“Did you leave the room last night?”
Vail glanced at her partner as they walked toward the building. “You’re a light sleeper. Yeah, I was tossing for a couple hours, so I finally gave up and went down to the lobby.”
“And did what?”
“And...I lay down on the floor and gazed at the lights.”
Dixon looked at her friend with squinted eyes. They went through the magnetometers and nodded at security as they passed through the lobby. “Should I be concerned about you?”
Vail stifled a wide yawn, then waved a hand. “Let’s solve this case. Then everything will be fine.”
As they walked into Homicide, Vail told Dixon she needed to make a call, then ducked back into the hallway. She sent Robby a text telling him to give her a call when he had a chance. Then she phoned Hartman. It again went to voicemail and she left another message, then redialed and worked her way to the operator, who placed Vail on hold before she had a chance to explain what she needed.
After a moment’s wait, the man returned to the line.
“This is Special Agent Vail out of Quantico. I’m trying—”
The Homicide door flew open and Burden emerged. “New vic,” he said. “C’mon.”
Crap. “I’ll have to call you back.” Vail disconnected the call, then fell in behind Dixon.
“Where’s Robert?”
“Following up with Scheer’s cell carrier on the way in. Hoping to get us somewhere on that anonymous informant buddy he had.” Burden shouldered the stairwell door and started galloping down the steps. “I texted him, told him to meet us there.”
“Where is ‘there’?” Vail asked.
Burden grabbed the handrail as he turned and headed down to the next floor. “Inspiration Point.”
“Then maybe we’ll get lucky,” Vail said. “And inspired.”
THEY ARRIVED AT THE PRESIDIO’S picturesque overlook to find Stephen Scheer already onsite. A United States Park Police vehicle was parked at the mouth of the minimalist parking lot, blocking its entrance. News vans were parked on the side of the road. Two cameramen, their tools of the trade balanced on a shoulder with cables snaking along the floor at their feet, stood at the ready. Primped blond and brunet reporters waited outside the crime-scene tape beside Scheer.
“So much for avoiding TV,” Dixon said as they pulled to a stop a few dozen feet from the news vehicles.
Burden slammed his car door and asked, “What are you people doing here?”
Scheer stepped in front of the TV crews. “I was at the Presidio on another story when my editor texted me. Apparently, your killer called it in to the papers and TV station himself. He obviously wanted us all here.”
Vail frowned. “Obviously.” She grabbed the thin plastic tape and pulled it above her head, then she, Burden, and Dixon slipped beneath it.
“Mind if I tag along?” Scheer asked.
Vail faced him with narrowed eyes. “What do you think?”
“Hey, this one you can’t blame on me,” he said.
Forty feet away, on a semicircular slate tile plaza, a tall black man in a well-tailored dark suit and bright red tie chatted with a woman wearing an FBI jacket, “Evidence Response Team” emblazoned across her back.
A narrowed walkway split the terrace down the center, with a wood bench on either side of its entrance facing outward, providing a spectacular view of the Bay. The glowing sunburst dome of the Palace of Fine Arts stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding bed of richly hued evergreen and cypress trees that lined the hilltop. A light haze hung over the mountains in the distance across the Bay, but the water was a deep baby blue.
The Evidence Response Technician pointed her Canon at the left bench, where an elderly man sat, seemingly staring ahead at the scenic view.
Vail, Dixon, and Burden stepped alongside the criminalist and made introductions to the suited man, United States Park Police Major Crimes Detective Peter Carondolet. They explained that this victim was likely part of a case they had been working in the city.
“Looks like we got a new member of our task force,” Burden said.
Carondolet held up both hands. “No. Wait. Hang on a minute—I’m buried in a huge case. I’m here as a favor to a buddy. I’ll— Why don’t we play it by ear. Keep me posted if you come across useful info, and I’ll do the same with you people.”
Vail, Burden, and Dixon shared an uneasy look.
“Detective,” Vail said, “the offender, the guy who killed the victim in front of us, has murdered several men and women, and just might be responsible for a number of others going all the way back to ’82. It’s a major case. You work in the Park Police’s Major Crimes division, no?”
Carondolet shifted his feet. “I’m not saying I won’t help. But I—I’ll do what I can. Let’s leave it at that for now. Why don’t we just focus on what we’ve got here and now? We can always reassess. I mean, we’re not even sure it’s the same killer.”
Vail appraised their latest victim. A number 25 was scrawled on his forehead. She swung her head back to Carondolet. “Yes, Detective. I’m sure. Same killer.”
Carondolet regarded her with a twisted frown. “You look at the vic for five seconds and decide it’s the same guy?” He snorted. “I don’t think we pay you profilers enough.”
“I don’t like to waste time dicking around,” Vail said. “And I’m very, very good.”
“She is,” Dixon said.
Carondolet’s gaze shifted between Burden, Dixon, and Vail. He chuckled mockingly and said, “If you say so.”
Burden turned back to the victim. “Interesting.” He nodded at the body, which was decked out in a black shirt and Roman collar. “A man of the cloth.”
Vail frowned. “What was your first clue?” She shook her head. “And they call you a detective?”
“Actually, they call me an inspector.”
“Whatever.”
Burden turned to Dixon. “What’s gotten into her?”
“Something’s bugging her.”
“Hello?” Vail said, waving a hand. “I’m right here. You got a question, ask me.”
“Fine,” Burden said. “What’s bugging you?”
Vail banded her arms across her chest. “Nothing.”
Burden threw both hands in the air. Can’t win.
“Are you people always this dysfunctional?” Carondolet asked.
“You want to know what’s bugging me?” Vail gestured at the body. “He’s sitting. All the other males were tied to a column or a pole or a post of some sort. Why is this guy on a bench?”
Dixon rotated her head, taking in their surroundings. “No poles. Maybe he had no choice.”
“Maybe,” Vail said. But I don’t think so. Something’s different about this victim.
“Do we have an ID?” Burden asked the criminalist. “You are?”
“Sherri Price. And no, no ID yet.”
The slam of a car door caused all of them to look up. Clay Allman had arrived.
Price said, “Go on. I’ve processed the body but I haven’t checked his pockets.”
Burden slipped a gloved hand inside the man’s coat and removed a worn wallet. “Ralph Finelli. Father Ralph Finelli.”
Dixon knelt in front of the bench, to the left of the man’s right knee. “Rosary beads still in his hand.”
“Any thoughts on what that means?” Burden asked.
“Where do you start?” Vail said. “It could be another taunt. It could be referring to the Mysteries of the Rosary. The mysteries recount the life of Jesus—but the UNSUB may be using it to thumb his nose at us... The mysteries he’s leaving behind for us that we’ve been unable to solve.”
“Where’s Robert when we need him?” Dixon said.
“You texted him, told him to meet us here,” Vail said. “Right?”
“I did.” Burden consulted his phone. “He didn’t reply.” He began tapping out a new message on the keypad.
“Who’s Robert?” Carondolet asked.
<
br /> “Another member of our team,” Burden said.
“I think there are twenty mysteries.” Vail looked at Burden and Dixon for confirmation. They shrugged.
Dixon pulled out her iPhone and began a search. “I hope those twenty mysteries don’t correspond to the number of vics he’s planning to kill.”
“Amen to that,” Burden quipped.
Vail scrunched her face. “That was awful.”
“You’re right,” Dixon said, reading off the screen. “Twenty mysteries. Joyful, Luminous, Sorrowful, Glories—”
“Penance,” Vail said. “Maybe the father’s holding the rosary to signify that he’s done penance after confession. His penance being his murder.”
“Speaking of awful,” Burden said. “Killing a priest, a man of God...”
Dixon leaned in closer for a look at the rosary. “I don’t think this offender’s concerned about heaven and hell.”
“I’m sure there are other explanations and religious undertones,” Vail said. “Friedberg can probably give us a whole freaking recitation on the history of the rosary.”
Burden squinted. “Don’t count on it. He’s Jewish.”
“Did he say when he’s gonna be here?”
“Still hasn’t responded.” Burden shook his head and reholstered his phone. Before he moved his hand aside, the device began vibrating. “Hang on—” He lifted it from his belt. “Robert just texted me. Says he’s tied up at the moment.”
“Great.” Vail tilted her head and looked at the body, then stepped back a few steps to get a broader perspective. “Something else is different.” Her eyes moved from shoes to head and— “That’s it. He’s wearing a hat. Do priests wear hats?”
“No idea,” Burden said. “But why not?”
Vail shook her head. “It’s more than that. None of the other males had hats on.” She stepped up to the body, then stopped. “Price—gloves?”
Price pulled out a couple from her kit and tossed them to Vail, who stretched them across her hands. She lifted the hat—and a note fell into Father Finelli’s lap. Vail carefully unfolded it. In printed computer text, the note contained one sentence:
where is inspector friedberg?
52
November 21, 1960
United States Penitentiary – Alcatraz
San Francisco Bay
Alcatraz, California
The cold, damp fog blasted MacNally’s face as he debarked from the white wooden launch inscribed with the name Warden Johnston. The boat rocked a bit as he stepped onto the swaying gangplank. Ahead of him, a large black-on-white sign stared at him, informing him of the obvious:
UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY
ALCATRAZ ISLAND
ONLY GOVERNMENT BOATS PERMITTED
There was other text on the sign, but the rest of it did not matter. He was here. On an island, in the middle of the Bay in the Pacific Ocean, a long way from shore. One of the officers onboard the ship told him there were sharks in the choppy, gray waters, but MacNally did not care to look. It was an ocean; he did not doubt it.
Ahead of him stood a five-story cream-colored brick structure—an apartment building, he guessed. To his right, a black steel guard tower rose from the dock. An armed officer stared down at him, a high-powered rifle cradled in his hands. Daring MacNally to try something. By the look on his face, his morning had been as exciting as the desolate waters around him, and a little action would be welcome. MacNally decided to move along as instructed and not give the hack any chance to relieve the day’s boredom.
Then again, he was wearing leg irons and handcuffs, and he was surrounded by three officers. If he was going to attempt an escape, this would not be the time or place he would choose.
From the Bureau of Prisons’s perspective, Walt MacNally was a man who had robbed two banks at gunpoint, kidnapped a child, participated in one escape attempt at Leavenworth, engineered another, and had been strongly suspected in the brutal attack of two other inmates.
MacNally did not blame them for moving him to a prison island and taking stringent precautions. To them, he was a dangerous convict capable of heinous things. And he had to admit, who he was a year ago and who he was now were as different as summer in Spain and winter in Siberia.
“Move it,” the officer said with a shove.
A transport bus’s rough diesel engine idled impatiently as MacNally ascended the steps as best he could with his ankles fastened together. He took a seat and the vehicle lurched forward. A moment later, it strained to climb the steep switchback roadway that led to the prison building.
Seagulls swooned and dove above and around the truck, and their droppings littered the pavement and penitentiary’s exterior brick facing. Even inside the bus, he heard the large birds’ screams. He had a feeling this was a sound with which he would become intimately familiar.
Through damp and dirty windows, the institution loomed before him. He craned his neck and looked up at the building. Three or so stories. Barred windows. The design was not as elaborate or grandiose as Leavenworth. More stark, prison-like. Dreary.
Vegetation was everywhere, however. The hillsides were well planted and lush, and as the bus chugged up the incline, he saw a garden of some kind along the roadway. The transport hooked another left, and then headed up again, toward the entrance to the penitentiary.
Finally, the bus screeched to a halt.
“Up,” the guard said.
MacNally pulled himself from the seat and slowly stepped down the stairs, stooping his tall frame to avoid striking his head while taking care not to trip over the leg irons. The wind was blustery, fiercer here at the top of the island. He took a moment to glance at the Bay view.
“Get a good, long look. That’s what you’ll be missing out on.”
“Incentive to keep your nose clean here,” one of the other guards said. “We don’t tolerate bad behavior, MacNally. We’ve seen your sheet at Leavenworth. That shit won’t fly here. You’re on The Rock now.” The officer gave him a shove forward.
MacNally walked into the sally port and stood before a barred metal gate.
“Opening up,” the duty officer said.
A buzzer sounded and a metal plate slid aside electronically, baring a lock mechanism. The guard removed a key and inserted it into the opening.
The uniformed men led MacNally through an additional gate and then down a hallway before turning left into a large room. To his side stood a long row of shower heads; in front of him, a caged area where two men folded clothes.
One of the guards pulled a key from his pocket and gestured to his feet. “Be still. No fast moves. Understand?” MacNally agreed, and the officer crouched down to unlock the irons. He handed them to his colleague, who headed off the way they had come.
MacNally and his escort continued ahead about thirty feet, stopping at a wire mesh gate with a pass-through opening.
Two trustees dressed in denim shirts and white pants asked him his shoe and clothing sizes, then turned to the wood wall-mounted bins and selected the appropriate items. The inmate tossed it into a neat pile, then added a shaving kit: mug, brush, and soap. “You gotta shave three times a week, no exceptions. No beards, moustaches, sideburns. Nothing. From 5:30 to 8:30, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, guards’ll come around and pass out razors. They collect ’em when you’re done.” He grabbed a printed booklet from a stack and slapped it atop the pile. “It’s all in here. These are the rules. Read ’em. Learn ’em. Things go easier that way.”
He handed it all to MacNally through the opening in the metal mesh wall. MacNally took it and looked down at the thin blue-on-white printed manual titled Institution Rules & Regulations.
“Your new name’s AZ-1577,” the trustee said. “You’ll be in cell C-156.” He turned and walked back to the bins.
MacNally took a moment to glance around. “You been here a long time?”
“Five years, nine months. Six days.”
“How is it?”
The man glanced sidew
ays at the correctional officer. “Some guys here call it Devil’s Island. How do you think it is?” His eyes slid over again to the guard, then back. “You’re in the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth. Most of the time, you can’t even see it ’cause you’re either locked in your cell or you’re workin’ in Industries. But you can hear it. When the party boats pass by on New Year’s, you can hear the people laughing. When you go out to the yard, if it’s a clear day, you’ll see all the pretty women in bikinis cruise by in them fancy boats. You can look but you can’t touch. You’re stuck here. On a fucking rock in the middle of the goddamn ocean.”
He looked at the officer again, then leaned in closer to the mesh wall. “Watch yourself, MacNally. Evil lives here, always has... There’s a reason why these guys are on The Rock.”
“One inmate, he called it Hellcatraz,” the other trustee said from across the room. “Seems about right to me. The boredom, day after day, the same routine.” He nodded slowly. “You’ll see.”
“Enough.” The officer grasped MacNally’s left arm. “Let’s go.”
MacNally looked the guard over as he led him out of the room, then up the mint green metal staircase to the main cellhouse. He wore a charcoal double-breasted suit, baby blue shirt and red tie, with a matching gray pentagonal policeman’s hat. A silver badge was pinned to the front of his cap—but otherwise, there were no nametags or other designations on the uniform.
“What’s your name?” MacNally asked.
The officer gave his arm another yank, leading him up the steps. “What do you care?”
“Just two people talking.”
“You ever kill anyone? ’Cause if you did, this conversation’s over. I’m the CO and you’re the convict, you do what I say, and that’s that.”
MacNally stopped. The officer did, too—and he quickly swung his head toward his prisoner to see if he was going to have a problem.
“No. Never killed anyone.”
The man nodded slowly, examining MacNally’s eyes. Then he said, “Name’s Jack Taylor. Call me Officer Taylor, or officer or Mr. Taylor. Never Jack. You got that?”
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