Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  Dixon turned to Vail. “You mean, like inmates?”

  Vail thought a moment. It doesn’t have to be inmates. Not inmates. Guards. “Anything. Inmates, guards. Especially guards. People in positions of power.”

  “I’m sure Bureau of Prisons can get us that info, but we can’t wait till tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find online. Hopefully there’s a publicly available database.” He opened a new tab in the browser, then clicked his mouse.

  “Those funky brass keys,” Vail said. “Let’s see if keys like that were used on Leavenworth during that same time frame. But how the hell are we gonna find that out?”

  “We need an archivist,” Dixon said. “Or a historian who specializes in US penitentiaries.”

  “I’ll give a shout to the guys in the other room, in case they—or the interns—know of a way to find someone at this time of night.” Burden lifted his phone and made the call.

  “How does this get us closer to finding Friedberg?” Vail asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Dixon said, preoccupied. But she then pointed at the text message hanging on the board. “Folsom Street. One of those clues the offender texted us. He sent us to Folsom. Folsom’s a state prison.”

  Prisons. Segregation. “There were, what, three bars at that intersection on Folsom? And what else was there? A cell phone store. Bars and cells.”

  Burden hung up. “I heard what you said—bars, cells, Leavenworth, Folsom. What if we’re wasting our time? It might not be Leavenworth.”

  “I don’t think it is. Right idea, wrong prison. We’re in San Francisco.” Vail rose and stood in front of one of the photos. “What’s that in the middle of the Bay?” She stabbed at a spot on the picture with a finger. “We kept thinking the vics were facing the Bay. But that’s not it.”

  Burden’s phone rang. Keeping his eyes riveted to the murder board, he reached for the receiver, then turned back to face his screen. “You’re shitting me.” He twisted his mouth, said, “Thanks,” then hung up.

  His eyes shot over to Vail. “SFPD dispatch just got a call from a security guard. Guy found a DB.”

  “A security guard?” Dixon asked. “Where?”

  Burden swallowed hard. “Alcatraz.”

  58

  June 10, 1962

  Alcatraz

  Walton MacNally stood at the bars as the correctional officer moved along the B-Block cell fronts, doing his morning count. MacNally was hoping this would be the last one he would have to endure, as all the pieces were in place and now it was a matter of days—today, tomorrow—it was a function of when they could break through the blower vent above B-block.

  Once West had completed painting all the individual cells, he informed the cellhouse duty officer that he needed scaffolding to reach the expansive ceiling, which had begun peeling in the caustic sea air. Shortly thereafter, West was climbing the metal framework, which gave him an ideal look at the area above the third tier of the institution—and the ceiling above B-block, in particular. It was a gated, locked area that would require an officer to provide admittance each day. But once he scouted the mechanism in person, West described to MacNally the blower and attached ductwork.

  MacNally then set out to secure the tools they would need to disassemble the pieces—which would give them access to the metal tunnel that led to the roof. It was a process that demanded patience and extreme care. One inmate known to trip the metal detector due to a plate in his skull was often used as a conduit to pass through small tools and hardware that would’ve otherwise set the snitch box in a tizzy. Over a period that spanned eleven months, piece by piece, they secured their stash.

  Finally, with everything falling into place, West explained in March that in order to work atop the cellblock in the evenings, he would need to convince the officer in charge that it was necessary to hang tarps along the interior periphery of the caged area.

  None of them thought that was possible—but somehow, the credibility West had built during the past year of providing trouble-free, quality, and dependable craftsmanship while painting the cellhouse won him the benefit of any doubt the penitentiary leadership may—and should—have had. The tarps were permitted and the men got to work.

  Their efforts were assisted by Alcatraz’s music hour, a loosening of the once-stringent rules implemented by prior wardens charged with running the nation’s toughest federal penitentiary. Playing an instrument thus became a popular pastime on The Rock, with inmates of all skill levels taking up the challenge of making music. Some of it was downright awful—and for those who were good musicians, it did not matter—dozens of men simultaneously playing different songs on wind and string instruments in a cement-walled structure blended the good and bad into an echoing disharmony of cacophonous noise.

  But for Morris, the Anglins, and MacNally working on top of the cell block with tools, prying, screwing, at times banging—that noise was like a world-class symphony; it was, in a sense, music to their ears.

  By now, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had all dug out the concrete around their cell vents and constructed faux grilles out of cigar box interiors and binder covers, slathered with mint green paint courtesy of West’s access to the A-Block storage area. They had also sculpted dummy masks from Portland cement powder, soap flakes, magazine pages, wire, and electrical tape.

  Fellow inmate Leon Thompson taught Morris how to mix oil paints to create facial pigment tones, and Clarence Anglin had collected hair from the barber shop, where he worked on a daily basis. When inserted in bed, these surprisingly realistic masks, with the covers drawn up to the “chins,” gave the illusion the men were asleep during the night counts. As a result, MacNally, Morris, and the Anglin brothers had been able to work all hours of the night on top of the cellhouse, removing the blower mechanism.

  Once done, however, they discovered yet another challenge: a steel grate with cross bars blocked the opening.

  “Now what?” Morris asked. He swiped with a shirt sleeve at the perspiration that poured down his face. It was sweltering in the small space with the tarps blocking the airflow through the cellhouse.

  MacNally peered up at the grille. “Take too long to cut through those bars. But look here.” He moved his body, careful not to fall off the disassembled blower housing he was perched on—and pointed. “Rivets along the edge. If we can get a flat slotted screwdriver in the opening, we can pry ’em off.”

  Morris nodded. “I should be able to do that.”

  “Get to work on that. I’m going back down to my cell.”

  Morris and MacNally had made progress over the course of two nights, defeating several of the rivets with the screwdriver. It was difficult, painful work. Their wrists were sore but they had no complaints: their goal was now within reach.

  Morris had also purchased a concertina—a bellows-type accordion—that he was certain they could use, at the water’s edge, to inflate the two rafts they had constructed.

  Now, during the early morning hours of June 10th, nearly all their escape materials were assembled atop the cell block, beneath the blower vent, hidden by the tarps that were—miraculously—still permitted to hang from the ceiling.

  MacNally and Morris returned to their cells, replaced the fake grilles, and crawled into bed.

  Morris whispered to Anglin, who passed it on to his brother in the adjacent cell: “All set. Should have the thing out tomorrow night.”

  MacNally checked his clock: it was 3:00am. He closed his eyes, thinking of the escape, of all the things he had missed during his incarceration: Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points in an NBA game; an astronaut orbited the Earth in a space capsule; and a massive wall was erected in Berlin, dividing the region and causing political and social upheaval. While he’d heard or read about each of them, he felt strangely detached, as if they were news items rather than historical events he had lived through.

  Shortly before MacNally drifted off, his thoughts turned to Henry—which, above all, made him feel the most content. Everything else
in life that he had missed certainly served as motivation to avoid imprisonment. But seeing—and holding—his son was a reason to risk his life breaking out.

  The morning whistles blew, and MacNally dressed quickly. Despite being tired due to months of sleep deprivation while working nights atop the cellblock, he felt invigorated by the thought that in fourteen hours, he would crawl out of his cell through the wall vent, and never return.

  Sunday morning breakfast went quickly, and as he walked into the recreation yard to relax, he took a long look at the city and Golden Gate Bridge. Though these sights normally brought sadness, today they infused him with energy. He would be amongst the masses in a matter of hours—in disguise and existing without money—but he would be free and on his way, somehow, to finding his son.

  MacNally locked eyes with Morris, and then they headed toward each other to review the fine points of their plan one final time.

  But as MacNally made his way toward the baseball diamond, he was shoved from behind as his ankle was hooked—and he went tumbling to the pavement. He quickly twisted his torso and saw a man he had seen around—Billy Duncan—a bitter, mean con who had a reputation for fighting. A baseball bat was dropped by MacNally’s right side as Duncan pulled out a shiv and stabbed it toward him.

  MacNally grabbed the bat and swung from the ground, not going for the knife but for Duncan’s knees.

  With a smack! across the bone, the big man crumpled, but not before lunging for MacNally and sticking the shiv into his thigh. MacNally cried out in pain and struggled to move—but the heavy Duncan had landed atop him and started beating him with his fist. On the second blow to MacNally’s face, his hearing became muffled with an intense ringing—and the heads and torsos of the surrounding inmates went blurry.

  MacNally threw up his arms, blocking follow-on blows, but he was in no condition to hit back. His head slammed against fist and pavement until—

  Whistles sounded, followed by

  two gunshots

  The nearby cons hit the ground as several officers ran toward MacNally and Duncan. When they arrived, MacNally’s jacket was soiled with spattered blood and his jeans were soaking in thick, oozing fluid from his thigh wound, where the sharpened-spoon-handle shiv was still protruding.

  Duncan was pulled off MacNally and handcuffed by two guards. MacNally was lifted to his feet, searched for weapons, and then rushed to the hospital.

  MACNALLY AWOKE VARIOUS TIMES, fading in and out before falling back asleep. At one point, he became aware of the fact that he was lying on a bed in a larger cell, a segregation unit in D-Block. He rotated his head to the right, saw the sun setting beyond the barred windows, then flittered off once again into a painkiller and concussion-induced slumber.

  SHOUTING, OFF IN THE DISTANCE. His brain was slow to respond, and his eyes were shut. No—the people were not actually far away; as he regained consciousness, things became clearer. Voices were loud, urgent in their tone. Men were running—no, not men. Hacks.

  Thumping overhead, coming closer...vibrating the penitentiary windows...then retreating. Helicopters.

  MacNally lifted himself off the bed and a wave of dizziness struck him like a blow to the back of his head. He fell back toward the mattress, but threw out a hand to catch himself.

  A sharp pain stabbed at his thigh—and his lips were swollen and cracked. And then he remembered. Billy Duncan. The fight. He was in Seg—he looked up at the windows and saw morning light.

  The escape. No—please. No!

  “They long gone,” a voice emanating from the adjacent cell said. “Left without you, asshole.”

  He knew that voice.

  “Duncannnn,” MacNally screamed, a guttural yell that carried the pain and sorrow of a man who had something of infinite value slip uncontrollably through his hands.

  His chest was heaving, his body drenched in instant perspiration. He pulled himself erect, and he leaned forward into the wall of bars. He put his face up against the cold metal and forced his eyes to the extreme left, trying to see into Duncan’s cell.

  The man was standing there. Laughing.

  “Who did this to me?” MacNally asked. “You started that fight on purpose. To keep me from getting out of here. Was it Rucker? Rucker, you bastard. I’m gonna kill you!”

  “I’ll kill you before you kill me, you son of a bitch,” Rucker’s voice answered back. “Much as I’d like to take credit, wasn’t me.”

  “I’ll find out the truth, Duncan, and then I’m gonna carve you up. Fucking pull your heart out of your chest. I will! I will kill you.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Duncan said. “You’re all talk, MacNally. You ain’t got it in you.”

  MacNally fell back onto his cot. The gash in his lip had reopened, and the stitches in his thigh were bleeding through his clothing. The pain, the swelling, the blood— He didn’t feel any of it. Instead, he put his hands to his face and wept, silently.

  TWO HOURS LATER, THREE MEN appeared at his cell: Captain of the Guards William Anderson and two FBI agents. MacNally was led to the warden’s office, where he was placed in a chair and left in shackles.

  “I’m extremely disappointed in you,” Associate—currently Acting—Warden Arthur Dollison said. He wore a bowtie and a charcoal wool suit, and sported a calm demeanor. “I thought you had made tremendous strides, a concerted effort to follow the institutional rules. You’ve been a good worker in Industries. But now I’m told you were one of the principal architects of the escape. And to think you were no doubt planning this when you sat before me in A-Block at your hearing...” He shook his head, sighed deeply, then took a seat behind his desk. “Deeply disappointed.”

  “We know you were complicit in the escape,” one of the agents said. “We’re in the process of conducting a shakedown of the cellhouse and we just found the same kind of fake ventilation grille in your cell that we found in Morris’s and the Anglin brothers’ cells. We’re going to need the details. Everything you know. Whatever you tell us will be kept confidential, and you will not be identified as the source of information.”

  “When did they leave?” MacNally asked, his gaze fixed on the warden’s desk.

  Dollison glanced at the agents, then decided to answer. “Sometime during the night. In his interview this morning, inmate West told us the three men left their cells sometime around 8pm. But we’ve determined that they didn’t leave the cellhouse roof until 10:30.”

  “West,” MacNally said. He leaned forward in his seat. “Didn’t he go with them?”

  “He claimed that he couldn’t get out of his cell,” the agent said. “There was a hunk of cement he had a hard time removing. We checked the utility corridor, and confirmed a large chunk of concrete was lying just outside his cell. West stated he finally dislodged it around 1am, but by then Morris and the Anglins were gone.”

  “So,” Dollison said, pinching the bridge of his narrow nose. “Now that we’ve answered your questions, it’s time you answered ours.”

  MacNally looked at Dollison. “Warden. I’ll tell you everything I know. But in return, can you go easy on me on setting my time in the Treatment Unit?”

  “You were fighting in the yard a couple days ago. You’re already likely to get a month just for that.”

  “I was attacked,” MacNally said. “Just like last time.”

  “That, sir, seems to happen to you a lot.”

  “Mr. Dollison. I think one of the men who escaped got Billy Duncan to start that fight. Just so I wouldn’t be able to go with them.”

  Dollison looked dubious, but nevertheless made a note on his pad. “We’ll look into that.”

  “One other thing.” MacNally looked from Dollison to the FBI agent. “Did they make it?”

  Dollison held MacNally’s gaze a long moment, then said, “They’re not on the island. Whether they made it to shore, we don’t know.”

  IN THE ENSUING WEEKS, MACNALLY would learn that all three men had made it off The Rock, as Dollison had said. The remnants of their li
fe jackets were located floating off a beach in the Marin headlands, three miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge, along with one of the wooden paddles and two partially deflated life jackets, their canvas laces still tied—indicating they were discarded by the wearers; if they had failed while being worn, the preservers would still be attached to the bodies.

  A waterproof wallet that Clarence Anglin had fashioned from raincoat material, containing a list of phone numbers and photos of relatives, was also found. MacNally laughed. Anglin had told his brother to construct two of them, one containing a number of pictures and an identical list of family contacts; he planned to drop the copy over the side of the raft to lead officials to conclude that they had drowned; the hope was that they would suspend their search. Morris had suggested they dump their life preservers when they made it ashore, lending credence to the authorities’ drowning theory, which he figured would inevitably develop.

  Perhaps more importantly, MacNally also had determined that Billy Duncan had been working on Anglin’s behalf when he had him start the fight that put MacNally in the Hole. With Anglin long gone, Duncan no longer needed to hide his motives. He said that he had owed Anglin a favor dating back to their time while serving out robbery sentences at Raiford State Prison.

  And he now surmised that Anglin had been working with Harlan Rucker in setting him up for getting caught. Rucker had also done time at Raiford—but why Anglin had something against MacNally, he did not know.

  As he gathered information, in a subsequent interview with the FBI agents, he learned that the second raft had never been completed—and that the raft they had found was only designed for three men, four if they sacrificed safety. The triangular design described by the agent conflicted with the style the men had discussed constructing; perhaps the Anglins and Morris had never intended to take him along. He might never know for sure, but it did not matter. His best guess said that the Anglin brothers and Frankie were free.