Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

Vail held it up for the two reporters to read.

  “What’s ‘intended to heal’?” Dixon asked. “A medical clinic? A doctor? Surgeon? Acupuncturist? Chiropractor?”

  Burden shook his head. “Probably all of that on Mission. It’s a long freaking street. You’ve got businesses, seedy areas, banks, office buildings, a BART station—”

  “Then let’s go to the next clue,” Vail said. “May give life but drown truth. Doctors give life. We’re back to doctors.”

  “God gives life,” Allman said. “Strictly speaking. If you’re a religious sort.”

  “A church?” Dixon asked. “Doesn’t fit with drowning the truth.”

  “Now there’s a whole other philosophical question,” Allman said.

  “Hell with philosophy,” Burden said. “Forget religion. None of that fits. Read the rest. What’s it say? Can’t sink or swim, but you can float?”

  “A bath tub,” Scheer said. “Too small to sink or swim in. But you can float.”

  Burden gave him a dirty look.

  “Hey, I was wrong about the bank. I get that. But what do you want from me? I’m just trying to help.”

  Vail held up a hand. “Let’s go with that.” She checked her watch. How much time they had left, she had no idea. “A mud bath. You can’t sink, you can’t swim in it, but you can float in it.”

  “No mud baths around here that I know of,” Dixon said. “Back home in Calistoga, but nothing here in the city. You guys know of any?”

  Allman, Burden and Scheer shook their heads.

  “Wait a minute,” Dixon said. “Float. You can’t sink in a flotation tank. And you can’t swim in it, but you do float because of the salts.”

  “Come again?” Vail said.

  “Alternative medicine clinics. There are a couple on Mission, I think. They put you in sensory deprivation tanks. You float in heavily salted water for hours.”

  Vail shuddered while thumbing her BlackBerry. “That would definitely creep me out. Why would someone want to do that?”

  “Didn’t the Trib do a story on that once?” Burden asked.

  “A few years back,” Allman said. “When that sort of thing was big.”

  Dixon held up her iPhone. “It’s supposed to reduce the levels of stress hormones in the body, according to Wikipedia.”

  “There’s the medical angle,” Vail said.

  Dixon tapped and scrolled. “We’ve got one on Mission. SDL Incorporated—Sensory Deprivation Lab, 2944 Mission.”

  “Let’s go.” Burden got into the car, twisted the key and turned over the engine.

  SENSORY DEPRIVATION LAB’S FACILITY STOOD in a nondescript brick building that looked like it had been a remnant from decades past. They entered through worn wood doors and consulted a posted sign that directed them to Suite 201.

  Vail held out a hand. “Why don’t you two wait down here.”

  Allman tilted his head. “But—”

  “There’s no reason for you to come up. This is still an investigation. If we’re on the right track, we’ll let you know. If not, we’ll be back down in a couple minutes because we—and Inspector Friedberg—will be in deep shit.”

  Neither Allman nor Scheer appeared pleased with this arrangement—or they were not happy with the prospect of having to keep one another company while they waited.

  “I’m gonna go take a walk,” Scheer said.

  That answers that question.

  Vail encouraged Burden and Dixon to take the stairs, and moments later, they were heading into an office with a scripted “SDL” in gold leaf, above the phrase, Empowering your health through sensory vacuum therapy.

  “No one’s vacuuming my senses, thank you very much,” Vail said. “I mean, really? Who thinks that shit up?”

  Although the building’s shell and lobby showed its age poorly, the clinic sported high-end granite counters, sleek stainless steel wall accents, and halogen downlighting. “Apparently,” Vail said, “sensory deprivation therapy not only vacuums your senses, but your bank account, too.”

  “Can I help you?” Walking up to the front counter was a woman in her thirties, with radiant skin and a natural beauty that Vail instantly found unfair.

  “Yes,” Burden said. He stopped and looked at Vail and Dixon, apparently unaware of where to begin.

  “We were told to come here,” Dixon said, “by a friend.”

  “We certainly appreciate referrals. And who might we thank?”

  Vail held up her creds. “Special Agent Karen Vail. Look, Miss—”

  “Veronica.”

  “Veronica. We’re working a case. And honestly, we can’t tell you why we’re here. But we need to ask some questions and they may seem a bit odd. Go with it, okay?”

  “Are these questions about patients? Because Dr. Tumaco set some very progressive rules many, many years ago about the sensitive nature of doctor-patient confidentiality. He was ahead of his time in many ways. I’m afraid we can’t disclose that type of information.”

  That name’s familiar. Tumaco. Where’ve I heard it?

  “We don’t need patient information,” Dixon said. “We just need you to answer some questions.” She hesitated, then said, “Did someone tell you to expect us? Or—did anyone leave a message for us?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Unfortunately, neither do we. “Tell us about your facility,” Vail said. “Actually—tell us about Dr. Tumaco.”

  “Oh,” Veronica said, her face brightening. “One of the pioneers in the field of flotation sensory deprivation therapy. He first realized the benefit of meditation and sensory attenuation about thirty years ago. The pioneer, John Lilly, started the movement in the mid-1950s and did much of the groundbreaking research on the origin of consciousness.”

  This isn’t helping. “Okay, yeah,” Vail said. “That’s great. But I think I may’ve heard Dr. Tumaco’s name before. Any idea why?”

  Veronica nodded silently, then took a seat behind the granite desk. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, prompting Vail, Burden, and Dixon to move closer to hear.

  “Dr. Tumaco was found in one of his flotation tanks. The police believed he’d been murdered.”

  Vail slammed a hand down on the granite counter. “That’s it!” She turned to Dixon and Burden. “One of the old cases Clay gave us. Martin Tumaco. Killed in ’95. Strangled with a life preserver.” She swung her head back to Veronica. “Right?”

  Veronica, her head bowed, nodded without comment.

  “But wasn’t he found at some other place? Something with ‘dream’ in the name?”

  “The clinic’s name was changed when Dr. Tumaco was killed,” Veronica said. “People were freaked out about getting back in a flotation tank after someone had been found dead in one. It hurt the business. So Dr. Tumaco’s wife changed the name, and she changed the focus of the facility from dream and sleep research to a therapeutic-based referral business.”

  Dixon gestured with her head for Vail and Burden to join her a few paces out of Veronica’s earshot. They huddled in the far end of the waiting room.

  “I think we’re on the right track,” Dixon said. “But—now what? How would the UNSUB know?”

  Burden jutted his jaw forward. “That’s a great goddamn question. How did he know when we ended up at the bank? Was he watching?”

  “Obvious explanation is he was waiting where he wanted us to go, in a high rise, on an apartment roof, in a car—whatever—and when we didn’t show in ten, fifteen minutes, he knew we went to the wrong place.”

  “So what’s with the riddle?” Vail asked. “Those intended to heal—Tumaco—may give life—he’s a doctor—but drown the truth.” She thought a moment. “Was Tumaco involved in a cover-up?”

  “Of what?” Burden asked as his phone vibrated. He grabbed it, answered, and listened. “Got it— Yeah, no, that’s fine. About what I expected.” He shoved it in his pocket. “They can only tell us that those texts that c
ame from Robert’s phone are in a two- to three-mile radius. They’re putting a trap on the phone, but it’s off.”

  “I doubt the offender’ll use that phone again,” Dixon said.

  “Violence and sleep come under watchful eyes,” Vail said. “Now I get it. He meant here, where a man was killed in a flotation tank under watchful eyes.”

  Burden huffed. “Apparently, no one was watching.”

  “Wrong,” Vail said. “The killer was watching.” She turned and walked back to Veronica. “Can you give me one of your cards—and jot down your direct line on the back in case we need to reach you?”

  Veronica did as requested—and handed it to Burden as Vail’s phone vibrated.

  A text.

  this one comes from on high

  the other mission

  where darkness reigns

  seek not the son but the father

  make haste

  Vail looked at her partners. “Let’s take this outside.”

  They ran down the stairs to the street. Allman was on the phone, leaning against a tree. Scheer, also on a call, saw them first and trotted over.

  “Different cell,” Vail said as she thumbed her BlackBerry. “Sending it on to your office for a trace. Probably a throwaway.”

  Burden nodded at her phone. “The text. Break it down like we did before.”

  “Another message?” Scheer asked as he approached.

  Vail read it to them.

  “Mission District,” Burden said.

  Allman shook his head. “No—it can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Read the rest of it. He wrote, the other mission.”

  “Yeah. So what?” Dixon asked. “What other mission is there?”

  Scheer looked up. “The Mission—as in the church. San Francisco de Asís. In the Mission District.”

  “We already pissed him off once by getting it wrong,” Vail said. “On your brilliant idea. I’d like to avoid a repeat performance, thank you very much.”

  “How sure are you about this?” Allman asked.

  Scheer’s lips tightened. He looked at Allman for the first time. “Pretty sure, Clay. Sure enough to risk embarrassing myself in front of you. Again.”

  Clay threw up both hands—an I give up gesture.

  “I think it works,” Burden said. “I don’t see the ‘where darkness reigns’ part. But I’m not hearing anything better.”

  “Then let’s go,” Vail said. “‘Make haste.’”

  THEY ARRIVED AT THE CHURCH, LOCATED on Dolores Street near Sixteenth. A two-story white adobe structure with four columns dominating its front and a simple cross at the pinnacle of its pointed roof sat beside a tan, ornate dual-spired basilica. Two young pine trees rose from a grass strip in front of the mission.

  Burden led the way up the burgundy tile steps of the smaller structure. The interior was long and narrow, with a floor-to-ceiling mural dominating a wall to the right. Pews lined both sides of the room, with a center aisle leading up to the front. A striped, multicolored wood-beamed ceiling ran the entire length of the ground floor.

  “Anyone know anything about this place?” Burden asked as they all cleared the wood front doors.

  “I think it’s one of the original missions,” Allman said. “If I remember, Father Junipero Serra officiated here, back in the 1700s.”

  “That would be 1782, and that’s correct. One of only two remaining missions that can say that.”

  The group turned.

  To their right stood a bespectacled, well-coifed man in dark robes, his hands clasped in front of him. “May I help you?”

  Burden held up his badge. “Lance Burden, SFPD. And you sure can.”

  “Then I am at your service,” the man said with a slight bow.

  “We were sent here by someone...pertaining to a case. Is there anything you can tell us about your facility that might...well...” Burden turned to Dixon and Vail.

  “That might involve violence, or murder,” Vail said.

  Burden brought a hand to his forehead. Apparently, he was uncomfortable with her direct approach.

  “No offense intended, sir,” Scheer said. “But time is of the essence.”

  Vail turned slowly. “Thanks. Now keep your trap shut.”

  The man’s eyes moved back and forth between Vail and Scheer, clearly unsure what to make of this tightly wound redhead—and her direct and offensive question. He finally said, “Nothing to my knowledge, Officer.”

  “Any idea why someone might refer to this as a place where darkness reigns?” Dixon asked.

  The man took a step back. “If anything, Miss, this is a place of light. Enlightenment. Fulfillment, and repentance.”

  “I meant no disrespect. We’re just...”

  Fishing. Clueless. Desperate. Pick any of those adjectives. They all fit.

  “...working a case,” Dixon continued, “and it’s forcing us to ask some uncomfortable questions.”

  “Holy shit.” Vail clapped a hand across her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Holy—father.” Is that better? Jesus Christ, I don’t think so. “I—uh—I just had a thought,” she said to Burden and Dixon. Then, back to the increasingly insulted clergyman: “Did a Father Ralph Finelli ever work here?”

  “Finelli...” The man’s brow furrowed and he looked off into the distance. He finally shook his head. “I’m nearly certain he has never ministered here. I have a listing of all the priests who have been a part of the mission since its founding—”

  “This would be much more recent. Say the last fifty years or so.”

  “Then the answer would be no.”

  Vail looked at Burden and Dixon. “You guys want to ask anything?” She then turned to Allman and Scheer, who were a few paces back. “What about you?”

  They both shrugged.

  “Thank you for your assistance. And please accept my apologies for...well, everything.”

  They walked outside. “You guys give us a minute?” Dixon said to the journalists.

  The men walked off in different directions, down the sidewalk.

  Once they were out of earshot, Vail said, “I really thought I was onto something with Father Finelli.”

  Burden glanced around at the street. People strolled by, turning their heads to take in the historic mission and its ornate neighbor. In a low voice, he said, “So what do we do now? Wait around till he texts us again? I gotta tell you, Karen, this doesn’t sit well with me. Pisses me off to have my chain yanked by a goddamn lowlife. Psychopath or not, I think we should tell him to go fuck himself. We should be calling the shots, not him. I mean, what’s it gotten us?”

  Vail folded her arms across her chest. “Are you done? Because if not, go ahead and get it out of your system.” She widened her eyes. “Well?”

  “I’m done. For now.”

  “Good. Because we don’t have any other options other than working the case the way you normally would. And we’ve been doing that. If you think we’ve been wasting time, go back to Bryant and do your thing. I’m fine with that. I’ll play his stupid games until it yields something useful—because I think, ultimately, he’s going to give us something we can use. He may already have.”

  “At the sleep deprivation center? Or the mission?”

  “Sensory deprivation. And both.” Vail nudged Dixon’s arm. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t like getting jerked around either. But I trust your judgment. If you’re confident he’s going to give us something—or already has—then I’d rather continue. But there are limits. I don’t know how much longer Robert has. If he’s even still alive. I wish we could communicate with the asshole, somehow get him to talk to us about Robert.”

  “He’s basically made it a one-way conversation. I don’t want to be strung along, either. If we don’t get some sort of resolution, we’ll have Allman and Scheer post an article to their papers’ websites. Eventually, the offender may see it. But who knows how often he’s checking?”

>   “Why wait?” Dixon said. “Why not do that now?”

  Burden nodded.

  “Fine.” Vail leaned to the side around Burden and whistled to Allman, then turned and called behind her to Scheer.

  “You said he may’ve already given us something,” Burden said. “What are you thinking?”

  “To start—”

  Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She made eye contact with her two partners, then pulled it from her belt. “Well. The game’s afoot.” She looked at Burden. “You want to play? Or ignore it?”

  Burden grumbled, but he and Dixon huddled around her phone and read the message:

  11th & folsom

  that which it contains not

  constricting restricting and single-handedly cold it has got

  see that which its not

  Allman and Scheer joined their grouping.

  Burden sighed. “Getting more cryptic.”

  “Let’s do what we did before,” Vail said. “Parse it, line by line.”

  “Another message?” Allman asked.

  “Another message,” Dixon said as she reread it. “I say we get moving toward Eleventh and Folsom, work it through in the car.”

  “How far?” Vail asked.

  “Couple minutes depending on traffic,” Allman said. “Less than a mile.”

  They got into the Ford and Burden took them down Sixteenth Street. “Read it to us,” he said.

  Vail consulted her BlackBerry. “First line. That which it contains not. Any ideas?”

  Dixon leaned forward in her seat. The restraint locked; she sat back, let it tighten, and then pulled it back out. “How about this: whatever it is that we’re talking about doesn’t hold in, or contain, the object it’s supposed to.”

  Scheer said, “So a fence that’s supposed to hold a dog in a yard doesn’t do the job. The dog gets out.”

  “Might be talking about us,” Vail said. “We’re supposed to contain him, prevent him from killing. But we’re not. In which case it’d be talking about him.”

  Dixon was still struggling with her seatbelt, which again locked on her. “Since this whole thing is all about him, that makes sense.”

  “Why do you think it’s all about him?” Allman asked.