Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “How are we gonna dig out the cement around those grilles?”

  “Inmate plumbers,” Morris said. “Con I know, Billy Boggs, helps out fixing busted pipes. The plumbing was put in by the army back in 1900 or some shit like that. The sea water that goes through ’em rots ’em out. And when they burst, they flood that utility area and eat away the concrete walls. Billy says the walls look pretty bad.”

  “And those walls,” West said, “are the walls of our cells.”

  MacNally absorbed what he was being told. Before he committed to the plan, he wanted to be sure he had a decent chance of making it out. The water—those sharks—was another problem.

  But there were more immediate logistical concerns. “How can you dig out the cement without the guards knowing about it? They’re pretty strict where you can put shit in your cells. You can’t block that grille. They’ll get suspicious.”

  “One of the oldest inmate tricks in the book,” West said. “Wet some toilet paper, mix it with soap flakes, then force it into the holes you’re making.”

  “Get a job,” Morris said to MacNally. “J.W. works in clothing. I’m in the brush shop in Industries. Do what you’re told and don’t cause any trouble, they’ll give you work. Take it. Best way to get the tools and supplies we need. They got everything in there: wire, electrical tape, varnishes, nuts, bolts, machines... Some of us are already gettin’ stuff together.”

  MacNally nodded.

  “Like I said,” West added, looking across the room at an officer, who was approaching. “I been workin’ on this a long, long time.”

  “What about the water?” MacNally asked. “The sharks?”

  Carnes chuckled. “No sharks in the water, MacNally. They tell you that to keep your ass on the island.”

  “I just got the new Popular Mechanics,” West said, then waited for the guard to pass. Teaches you how to make blow-up rubber geese. Works for life preservers and rafts, too.”

  MacNally shook his head. “You read something about making rubber duckies and you think you can build a raft out of that? One that’ll hold up in that choppy ocean?”

  “Trust me on that,” Anglin said. “Clarence and me, we grew up swimming and rafting in Lake Michigan. The stuff they say in that mag, it’ll work.”

  “We need raincoats,” Morris said. “We can get ’em from Clothing, where J.W. works. But we need a lot of ’em. Maybe four dozen, way I figure. Maybe more. They’re Navy jobs made of rubber backed canvas. We can cut ’em up and glue the pieces together with rubber cement, then sew the seams on the machines we use to make gloves in Industries.” He winked. “Paddles we can make in the furniture shop. Smaller pieces, attached with nuts and bolts. Most everything we need’s there in the shops. Biggest problem’s smuggling the stuff out of Industries.”

  “A little bit at a time, under your shirts and jackets,” MacNally said.

  “As long as there’s no metal,” Anglin said. “Snitch box’ll get us. Metal detector. You’ll see. Gotta pass through it on the way out of Industries.”

  “We’ll have to figure that out,” West said. “Big thing is getting up to that vent blower.”

  The whistle blew: dinner over. MacNally had hardly eaten. He shoved some meat and vegetables into his mouth, then did his best to clean his plate. If there was one thing he took from this discussion, it was that he had to keep his nose clean and avoid segregation.

  And he needed a job. But unlike his problems obtaining and holding one in the outside world, finding a position here at Alcatraz presented a much easier challenge.

  55

  Burden and Dixon took the elevator up to Homicide, while Vail said she wanted some time to think on her own and that she would meet them there in a few minutes.

  Robby had not called back. More significantly, neither had Mike Hartman—so Vail called him, again, and left another message: “Very important— Call me soon as you get this. It involves the Bay Killer.”

  As she ascended the stairs, she tried the main switchboard. After being placed on hold, the operator told her that Hartman had been out of town, but that he was due to return tonight. Vail asked for his cell, and then left a message there as well.

  She stood in the hallway, a shoulder against the wall, lost in thought, when the doors to Homicide swung open.

  Dixon’s head appeared and her eyes found Vail. “We’re ordering in pizza. Good?”

  Vail pushed off the marble facing. “Whatever. I’m exhausted, pissed, and frustrated. My mind’s not on food.” She followed Dixon back into the room, and then sat down hard in a seat by their worktable and murder board.

  Burden grabbed his chair and sat down backwards on it, then rolled it over to Vail and Dixon. “You’ve said that playing the media’s important. Back at the mission we talked about putting something out there. What do you think?”

  Vail rubbed both eyes. “Not sure.” She exhaled long and hard. “The offender’s been in communication with us. But today he’s been dictating the terms of the conversation—basically, he talks, we listen and run all over the goddamn city like his puppets. A good psychopath is a puppeteer—he’s skilled at pulling the strings of others because he’s got exceptional manipulation skills. He uses them to dominate and exercise control. And all day, we’ve been dominated and controlled.” She thought a moment. “I’m starting to doubt whether I’m gonna be of any value to this investigation. It’s not like I’ve made a difference up to this point.”

  Burden took a moment to examine her face. Then he laughed. “I was waiting for some joke. Or maybe that was the joke. Because you’ve been real valuable so far. We know who we’re dealing with, what type of guy to look for. You’re an expert on psychopaths, Karen. You’ve studied them, you’ve researched them, you’ve sat across the table from—what, dozens? Right now, you’re one of the most important forensic tools we’ve got.”

  “Never thought of myself as a tool.”

  “C’mon,” Dixon said. “Sometimes you’re a hammer. Other times an ice pick.”

  “Lovely image. Thanks, Roxx.”

  Burden stood up. “Enough feeling sorry for ourselves. We don’t have time for that shit. We’ve got a man down, and we need to go after this fucker like a freaking tornado. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of his crap.” He tossed the case files on the worktable. “I spoke to my lieutenant on the way up here. Overtime’s authorized and he’s working on getting us some extra manpower, on top of those interns.”

  “Has he issued a statement about Robert?” Vail asked.

  “No. He felt it was better to wait before we release the fact that the killer’s got one of our inspectors. He thought it’d spark a wave of fear.”

  Vail raised her brow and nodded. If we can’t protect ourselves, how can we protect the people?

  “So back to the nuts and bolts. Investigation 101.” Burden took a marker and uncapped it.

  Vail took a deep breath and mentally slapped herself. When someone close to her went missing, there was no time to rest, no time for self-doubt. She rose from her chair and literally rolled up her sleeves. Time to get back to work.

  FOUR HOURS AND FIFTY-ONE minutes passed. Vail repeatedly kept looking at Friedberg’s empty chair and abandoned desk, files piled on the right edge, a notepad front and center. And a thick book, Complete History of San Francisco Bakeries, on the left. A history of bakeries?

  They still had no knowledge of Friedberg’s whereabouts and no way of directly communicating with the Bay Killer, unless he texted them. And that was the way he wanted it. He wanted—demanded—control, and thus far had been successful in attaining all that he desired.

  The tasks of many of the inspectors in the department had been diverted and a few were now working Friedberg as a missing persons case, engaged in various tasks along those lines. But they all knew it was much more than that. Knowing, and being able to do something about it, comprised an insurmountable gap.

  The Homicide room was a flurry of people, phones and cells ringin
g, keyboards clicking and laser printers whirling. The law school, criminal justice, and sociology interns were in another room with the same information, making follow-up phone calls on the older cases; they were due to have a group conference in an hour to get briefed on any newly discovered information and to assist in integrating the material into their existing database of knowledge.

  The latter text messages had originated from disposable cell phones purchased with cash at two different Bay Area electronics stores during the past four months. Even if they had surveillance cameras focused on their registers—which they did not—the video would have been written over many times since.

  Hartman had still not called, but he was at least closer to returning to the office. Even if he hadn’t gotten the voicemail she had left on his cell, he would soon retrieve the ones she had left on his work phone. She decided that, grudge or not, he would return her calls because of their volume—and urgency.

  Vail rose and looked at the murder board. All the victims’ names and locations, causes of death, occupations, photos, and key crime scene attributes stared back at her. It was talking to her, a constant chatter—but it was as if it was written in a foreign language. Perhaps there would be one new fact someone would discover that would pop the lid off the case. But she had the sense that all they needed to know was on the board in front of her.

  Vail called over to Dixon. “You in the middle of something?”

  Dixon pushed back from her makeshift desk. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s go take a look at the video we captured. Maybe something will hit us.”

  They had asked Allman and Scheer to email the videos they had taken using the large file service, YouSendIt.com. The photo lab informed them the footage was now available to view. Hoping to find something to stimulate her brain, the videos represented an unexplored avenue.

  They settled themselves in front of a monitor and opened the first file—Allman’s video. Cityscape images scrolled by. They watched it straight through, then started it again. Vail yawned and reached for the coffee cup she had brought with her from Homicide.

  “What do we see?” Dixon asked. “Restaurant. A bar.” The scene panned slowly. “Another bar. A cell phone store—and another bar.”

  Vail took a drink and leaned forward. “Two auto body shops. Bus stop.”

  The sixty-second video ended and Dixon opened her own file. Repeating the process, they first watched it in its entirety, absorbing it all before calling out their observations.

  As Vail sat there, deep in thought, her phone vibrated. She jumped—startling Dixon, as well. The number brought relief—and a slight lift to the corners of her lips. “Keep going with this. I’ll be right back.” She pushed through the door into the hallway, then answered the call. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” Robby said. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. That stakeout we were on turned into—”

  “That’s okay,” Vail said. “It’s fine. No big deal.”

  “You sound...stressed, for a change. Everything okay?”

  Vail closed her eyes and took a breath. “I needed a favor and you’re the only one I can trust. I had to find out where an old partner was assigned.”

  “This may sound like a really, really dumb question. But you’re an FBI agent. All you needed to do is—”

  “First of all,” Vail said, “that’s not a question. But you’re right. It’s dumb. I could’ve picked up the goddamn phone and made that call myself.”

  “You’re cursing. And you’re definitely stressed out. This isn’t good, is it?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the deal? Why didn’t you want to make that call?”

  “Robby. This isn’t helping.” Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Talking about this is difficult enough. But over the phone...

  “Sorry. I’m— I’ve only got a few minutes ’cause I’m still on that case and—”

  The door opened and Dixon poked her head out. “You coming?”

  Vail twisted the phone away from her mouth. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The door closed and Vail turned her attention back to Robby.

  “It’s not earth-shattering. It’s—it’s something I’d much rather tell you in person, not over a phone. But—”

  “Yeah,” Robby said, his voice muffled. “I’ll be right there. Put him in a room. Give me a minute.” Then, back into the phone: “Karen. I don’t mean to be short. But get to the point. What do you need help with?”

  Shit. I can’t bare my soul and summarize this under pressure. If it would make a difference in the case, I’d do it. But it won’t. “It goes back to when I was a field agent in New York. But it’s a long story. It’ll have to wait.”

  “You sure? Seems that it—whatever it is—is really bothering you. I can probably break away in a couple hours. Will that work? Are you in danger?”

  “There’s really nothing you can do. I just wanted to talk things through. Besides, if the offender wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it already.”

  “Jesus Christ, Karen. I definitely don’t like the sound of that. If your safety is—”

  “Let’s not do this,” Vail said, pinching her forehead with two fingers. “I can take care of myself, you know that. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it?”

  “I love you, Robby. I promise I’ll be okay.”

  “Love you, too. But if I can help in any way, you call me. I’ll get someone to cover for me or—I’ll work something out.”

  “You just started with DEA. I’m not going to jeopardize your job. I’ll be fine. Really. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She ended the call, then wondered what gave her the confidence to guarantee that all would be okay. Who am I fooling?

  Vail pushed back into the room and sat down beside Dixon in front of the screen, where urban scenes continued to roll by.

  “Everything okay?” Dixon asked, keeping her gaze on the video.

  “Yeah.” No. Though she knew the only person who could help her was Mike Hartman, she had desperately wanted to share the story with Dixon. But Vail was no longer in the mood to discuss it because it would require an explanation that she did not feel like getting into. She would be talking with Hartman soon enough. Then, if it turned out to be significant, she would brief everyone on the task force. Maybe that would bring them the break they had been looking for. Or maybe not.

  The door swung open and Burden stuck his head in. “Pizza’s here—and we’re almost ready for the meeting.”

  Dixon thanked him, then pressed Pause and the image froze. Vail almost screamed at the monitor. What the hell am I missing?

  56

  July 19, 1961

  Alcatraz

  Walton MacNally marked off the days on loose-leaf sheets stored in a binder he kept in his cell, beside his now dog-eared picture of Henry. He had been told the salt air would eventually ruin the photo, but it’s the only one he had. And if their plan was successful, he would hopefully not be in his cell long enough for the corrosive environment to take its toll. Sitting beside his son on a dock, fishing, or shooting hoops, or fielding grounders... Was that too much to ask? Had the crimes he committed been so heinous that they needed to lock him away for decades? Prior to going to prison, he had never harmed anyone.

  Just money. He just took money. And that wasn’t even his fault, not really.

  Or was it? Was Voorhees right, that life was about choices, and he had made the wrong ones? Choices that led him to this point in time, in a penal colony locked away on an island in the middle of an ocean, living among the worst of the worst.

  He had already been told about those who had called The Rock home before him—the likes of serial rapists, killers, mobsters. And then there were others like him, armed robbers and bank heist offenders. Kidnappers. Psychopaths and sociopaths.

  This was not the life he had envisioned when the idea of stealing money from Township Community Savings came
to him. It was, in effect, a life of imprisonment borne from a need to provide food and shelter for his son.

  But he could almost put the past couple of years behind him if he broke out of here. When he broke out.

  He looked up from his reverie, standing behind his bars, waiting for the count to be finished so he could grab breakfast with Morris, Anglin, and Carnes. Anglin’s brother, Clarence, had arrived on The Rock a few months ago with instructions that he not cell with his brother. At least, that’s what Clarence said he overheard the officer telling the marshal during the handoff at the airport in Kansas City.

  Thing was, despite Alcatraz’s stringent rules, well-behaving inmates were largely given the freedom to choose where they wanted to live. With somewhere around seventy-five cells unoccupied at any one time at the penitentiary, it was common for convicts to move around from time to time—often as friendships and alliances developed.

  But an apparent breakdown in communication on the part of institution leadership led to Anglin taking a cell adjacent to his brother’s.

  That fact facilitated the Anglins’ drilling out their ventilation grilles with greater ease as they were able to hand tools from one to the other. While one worked, the other maintained a lookout with the assistance of foil fastened to a stick, serving as an offset mirror that could be inserted through the bars as an early warning system against advancing officers, whose crepe-soled shoes concealed their approach.

  During the past three months, the men had been honing the details of their plan, gathering materials and assembling their tools. While Carnes decided to drop out of the group due to doubts they would be successful, the others became increasingly convinced they could pull it off.

  MacNally requested a job in the glove factory, which gave him access to the industrial sewing machines they were going to need for constructing the life preservers and rafts. Although he had thought the Popular Mechanics “rubber geese” article was mere folly, when he saw the magazine and read the instructions, he realized that its method of vulcanizing the rubber, by heating it, could easily be applied to a much larger flotation device.