Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  As it turned out, Morris’s estimate of fifty rubber-backed rain garments was on the mark. They had sufficient time to obtain them, if they each participated. A general population inmate showered twice weekly; afterwards, they were handed freshly laundered clothing, towels, and bedsheets. Anglin, working in the clothing room, would slip each of the men two raincoats, which they would take back to their cell.

  They also arranged for other prisoners to assist. Because of the seagull population on the island, cons often wore their rainwear to the rec yard as protection against falling bird poop. Their conspirators would wear their extra coat when they went outside, peel off the smuggled one and hand it over to Morris, West, MacNally, or the Anglins, who would put it on over their own.

  For all their ingenious planning, they were presented with a daunting challenge that stumped them for a time: where to stash their wares while they awaited either assembly or implementation. West came up with a solution: he had heard that the officers were talking about painting the cellhouse—and he knew that A-Block, a remnant from Alcatraz’s history as a Civil War fort and military detention facility, was used primarily for storage because its flat bars had never been replaced with the hardened tool-proof steel rods that now adorned the B-, C-, and D-block cells. Squirreling away their ill-gotten possessions under a paint tarp in A-Block would be ideal cover.

  West fabricated a story of having once painted houses for a builder, and thus he knew his way around with a brush and roller. He would be willing to take on the job of recoating the entire cellhouse and kitchen areas. From the warden’s perspective, the man who had been a pain in the ass to the staff since his arrival three years ago was asking for an opportunity to do something productive—a long-term task that the captain of the guards outwardly joked might keep him out of trouble.

  MacNally pointed out that should West be given the job painting the cellhouse, not only would it provide them clandestine storage space, but it would give them access to the mint-colored paint they needed for wall touch-up each night to conceal the holes they were making around their ventilation grilles.

  But carving holes in the cement was tedious work that required them to work after lights out for hours at a time, always exercising care not to drop their tools—heavy-gauge steel spoons they had smuggled out of the dining hall. With few exceptions, because inmates were prevented from having metal objects in their possession, the signature clank of metal on concrete in a prison facility stood out like a gunshot in a kindergarten class.

  Now, as MacNally lined up with the rest of the workforce in the recreation yard, he felt the morning mist from a dense fog prickling his cheeks. It made him feel alive. The whistle blew and the men began moving through the steel door that swung open in the middle of the tall cement wall. From that vantage point, as he looked down the steep set of dozens of concrete stairs, he saw the trail of workers headed to the Industries entrance directly below him.

  To the far right, beyond that structure, stood the old three-story Model Industries that housed all the prison’s industrial infrastructure until 1940, when it was deemed an escape risk after a number of cons had gotten out of the building and made their way to the adjacent water’s edge. Since the new factory had opened, the former facility remained vacant, though it served as the support base for the Model Tower, a guard lookout and catwalk that provided officers with a birds-eye view of that side of the island.

  Ahead of MacNally, for those inmates who dared look, was the Golden Gate Bridge, a majestic span that reached from the city to his left across the Bay, to the tony community of Marin on his right. Each time the prisoners left the rec yard for their work detail, the postcard-perfect view of the city and bridge served as a powerful reminder of a vibrant life they were missing.

  MacNally walked through Industries’ second story doors and onto the shop floor. It was densely packed, with endless rows of machines and work tables, where inmates manufactured various products in the glove, brush, and tailor shops, and the furniture and wood-working factories.

  Circular columns rose regularly across the floor, and tall sectional windows along the left wall brought a gray luminosity into the building. Pipes and wire conduits crisscrossed the ceiling, hanging down alongside single-bulb light fixtures that supplied readily available electrical outlets for the trade-specific machines such as drill presses, saws, specialized cutting tools, routers, and sanders.

  Officers stood watch throughout the expansive, rectangular interior. Along the right wall, a guard’s catwalk stretched the length of the building, patrolled by men with Winchester rifles slung over their shoulders and tear-gas guns at the ready.

  MacNally took his place at the assigned station, where a long, thick bobbin of heavy gauge thread sat to his right, already spooled into the machinery, just as he had left it yesterday. He began the task of slicing the raw material canvas and leather sections that would then be cut into templates and sewn into gloves.

  As MacNally reached into the bin to his left, he saw a blur coming at him out of the extreme periphery of his vision. He instinctively flinched and curled away as something razor sharp sliced into his side. He was body slammed toward the cold cement floor, but his hip struck the worktop on his way down, flipping him onto his back and spilling his metal glove-making tools all around him.

  That’s when he saw Harlan Rucker bringing up a glistening knife, about to plunge it into his chest.

  “FUCK YOU!” RUCKER YELLED AS he arced his weapon through the air.

  MacNally kicked up his knee, catching Rucker’s forearm and deflecting the blow. He slapped at the floor with his feet, trying to get up, or get away—but his leather soles kept slipping on the slick cement.

  MacNally yelled, then flailed his left hand along his side, trying to grab something—anything—to defend himself. But his palm brushed clumsily against round tools, scattering them from his reach.

  Rucker again jabbed the knife toward him, but MacNally twisted away and it struck the hard concrete floor. The impact sent the weapon skittering out of Rucker’s hand. He dove sideways to gather it up, giving MacNally room to move.

  Off to his right—a cold metal rod. He wrapped his fingers around it and whipped it toward Rucker.

  The clunk of steel-on-steel reverberated throughout the room as Rucker’s knife flew from his hand.

  Rucker yelped, his hand paralyzed, likely fractured.

  In the distance, shouts echoed from guards.

  Again, MacNally swung his rod—

  violently

  hard and

  fast

  Then a thud—metal against bone.

  And Rucker went down.

  MacNally got to his knees and brought his weapon back—winding up for a full swing—then slammed it against the asshole’s shoulder, then his cheek, then his nose, and then—

  —someone grabbed MacNally’s arm, driving him backwards and pinning him to the ground.

  A guard? Or one of Rucker’s lieutenants?

  MacNally swung his head around and saw a fist blurring toward him. Before he could react, the punch landed on his right cheek and whipped his neck around.

  MacNally struck out—a wild backhand with the metal bar—and landed a blow across the man’s back. He stiffened, as if he’d lost his breath—and swung again, striking him across the buttocks—

  “MacNally! Lindahl,” yelled a voice from behind him somewhere.

  Whistles blew, footsteps.

  “Drop it! Drop your weapon!”

  MacNally did not realize he was still holding the rod. He was hyperventilating, eyes wide, chest heaving, heart pounding in his ears.

  A hand pried angrily at his fingers, and he released his grip. Two officers yanked him onto his stomach, then fastened handcuffs around his wrists.

  “Rucker. He started it,” MacNally said as they pulled him to his feet.

  “You’ll have a chance to tell your story,” one of them said. “After we get you to the hospital.”

  It was then t
hat MacNally felt the pain in his side, where his cleanly sliced blood-soaked denim shirt was adhering to his skin.

  Rucker lay unconscious on the floor, blood oozing from his nose and a deep gash on his forehead. Lindahl, his buddy, was on his knees, writhing in pain as another set of officers gathered him up and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.

  Dozens of nearby inmates appeared to be looking at MacNally with newfound respect—and fear.

  “Everyone back to work,” an officer called out.

  As they led MacNally away, a man in a white medical coat with a black leather doctor’s bag in hand was being ushered through the crowd of inmates.

  “Watch it, clear aside,” his escort, another uniformed guard, said. The two men huddled on the ground alongside Rucker.

  “When did he get transferred here?” MacNally asked, his demeanor calmer, the adrenaline clearing from his system.

  “Who?”

  “Harlan Rucker. He escaped from Leavenworth.”

  “Transferred over directly into the Treatment Unit. Got out about a week ago.”

  Segregation. Apparently, either the US Marshals Service, FBI, or local police caught him at some point after he left MacNally at the bottom of the forty-foot Leavenworth wall. “You saw him attack me, right?” MacNally asked.

  “Looks like you’re lucky to be alive,” the guard said. “That’s all I’d be thinking about right now.”

  MacNally knew that to be untrue. He now had to worry that Rucker or his cohorts would find him again, at a time, and a place, when he least expected it.

  MACNALLY WAS TAKEN UP TO THE HOSPITAL through a staircase originating just inside the dining hall. He climbed the steps slowly, as it felt as if each flexion of his hip separated the wound’s margins, causing more blood to seep out.

  He was led to a large room outfitted like so many others in the institution: barred windows. Mint paint. Highly polished concrete floor. This, however, was an operating or trauma suite.

  He lay down on an articulating metal table, where a massive track-mounted light fixture hovered above him. Stainless steel cabinets, stocked with medical supplies, boxes of gauze and bottles of saline solution, stood against the walls.

  Within ten minutes, MacNally’s wound was sutured with a dozen stitches. He was given penicillin and released to the officers, who had remained at his side. MacNally asked to be returned to his post in the glove shop, because he did not want to risk losing his job and he figured it might score points with the officer in charge: most cons, after an incident like that, would consider it an excuse to return to their cells and skip the rest of the workday.

  Instead, he was placed in his cell pending an administrative hearing, which was expedited and held two hours later in A-Block. At a consular table pushed close to the cellhouse wall and facing the row of Civil War-era military cells, MacNally sat before Associate Warden Dollison, Industries Lieutenant Carson Eldridge, and two other officers. A brief discussion ensued during which charges of fighting and possession of a weapon were proffered. After listening to Eldridge’s testimony, followed by one of the other guards, and then by MacNally’s, Dollison nodded and held out a hand.

  “I’m convinced that this altercation was brought on by Inmate Rucker and that you, Mr. MacNally, were an innocent bystander, attempting to defend yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” MacNally said.

  “Your work record has been exemplary and you have been, for all intents, a model inmate. It’s my ruling that you be spared time in the Treatment Unit. You may return to your job in Industries.”

  MacNally thanked Dollison, once again feeling as if he had been dealt with more than fairly. Often, a prisoner involved in a fight was automatically sent to segregation, as the facts almost did not matter. In reflection, he felt fortunate to have found both Voorhees at Leavenworth and now Dollison on Alcatraz. Reasonable and just treatment at a penitentiary was something MacNally had not expected.

  When the dinner whistle sounded and they convened in the dining hall, MacNally recounted to his planning crew what had happened. Anglin claimed not to have known that Rucker was now at The Rock, and admitted the man had a proclivity toward seeking revenge. MacNally had wondered how much Anglin really knew about Rucker when he vouched for him back at Leavenworth. Was Anglin in on the setup to have him get caught?

  Could Anglin be trusted now?

  “Are we done with this Rucker thing?” West asked. He was squirming on his bench, leaning forward as if he had important news to share.

  “What’s the deal?” Morris asked West. “You look like you’re gonna jump out of your pants.”

  “I got it,” West said. “The job, painting the cellhouse. I start tomorrow. And that means our tickets out of here have been issued and punched. Now we just gotta do what we need to do, and be smart about it. If all goes right, we could be outta here in a few months.”

  MacNally gazed off at the far wall and thought again about Henry. He could deal with a few more months on Devil’s Island with the Harlan Ruckers of the world if it meant he’d be getting out. He leaned forward, rejoined the conversation, and helped map out the details of what needed to be done next.

  57

  Vail tore off a bite of pizza, which was slathered with grilled onions and roasted tomatoes. But she was staring at the murder board, and did not taste any of it. The way this case was going, she was beginning to feel that she had bitten off more than she could chew. And it had nothing to do with what was in her mouth.

  The photos and notes on the murder board dominated her thoughts. Along the left side, Burden had written pertinent key words: odd-shaped brass keys; flotation tanks; sensory deprivation; orientation of the bodies—facing the Bay; the numbers scrawled on the victims’ foreheads; the Cliff House tunnel; bars; retail stores; Mercedes dealership; cell phone shop; Mission San Francisco de Asís; printouts of the text “clues” the offender had sent them. And so on.

  Dixon was clicking through the crime scene photos on her laptop, zooming in on some, standing back and evaluating others from a distance. “I wonder if it’s not necessarily the Bay, but the direction the vic was facing,” she said. “Or the street. Burden. I wasn’t at the Harlan Rucker crime scene. Which way was his body facing? Leavenworth?”

  “Leavenworth’s in Kansas,” Vail said. “So that’d be east of—”

  “No—no. I mean Leavenworth the street. Look.” Dixon pointed to the photo on her screen, which was zoomed 50 percent. “He was found at the intersection of Leavenworth and Bay Streets.”

  Vail leaned closer to the picture. Wait a minute. “There’s a Leavenworth Street in San Francisco?”

  “Yeah.” Burden pulled open the case file, then ran a finger across one of the pages. “That’s right—Leavenworth and Bay.”

  They were quiet a moment. Then Vail said, “The Bay Killer leaves a vic at the intersection of Leavenworth and Bay. All his vics, except one, faced the Bay. There’s something here.”

  Burden said, “Yeah. That is a bit weird.” He rose and stood in front of the board, examining the posted city map.

  “Not all the vics were found facing the bay,” Vail asked. “Just the men.”

  “Except for one,” Dixon said. “Russell Ilg. He was facing the end of a long tunnel carved out of the rock.”

  “One of you called it a hole,” Vail said to Burden. “Right?”

  “A hole in the rock, yeah. That’s what it looked like when we were—”

  “The hole,” Vail said. “That’s what segregation’s called in prisons.”

  They were quiet as they processed that thought. This is it. I can feel it. C’mon. Look. What are we missing?

  Burden looked at the board, then pointed. “Tumaco’s place—SDL. Sensory Deprivation Lab. Think about it. Those flotation tanks. What is sensory deprivation?”

  “Isolation,” Vail said. She rose from her seat. “Isolation. Segregation. The hole. Leavenworth.”

  “Leavenworth’s a key to this killer,” Dixon said.

/>   “Let’s get a list of inmates,” Burden said, “who did time at the penitentiary for—what? The past fifteen, twenty years?”

  “I’d go farther back,” Vail said. “These are all elderly vics and if they have a tie to the offender, he could be an older UNSUB. Go back...five decades; start with 1960—no, make it 1950 so we don’t miss anyone.”

  “I’ll get someone on that,” Burden said as he pulled his phone.

  “Can an older guy commit these murders?” Dixon asked. “Does that fit your profile?”

  Vail turned to face the board. “In terms of the female vics, an older offender can easily incapacitate them using his intellect. Even more so if he knew them. It may be enough to keep them from freaking out when they made eye contact. There are a lot of ways to gain control over someone. A gun, a knife, a stun wand. Once he’s got control, yes, very possible. As to the male vics, it’d require the UNSUB to be a fit older man. And remember, he used a rope for leverage. And the two that required a rope were slight, small men.”

  “So it’s physically possible,” Dixon said.

  Burden had hung up and was listening to Vail’s analysis. “What about your profile?”

  “I would not have pegged this on an older offender. But that’s why behavioral analysis is but one tool in the forensic kit. If he’s disguised it well, I could’ve missed it.”

  “Knowing that, let’s take a fresh look at these photos,” Dixon said.

  Burden was staring at the murder board. A few moments later, he said, “Those numbers on their forehead.” He turned back to his PC and started clicking his mouse. “I may have something.”

  “We have background sheets on our vics?” Dixon asked as Vail moved closer to the board to examine Rex Jackson’s photos.

  Burden was now pounding the keys. “Robert was working on that. He had some stuff assembled, nothing detailed.”

  “Let’s be smarter about this,” Vail said. “Instead of trolling thousands or tens of thousands of Leavenworth inmates, let’s take a shortcut. Any of our victims do time at Leavenworth?”