedberg said. “But we couldn’t know for sure if he saw it when it came out—or if he saw it at all.”
“Safe to assume this guy’s monitoring the media,” Vail said.
“Then I’ll find out when it posted to their website.”
“Could Allman have told Scheer about the key?” she asked.
Burden chuckled. “Stephen Scheer’s not exactly on Clay’s Christmas list—and vice versa. Remember I told you Clay doesn’t talk to him anymore? Twenty-five, thirty years ago they were close friends. Scheer had a three-year head start, built a decent rep in town cover
ing cases. Scheer took Clay under his wing, broke him in, taught him how things are done. They co-wrote articles, covered cases, that sort of thing. But something happened, Scheer got pissed, and ended up leaving the Trib. No way is Clay Allman a source for Stephen Scheer.”
Friedberg’s phone rang. He lifted the headset, then said, “Got it. Thanks.” He turned to Burden. “Detective Dixon’s on her way up.”
“Do you know much about Scheer?” Vail asked.
“A bit of a head case,” Burden said. “Other than that, just rumor.”
“About what?” she asked.
“Alcohol,” Friedberg said. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. “Did some time in rehab. But I heard stuff about domestic violence. Knocked the wife around or something. He lives in Berkeley. I can call over, see if they’ve got anything on record. Actually—Birdie, you’d better do it. Because of my history with him—”
“My pleasure. I’ve always wanted to rattle his cage.”
Friedberg shook his head. “He’s not gonna give up his source.”
“Whose source?”
The voice came from behind them. Vail turned. Dixon had just walked into the unit. As Vail filled her in on the Allman and Scheer articles, Dixon took a seat atop the worktable that was pushed up against the wall where the whiteboard was mounted.
“All right,” Burden said. “Let’s do this. Robert, how about you go meet with Millard Ferguson about the ’82 case. And you two—track down Scheer and see what you can get from him. I’m not too optimistic, but he might tell a couple of women more than he’d tell me.”
Vail and Dixon faced each other. “Did he just insult us?” Dixon asked.
“Nah, he’s harmless.” Vail winked at him. “It’s just his way.” She led Dixon out of the Homicide unit and into the wide corridor. “Burden doesn’t think we can get Scheer’s source.”
“Then we have to work extra hard to prove him wrong.”
28
August 28, 1959
United States Penitentiary
Leavenworth
MacNally spent three weeks in Administrative Orientation, located to the rear of Two Gallery in A-Cellhouse. As it was explained to him, new arrivals were not placed into the general population without being afforded time to learn the rules for each area of the institution and meet with the department heads.
MacNally was given his permanent cell assignment by the cellhouse Number One Officer, who said he knew just the placement for him. “An officer’ll be here in a minute to take you to your new home. You got free reign of the cellhouses, but remember: there are five counts a day, and you’re expected to be in your cells at that time. The one at 4 PM ’s a standing count. When you’re not working or in school, the rec yard’s open.”
Voorhees walked in and nodded at the Number One.
“Get him outta here,” he said to Voorhees with a dismissing wave of his hand.
Voorhees led MacNally out of processing and toward the cellhouse. “Remember, MacNally. Cons here were sent to the Big L because their crimes were pretty goddamn bad, or ’cause they were problems at other prisons. So all the shit they did out in the street, they do in here. Dealing drugs—heroin’s a big one—they smuggle it in from the outside. Guys extort money, run scams on other guys, bankroll poker games. Some get assaulted, some are pimped out.”
“Pimped out?”
“You got your homos in here, and then you got your horny fucks who are in for twenty years and haven’t seen pussy in a long, long time. For them, they’d rather stick their dicks in your ass than give up sex for the rest of their lives. They’re the predators. Weaker guys, their victims, are called lops.” Voorhees turned and gave him a quick once-over. “You look like a lop to me, MacNally. That means you’re gonna have trouble.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Just telling you like it is.”
They walked up the steps to Two Gallery. The air got thicker and noticeably hotter.
“Fifth tier’s the shits. Heat rises. No air movement, no ventilation up here. Somebody don’t like you, MacNally. They gave you a piece a crap cell. What’s the saying? Location, location, location.” He guffawed at his own joke.
They walked past iron-barred cells, the gates rolled open and the inmates lying still on their beds...no doubt their way of dealing with the intense heat.
Voorhees stopped at cell 511. “This is it.” He turned and started to walk off, but stopped. “Good luck.”
MacNally eyed Voorhees, then turned to his cell. The lone light bulb was off, his two cellies lifeless lumps on the mattresses. But they suddenly swung their legs off the bed and sat up. Four eyes traversed his body.
Reflexively, MacNally swallowed hard. He knew then that Voorhees’s “lop” assessment was probably correct. He put his head down and stepped into his new home, trying not to think about what awaited him.
29
Vail and Dixon arrived at the San Francisco Register on Mission Street. It was a four-story brick building, built about ten years ago during more optimistic times, before the newspaper industry started crumbling due to declining readership and subscriptions and the attendant slide in advertising revenue. Now the Register, like most other dailies in major US cities, was under intense economic pressure to survive.
Vail got out of Dixon’s car, then said, “Hold it. What are you wearing under that jacket?”
“Tank top. Why?”
“Good. Lose the jacket.”
“It’s freezing,” Dixon said.
“Exactly.”
Then she got it. Blonde, with a body she shaped in the gym several days a week, Dixon often had a predictable effect on male suspects and sources. It was a tactic she and Vail had used once before during the Crush Killer case.
“Not this again,” Dixon said. “I thought we’re professional women who are proud of our accomplishments and don’t have to resort to sleeping around and behaving like sluts to get where we’ve gotten. We’ve earned it on merit.”
“Yeah. We are. And we did. But we need to use all assets at our disposal. And let’s face it, you have nice assets. Honestly, I’m freaking jealous. Now lose the jacket.”
Dixon rolled her eyes, then did as Vail requested.
As Dixon was tossing it into the backseat, a text arrived from Burden:
rumors right. dui ’09 and dom vio this year. in custody battle over 9 & 13 yo boys. not hard to guess job’s in jeopardy. complaints never made public.
Vail read the info to Dixon, and then they walked through the Register’s front doors. They both badged the receptionist, who sat behind bulletproof glass, with surveillance cameras trained on them fore and aft.
“Guess it’s dangerous being a reporter these days,” Dixon quipped. “Tight security.”
Vail covered her eyes in mock concern. She gestured at Dixon’s detective’s shield. “Jesus, Roxx. Scuff it up or something. It’s so shiny and new, you nearly blinded me with the reflection.”
“I’m very proud of this hunk of metal.”
“You should be. But it’s so pristine it makes you look like a rookie.”
Dixon pawed the mirrored surface, covering it with fingerprints. “There. Happy?”
Vail playfully revealed one eye, then the other. “Much better.”
“You can go on up,” the receptionist said, shoving two visitor tags into the pass-through slot. “Third floor.”
They clipped the laminated cards, which bore a large red V, onto their belts, and then turned toward the elevator. But as the doors opened and revealed a tiny car, Vail turned away. “Stairs?”
“It’s only three floors,” Dixon said.
“I don’t want to tempt fate. It hits at inopportune times.”
They ran up the three flights, then exited at the newsroom floor where a man of about sixty was standing, waiting for the elevator doors to part.
“Just a guess,” Vail said. “Mr. Scheer?”
The man turned and his eyes immediately found R
oxxann Dixon as if his pupils were made of iron and Dixon had a magnet embedded beneath her chest.
That’s it. Look. Enjoy. Then tell us what we want to know.
“Yes.” He extended a hand, but his gaze slid left and right, from Dixon to Vail...but they always came back to Dixon.
“We have some questions for you,” Vail said.
Scheer pulled his eyes over to Vail. “Come on back to my cubicle.” He led them through a maze of low-walled dividers. Computer screens, stacks of papers, and file folders covered all available horizontal surfaces. The workspaces looked similar, the only variations being how neatly the materials were stacked, and how many photos the reporters and columnists had pinned to their walls.
Scheer stole two rolling chairs from adjacent, abandoned cubicles and moved them over to his workspace. Vail and Dixon took seats as Scheer fussed with clearing a stack of papers from his workspace.
Vail scanned the photos on display: one of a boy and a young teen, another of Scheer and the same children—presumably his sons—and pictures of what looked like his parents and maybe a sister. Off to the side, there was a snapshot of Scheer dressed in an Elvis costume at some kind of holiday party. There were no pictures of his wife.
Dixon elbowed Vail and nodded at a Tribune article pinned to his wall. A handwritten note scrawled below it read, “Wrong again, asshole. Fuck you.” Off to the right, two bullet casings hung in a Ziploc bag, skewered by pushpins.
Vail and Dixon shared a perturbed look.
“What can I help you with?” Scheer asked.
Vail wiggled a finger at his wall. “What’s up with that?”
Scheer swung his head over. “The article or the casings?”
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