Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  AT VAIL’S URGING, BURDEN CALLED Allman and told him to meet them at the Tadich Grill, a four minute ride from the station. They hadn’t eaten in several hours, and with Burden looking to avoid his lieutenant’s overtime budgetary wrath, they decided to extend their day by meeting, unofficially, offsite.

  “Tadich is the oldest restaurant in the city,” Friedberg said. “It may even be the oldest business, period. Dates all the way back to the Gold Rush days, 1849.”

  The neon sign that protruded perpendicularly from the emerald-toned building front confirmed Friedberg’s information. Apparently, the establishment was proud of their heritage, as it was also emblazoned across the transom over the doorway. And on the glass storefront.

  Vail pointed to the text. “Actually, it says they’re the oldest in the state, not just the city.”

  Friedberg hiked his brow. “Whaddya know. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Please do,” Vail said. She leaned back and looked accusingly at Friedberg. “Is the rest of your info that faulty?”

  “Did you notice the name of this building?” Burden asked. He pointed to the sign above the Tadich entrance. “The Bitch Building. Guess it’s only fitting that you’re eating here.”

  “It’s B-u-i-c-h,” Friedberg said, spelling it out. “I’m not sure I’d pronounce it ‘bitch.’”

  “Karen might,” Burden said.

  Vail jutted her chin back and looked admiringly at Burden. “Good one.”

  Dixon pulled open the polished copper door and they filed in. Ahead of them stood an expansive bar that dominated the right side of the long and narrow restaurant. A silver-haired man in a white jacket and black pants greeted them and led them across the white tile and paneled walls to a series of private booths that lined the left side of the interior. Quarter loaves of round sourdough bread sat on a plate on each empty table, along with a bowl of sliced lemons.

  “In a few minutes this place is gonna be packed,” Burden said.

  “Food’s that good?” Vail asked.

  Burden bobbed his head from side to side. “It’s more...the experience of eating here.”

  “The experience,” Vail repeated. She turned to Dixon. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  The waiter gave Vail an unsavory twist of his face, set down the cardstock menus, and pushed his way toward the front of the restaurant, where more diners were entering.

  Their table was separated by a tall wood divider that gave them a sense of isolation. Stacks of white linens were piled atop each of the dividers, which extended into the distance.

  “I figured this would be the best place to discuss serial killers without pissing off the customers,” Burden said.

  Dixon pulled out her wood chair, then nodded at the front door. “There’s our guest.”

  Clay Allman followed the same path the others had a moment earlier, then pulled over an extra chair and placed it at the end of the table. “I haven’t eaten here in years.”

  “I hear it’s quite the experience,” Vail said.

  Allman pursed his lips as he snagged an extra napkin from the divider and unfurled it with a flick of his wrist. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

  “So remember we talked about helping each other out?” Burden said.

  “That’s what I do, Birdie. And have done, for twenty-five years. You know that—what’s this about?”

  “We’ve got something that needs to appear in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Allman stole a look at his watch. “You did say, tomorrow, right?”

  “I did.”

  Allman sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. “We missed the 5-star deadline, but I can probably make the 8:30 ‘1-dot’ edition. What’s so urgent that it has to get into the paper?”

  Burden looked at Vail, who picked up the conversation.

  “We got a letter from the offender.”

  “What’s it say?”

  Vail glanced at her task force colleagues, then said, “It reads like a manifesto. Off the record, it seems like he’s done time in prison.”

  “And that’s off the record? Give me a break, Karen.” Allman leaned closer. “Can I call you Karen?”

  “Call me whatever you want. But we need you to print something for us.”

  “How ’bout I print that for you and you let me see this manifesto—and let me mention that prison thing in the article?” Allman twitched his brow.

  “How ’bout we buy you dinner,” Vail said. “And you mention that we received a letter from the offender.”

  Allman tilted his head in thought. “How ’bout—”

  “Clay,” Burden said. “We’re up against the wall here and we need you to do this.” He looked at Allman, his gaze steady—and intense.

  “Evening everyone,” the waiter said. “May I take your order?”

  They pulled the menus up to their face, selected quickly—Pasta and Clams for Burden, White Branzino Sea Bass for Friedberg, Bay Shrimp Diablo for Vail, and Pacific Oysters Rockefeller for Dixon.

  “You’re buying?” Allman asked.

  “If we’ve got a deal,” Vail said, “we’re buying.”

  Allman groaned. “Fine.” He looked up at the waiter. “Lobster thermidor.” He glanced again at his watch. “Not that I’ll have much time to eat it...”

  The server collected the menus and left.

  Allman pulled out a spiral notepad from his leather bomber jacket. “So what do you want this to say?”

  Vail looked off at the rapidly filling restaurant. The scent of fresh fish sat heavily on the air, the sizzle of frying food off somewhere in the distance. Appeal to his superior intellect. “Try this: A letter was received today by the investigating detective on the Bay Killer case. The task force is awed by the killer’s intellect, and by his insights on the rules of society.” We have to challenge him. “But I’m asking him to be more forthcoming about what his intent is, and what it all means, because even with the mistakes he’s made, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

  Allman stopped writing, then looked up. “You want this personal. You used the first person. Is that the way you want it? A direct quote?”

  “I want him knowing it came from my mouth, yeah.”

  “Want to clarify what you mean by ‘the mistakes’ he’s made?”

  “Just go with what I gave you, Clay. But don’t post it online tonight. Let it hit the paper in the morning. I want to control when he sees it in case he feels the need to act. I’d rather it be daylight.”

  Allman again consulted his watch. “If I’m going to make tomorrow’s edition, I’ll have to leave here in fifteen, twenty at the most.”

  He began jotting notes on his pad and had filled the third page when their food arrived. Allman ate quickly, periodically checking the time. Finally, he asked the waiter to box up the remaining food on his plate, then left.

  “You think that’ll get a reaction from the offender?” Dixon asked.

  “I know it will,” Vail said. “He’s shown a pattern of monitoring the media for information dealing with his handiwork. We’re going to hear from him. I just hope it’s not in the form of more bodies.”

  Friedberg scooped the last forkful of his sea bass and held it in front of his mouth. “Amen to that.”

  Vail crunched on her shrimp, wondering what the connection was to her past... How the killer could know about what she had done in New York... How he had managed to get inside her head—not to mention her hotel room last night. But he had. And somehow he knew the right button to push that would prevent her from sharing this key piece of evidence with her colleagues. It was a brilliant move on his part. But what did it mean?

  “What’s on your mind?” Burden asked.

  Lots. “Nothing.”

  He regarded her a moment, then nodded slightly and directed his attention back to his food.

  It was clear that Burden knew something was up with her, but didn’t know what it was. And, unfortunately, Vail found herself rowing in those same shark-
infested waters.

  50

  MacNally tied the rake head to his line and began windmilling his arm to send it soaring into the darkness—and hopefully over the wall. He did not have a watch, but his internal clock told him that Rucker had abandoned him about twenty minutes ago. It was a head start that would likely make it impossible to catch him. Because if he did, he would—

  Stop. He focused his thoughts. First he needed to get his tool to catch on the other side of the masonry. Then he needed to climb over the wall. Then he could let his anger boil and entertain thoughts about what he would do to Rucker should he find him.

  The rake clanged against the wall and came flying back down at him. It struck the dirt and buried itself an inch deep. It was heavier and larger than the cleat, and that meant it was more difficult to arc forty feet into the air. He pulled it from the ground and tried again.

  On the fourth attempt, it cleared the top. MacNally pulled and brought tension to the rope. He started to laugh—a nervous, anxious energy that told him he was confident he would get out of there.

  He gave it a firm tug to test its viability, and using the knots as grab points, he began the climb. His injured hand still ached, and each grasp-and-pull maneuver sent pain shooting up his arm. But he’d have plenty of time to worry about that once he was en route to Henry.

  He had made it about twenty paces, his humidity-induced sweaty palms chafing against the cotton, when an alarm sounded—followed instantly by two bullets that buried themselves in the brick wall, inches to the right of his torso.

  “Stop right there!”

  “Don’t move!”

  “Not one fucking muscle, you hear?”

  Different voices. Multiple guards. He did not dare turn around because he did not want to lose his balance. But he did as ordered, and froze in place.

  “Get down here. Now,” said one officer.

  “Slowly,” yelled another.

  MacNally descended the wall and dropped the last ten feet. His ankles burned, but his heart ached more. Henry. That was all he thought of as four men converged, shoved his face into the dirt, and snapped metal handcuffs and leg irons on him.

  “Where do you think you were going, asshole?” a guard said by his ear.

  MacNally was yanked to his feet by two of the officers.

  “Where’s your buddy?” another hack asked.

  “On his way to hell.”

  The man stepped closer, his jaw set. He apparently did not care for that answer.

  “Gone, over the wall. That’s all I know. He screwed me. I hope you find him, because I’m—” He stopped himself. He needed to contain his anger, because anything he said could cause more problems for him. And as it was, he was now in enough trouble.

  MACNALLY SAT IN SEGREGATION, HIS head bowed. The morning came but he had not slept. He cried silently much of the night, knowing that he had lost his best shot at getting out of Leavenworth. Once he was released from the Hole, he would be watched more closely. If he was released. He had no idea how seriously they would treat his offense. Probably very.

  Three days passed, but they seemed like weeks. He didn’t need the prison counselor to tell him he was in a bad way emotionally. He had stayed in bed most of the time, trying to sleep. Rather than bars and masonry and homemade ropes, this was an escape of a different sort: something less concrete... He was attempting to avoid his thoughts. And consciousness. Or perhaps life itself.

  As he lay on his bed, he heard the click of an officer’s boots on the glossy cellhouse floor. Voorhees appeared, an open envelope in hand.

  “This just came.” He slipped it through the bars and held it out for MacNally.

  MacNally lifted himself up and swung his legs off the cot—which took all his energy. He tore open the letter and pulled out the single piece of paper. The note read:

  I figured this was better revenge than just killing you for blinding Gormack. He sends his regards. Have a nice time in the Hole, motherfucker.

  Hatred surging through his veins, MacNally looked out at the officer, doing his best not to react. Revenge, that was what this was about. Did Anglin know that when he vouched for Rucker?

  Voorhees stared back, but did not speak. MacNally had to give the man credit: though he knew what was in the letter and knew what it meant, he was not gloating. He did not use the opportunity to lecture him. Then again, he had already expressed his thoughts the last time they had spoken. What more needed to be said? What more could be said?

  Voorhees maintained eye contact. “You’re being transferred this afternoon.”

  “Transferred,” MacNally said. “To a different cellhouse?”

  “Different prison.”

  MacNally stood up and grasped the bars, the letter in his hand crumpling around the curve of the metal. “Why?”

  “When a guy gets outside the institution like you did, he’s considered an escape risk. Adding in your attack on Wharton and Gormack and the Anglin escape attempt...” He shook his head. “The warden’d had enough. He figured you were too big a risk to stay at Leavenworth.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Means your time here’s done. Officers’ll be by in thirty minutes to get you. You’ve got an afternoon flight.” Voorhees turned to walk off. “You’ve been a big goddamn disappointment, MacNally. Good luck where you’re headed. You’re gonna need it.”

  “Hang on,” MacNally called to the back of Voorhees, who was already moving down the corridor. “Where am I going?”

  “End of the line, a place you’ll never escape from,” he yelled back. “Alcatraz.”

  51

  Vail and Dixon returned to the Hyatt and spent the remainder of the evening in their room gathered around Dixon’s laptop, pouring over the crime scene photos Friedberg had given them. They had a pad full of theories and notes, but nothing that took them in a particular direction worth pursuing.

  Vail had been tempted at various points in their brainstorming session to confide in Dixon about the private note the killer had left her last night. But she could not get herself to broach the topic.

  Dialing up her stress—as if it wasn’t high enough—Hartman had still not called back. If she didn’t make contact with him in the morning, she would go through the switchboard operator and have her walk the message over to his desk—or she’d have to pay him a visit in person.

  She slept fitfully that night, her mind unwilling to shut down and her heart rate breaking speed barriers. She finally rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Dixon, and went down to the lobby. She sat there for an hour, staring at the lights. At one point, she laid down on the cold tile floor beneath the rows of bulbs and let her eyes roam them, counting them, hoping that sleep would come to her.

  Fortunately, no one ventured into the lobby—because it would’ve been difficult to explain her behavior to a rational human being. Finally, at three o’clock, she lifted herself off the ground and rode the elevator back to her room. The last time she looked at the clock it was 3:49am. She fell off to sleep shortly thereafter.

  Now, as she and Dixon drove back to Bryant Street, Dixon turned to her and said, “I know you, Karen. Something’s bothering you. Wanna talk about it?”

  Vail did not look at her. “Tell you the truth—” The vibration of her phone made her jump. She pulled the BlackBerry off her belt. “Robby. What’s up? How are things going?”

  “I’m about to head into a stakeout so I only have a minute. But everything’s good. I took Jonathan to dinner a couple times, we played some Xbox. I helped him with a math project, and now he’s off to that Aviation Challenge thing. How’s your case going?”

  Vail’s eyes slid over to Dixon. She desperately wanted to tell Robby what was going on—what was really going on—but she couldn’t, not now, and certainly not over the phone. She wasn’t proud of what had happened back in New York—more like how she had handled it—and it was something best discussed in person, not over the phone. Robby would understand. How could he not,
given his background?

  After a long hesitation, Vail said, “It’s going.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why the hell is everyone asking me what’s wrong?” Because something is wrong.

  “Do I really have to answer that?” Robby asked. “Come on.”

  Dixon brought the car to a stop at a red light and turned to face her.

  “We’ve got what I think is a fairly accurate profile coming together, but we’re not very far into figuring out who this asshole is. And I feel like I’m missing something. I know I’m missing something. More than something.”

  “You’ll eventually figure it out, Karen. You always do.”

  You always do. I do, don’t I? But I’m not Wonder Woman. What happens when I hit a case where I don’t?

  “And when the time comes that you don’t,” Robby said, “what do you think will happen?”

  Did I say that out loud? “I’ll feel like a failure.”

  “That may be. But you’ll really just be human. I seem to remember you telling me something about that.”

  A smile lifted the corners of Vail’s mouth. “I miss you, Hernandez.”

  “Tell Robby I say hey.”

  Vail turned to Dixon. “Roxxann’s with me. She says hi.”

  “Tell her I still hope to get back out to Napa for a real vacation with you. We’ll kick back, taste some wine, do a mud bath—”

  “I told you. I’m not lying in horseshit again. Once I found out what it was...I just can’t get past it. Besides, you’ll have to carry me kicking and screaming back to California.”

  “Kicking and screaming, huh? Sounds like just another day in the life of Karen Vail.”

  Dixon pulled into the SFPD parking lot and found a spot near Burden’s Ford. At least, it looked like Burden’s—there were about a dozen Tauruses, and they were all blue or gray.

  “Gotta go,” Robby said.

  “Call me when you get a break.” They said good-bye and she hung up, then got out of the car with Dixon.