Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  Vail stepped up to the steel door—it, too, was covered with signs and employee-themed paperwork. She rapped on it. Seconds passed. She banged again, and it finally swung open. She held up her creds, as did Burden and Dixon. “We need to talk with someone in charge.”

  The woman’s eyes flitted over their IDs. “You got her. Elise Cooper. I’m a supervisor. What do you need?”

  “We’re looking for cables in dark places.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go with me on this,” Vail said. “Don’t think too hard. Just—whatever comes to mind first.”

  Cooper shrugged and said, “Well, there are the tunnels...that’d be the most obvious.”

  Vail swung and looked around. Large form machinery, humongous spools of thick, stranded cable and spare brakes and gears filled the space as far as she could see.

  “Tunnels,” Vail said. “Where?”

  Burden scrunched his face. “Tunnels?”

  “Yes,” Vail said. “Cables in small dark places. From the note.”

  Cooper looked from Vail to Burden and back to Vail. “And then there are the blind channels.”

  “What are they like?” Dixon asked.

  “Long tunnels. The sheaves run through them, carry the cables under the street.”

  Burden’s chin jutted forward. “The what? Shivs?”

  “Spelled s-h-e-a-v-e-s, pronounced shivs. Large spool-type pulleys that keep tension on the cables. They enable the cars to change direction, like around curves. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  “Shiv,” Burden said to Vail. “Prison weapons are called—”

  “I know. Something tells me we’re on the right track.”

  Dixon looked at Vail. “Is that a joke?”

  Cooper led them through, and past, what appeared to be a maintenance and repair facility. Industrial grinders, saws, drill presses—a gearhead’s dream.

  Ahead, four lengths of cable crossed above their heads from one end of the long room to the other. To the extreme left, eight large-spoked wheels driven by massive General Electric engines spun in unison, feeding the thick woven wire across the large, rectangular expanse that stretched about seventy-five yards to their far right.

  “Those the sheaves?” Vail asked, pointing at the wheels as they walked past them.

  “Some of them,” Cooper said. “That whole thing—the sheaves, the engines, and the gears—it’s called the winding machine.” She continued across the wood plank and cement flooring, beneath the moving cable, to a series of window-fronted rooms.

  “This is the control room,” Cooper said, then knocked on the glass. “The engineer’ll take you into the Sheave Room.”

  A man waved at her through the window, then opened his door. His tightly cropped afro was highlighted with a sheen of silver at the temples and sides of his head.

  “This is Jerry Haywood,” Cooper said, then turned to her engineer. “FBI Agent Vail, Inspector Burden, and Detective Dixon.”

  Haywood gave a stiff nod at them. “Sumthin I cain hep you with?”

  “Take them down to the Sheave Room, will you, Jerry? To the channels.”

  Haywood bobbed his head, then took off down the hall. He was football player large, but walked with a substantial limp, which appeared to be due to one leg being noticeably shorter than the other.

  “Thanks,” Vail called back to Cooper.

  Burden looked around as they walked. “What is this place?”

  “This here building?” he asked over the din of the large machines, which were now directly to their left. “Car barn up top, powerhouse here and below us. See, there are four lines. Used to be twenty-two, but you know how that goes. Progress.” He led them past the lunch room, to a locked door; he opened it and directed them down a staircase.

  “Each line’s a closed system run by a loop o’ cable. The cable runs all the time down under the streets, below them rails. The cars grip the cable and ride it. Piggyback. That’s how they move. The cars ’emselves don’t have no engine. When the gripman releases the grip’s hold on the cable, the car slows and stops.

  “The cables, they have pine tar all over ’em, kind a like an oil. It liquefies and vaporizes from the heat, smoothes out the metal rubbing on metal. Follow me?”

  “We follow you,” Burden said, sticking close behind Haywood, who apparently moved well despite the limp.

  The engineer reached the bottom of the stairs, and then led them into a long basement-style room that contained several pedestal-mounted horizontal and slanted sheaves, spinning and guiding cable into and out of the room.

  “The cable runs in a loop below ground and ends up down here. This here’s the Sheave Room. You saw them huge gears up there on the floor. The cables go from them winding machines to this here room, where they change direction and go out to the streets to run each of the lines.”

  Vail turned her body in a circle. “We’re looking for a place where a man could hide down here. Someplace dark, where there’s cable.”

  Haywood laughed. “Lots a places here like that. You described juss ’bout every inch of the cable car routes.”

  Vail looked out into the darkness ahead of her, where a fifteen-foot grooved metal wheel was rotating, serving cable into the darkness. “Ms. Cooper mentioned tunnels. Is this one of them?”

  “It ain’t no tunnel, it’s a blind channel. Actually, we now call it The California Conduit. ‘Blind’ ain’t po-litically co-rrect.”

  “Looks like there are two,” Burden said. “Two blind—two conduits.”

  “Two. Yeah. This here one,” Haywood said, pointing to the far end of the room, “it’s California-Mason. Goes ’bout two blocks down, and the other, Washington-Powell”—his hand slid to the side, as if turning left—“it go ’bout a block.”

  “How big—how tall is this conduit?” Dixon asked.

  Haywood led them to the end of the Sheave Room and gestured with his head at the dark area in front of them. “This the biggest it gets. Farther you get, smaller it get. Down to ’bout two and a half feet. You don’t wanna be going that far.”

  “Yeah,” Vail said. “I don’t want to be going at all into either of them...” She stood at the mouth of the tunnels, which sat at ninety degrees to one another, and felt an unease fill her chest. She forced air into her lungs and said to Burden, “You go. I’ll wait here. Coordinate.”

  “Coordinate what?”

  “She can’t go in there,” Dixon said. “Claust—”

  “I forgot. Fine. Roxxann, you take the Washington-Powell tunnel, I’ll take the California-Mason conduit. Karen, you stay here and...” He shrugged. “Go coordinate yourself.”

  “Take these,” Haywood said, reaching to a nearby box and pulling out two helmets with attached headlamps. “Stay clear of the cable. Plenty a room in there. Plenty a room. Just keep away from the cable.”

  Dixon and Burden fixed the helmets to their heads, then stepped in.

  Vail turned to Haywood. “Do people go in there a lot?”

  “People? Yeah, as in maintenance workers and engineers. People like you? Nope.”

  Vail looked in and watched as Dixon disappeared into the darkness. Vail took a step back then cricked her neck toward the engineer. “Anyone ever get crushed?”

  “Crushed?” He laughed, as if she had asked something foolish. “Nah, nothin’ like that.” Haywood made a slashing motion with his hand. “Decapitated. But not crushed.”

  Vail rose to fully face Haywood. “What do you mean, decapitated?”

  “Back in ’79, couple a guys did sumthin’ stupid, dint turn out so good.”

  Vail turned back and again peered into the darkness of both conduits. No sign of Dixon or Burden, or their headlamps. “How so?”

  Haywood chuckled. “These guys, they were up by California and Mason, there’s a pit there beneath the street. The Sheave Pit. They lifted the metal hatch cover and dropped down in there to make some repairs. They radioed in and we shut down the cable. Ain’t enough room in there with th
e thick cable zippin’ by. It’s a real small place, that’s why we call it the pit, ya see? Anyways, they made their repair then lit up a joint, smoked some weed. Well, some asshole figured they were done and started up the cable. Bam. Loss they heads.”

  “How? I mean—”

  “You saw that cable up there. Big, thick, movin’ fast. Tight space. Like I said.”

  “Wait a minute.” Vail thought back to the text from the offender. Look for an old cable in a small dark place near where California bricks were found long ago...Be quick or bye-bye Bob. “Where’s that Sheave Pit located?”

  “Up the hill, at California ’n Mason.”

  Vail faced the engineer. “California bricks. Not bricks of gold, but a mason’s bricks.”

  Haywood eyed her. “You ’kay, lady? Yo talkin’ bullshit. No offense.”

  Vail looked back toward the channels. “That Sheave Pit. It’s small. Is it dark?”

  The engineer threw his hands on his hips. “Now whaddya think? You see lights in there? Pit’s juss as dark.” He walked a few feet and pointed to a sheave, which was still. This here’s the cable that runs through the pit.”

  “How can I get to the Sheave Pit?”

  Haywood lifted an arm and started to point. “Go back outside, then hang a right. Go two blocks or so to Mason. You’ll see a metal—”

  Vail grabbed his shirt and started to pull him along with her. “Take me there.”

  Haywood shrugged off her grip. “Must be outta yo mind if you think I cain leave my post.”

  “You’re right.” Vail pulled her Glock. “I’m out of my mind. Now get going. A detective’s life depends on it, so double-time it.” She gave Haywood a shove in the back and they ran up the stairs, headed for California and Mason.

  AS THEY PASSED THE CONTROL room on the left, Vail pulled her BlackBerry and called Burden, hoping he could have SFPD send a cruiser over to the area above the pit to stop traffic. Just in case her hunch was correct. But the call went right to voicemail. Probably no cell service in the conduit.

  Haywood took her back the way they had come in, past the maintenance area. Two flatbed utility trucks, with equipment and compressors of some sort mounted in the rear, sat in front of Elise Cooper’s office. Haywood pulled a set of keys from his pocket and popped open a door. “Get in, this’ll get us there faster.”

  “How far’s the pit?”

  “Couple blocks directly ahead.” He pulled out onto Jackson, and then flipped a switch and swirling lights began flicking white and red hues above them.

  “That cable you showed me. The one that goes through the Sheave Pit. It wasn’t moving.”

  “Thas because I shut it down. I got an order for repair on the line this evening. ’Round 7:30. The engineer who had the shift ’fore me took everything offline.” He pulled his eyes from the road to consult his watch. “Cable’s due to start back up in ’bout four minutes.”

  “Four minutes—who’s doing the repair?”

  “Don’t know. I assume one of the superintendents assigned a crew.”

  And what do you want to bet there is no crew, and the order was bogus? “Can you shut it down? Keep it from starting back up?”

  “This point, don’t think so.”

  He accelerated, turned right, and then swerved around a taxi—the heaviness of the truck chassis apparent in the vehicle’s sluggish response. “See that tall hotel up ahead? That’s the Fairmont, ’bout where we goin’.”

  A block later, he brought the vehicle to a screeching stop in the middle of the street.

  “We here. Now what?”

  Vail pushed against her door. “Show me the pit. Open it up.”

  “Open the pit?”

  “You can open it,” Vail shouted. “Can’t you?”

  Haywood leaned back. “Yeah, ’course. But—”

  “Then open it. Fast.”

  Haywood got out of the truck and met Vail around back. He fiddled with an apparatus in the rear bed as Vail once again tried Burden and Dixon. Voicemail.

  “How long till the cable starts up?”

  Haywood stopped and glared at Vail. “Jesus, lady. Which you want me to do? Answer yo’ questions or open the goddamn hatch?”

  “Open the goddamn hatch.” She glanced around, looked at her watch, grabbed her temples. What do I have...a minute or two? Or seconds? If Friedberg’s down there...

  Haywood reached into the truck bed and pulled out a carabiner-like clasp. Vail looked down and saw a steel access panel of some sort beside the rail, four feet long by five wide. “Do whatever you can to keep the cable from coming on, even if you don’t think it’s possible.”

  “This point,” Haywood said, “time it take me to make the call, nothin’ I cain do. What you expectin’ to find down there?”

  “A cop. A friend of mine.”

  Haywood’s eyes widened. “Holy Jesus.” He dropped the clasp and crossed himself.

  “Get the fucking hatch open!” Vail grabbed the dangling hook and attached it to the loop on the metal panel. She pointed at him accusingly— “Now!”

  Haywood pulled a metal lever in the back of the truck. A winch started vibrating and whining, and the heavy access panel started rising.

  Vail dropped to her stomach and peered in. It was dark and she couldn’t see more than a few inches below street level. She pulled out the small LED light fastened to her key chain and shone it inside. It was woefully weak. “Robert! Robert, can you hear me? You in there?”

  Nothing. Maybe I got it wrong. All this for nothing. She moved her light to the left—and saw something. Is that— “Shit!” She stuck the light in her mouth and crawled forward, down into the hole, beside the cable—which had not yet started moving—and squeezed deeper in. Haywood yelled something at her, but whatever it was, she didn’t care.

  A wave of claustrophobic anxiety swept over her. Her breathing got rapid. And she couldn’t move her shoulders, which were wedged against something hard on both sides.

  Vail tilted her head back and moved the small light around—and saw Friedberg, wedged against the wall, the cable pressed against the right side of his neck. They were decapitated. Not crushed. Decapitated...

  Vail tried to reach forward, but her arm was stuck. She maneuvered her torso, twisted and pushed with her legs against something and got her right arm free. Extending her hand as far as it would go, she grabbed hold of Friedberg’s shirt and yanked hard. His torso jolted forward and his head fell against her hand. She twisted her body in the opposite direction and freed her other arm, but her neck and shoulders began burning. You can do this Karen. Pull—

  She tightened her left fist against Friedberg’s other collar and yanked. Once, twice, and again—and his torso tilted forward against her forearms. Sweat rolled down her scalp, then into her eyes. She blinked it away and tugged again, and his body moved. It was now as far forward as she could get him, lined up with the opening. All she had to do now was lift him up. Piece of cake. If I was Roxxann.

  She twisted right as far as she could and yelled for Haywood to give her the hook. Almost instantly, she felt the cold metal strike her palm. She pulled the loose wire and struggled to wrap it around Friedberg’s torso, beneath his arm pits, then snapped the carabiner closed around itself.

  “Turn it on! Slowly—” Vail assumed Haywood heard her, but she couldn’t be sure until she heard the winch start up and felt the wire pull taut. “Hold it... Just a sec—”

  She maneuvered herself up out of the pit, then yanked and turned Friedberg’s shoulders as best she could so they would clear the adjacent rail and asphalt wall. “Go!”

  The winch whined and the thick cable jerked to life. Jesus Christ—

  As Friedberg’s body lifted out of the pit, his leg scraped against the stranded cable. It ripped off a section of his pants, but his hips were free and seconds later they cleared street level.

  Vail yelled for Haywood to cut the engine. “And call an ambulance!”

  She unhooked the carabiner, then
gently lowered Friedberg’s torso and head to the pavement. She grabbed his legs and pulled them out of the pit, one by one, then felt for a pulse.

  Fast and thready, skin cool and clammy. Shock. But he’s alive.

  Just then, the cable ground to a halt. But Vail was too busy to care. There was blood—slathered over her hand and jeans.

  Had she cut herself? No. She scanned Friedberg’s body—and found his right pant leg soaked. She yanked off her narrow leather belt and tightened it around his upper thigh. She then lifted both legs.

  “Hold them up,” she yelled to Haywood.

  “Got the cable stopped,” he said, closing his cell phone. “Didn’t think I could.” He took Friedberg’s legs from Vail, then said, “Ain’t you gonna thank me?”

  Vail moved between Friedberg’s legs and laid on top of him—to passersby, it would be misconstrued as an explicit sexual act. But so be it. She needed to keep him warm until the ambulance arrived.

  Vail laid there, body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in her ears.

  Cursing the Bay Killer.

  66

  February 1, 1963

  Alcatraz

  MacNally sat in solitary confinement—D-Block, the Hole, Seg, the Treatment Unit...whatever they chose to call it—and wept. He had much time to consider his actions, his choices, his life. During the past two weeks, after being returned to the cellhouse, he had come to realize that it was highly unlikely that he would ever see Henry again.

  It was a painful thought, as painful as the intense headaches he had been having on a near-daily basis. He wondered if Henry had gotten the letter that he had given Ralph Finelli to mail.

  He hoped he never saw Finelli again, because if he did, he wasn’t sure he would be able to contain the welling anger he felt toward him. Not only had he violated his confidence in reading his letter, but he had apparently told prison officials about his plans to escape.

  There would be a trial, he was told, when he was medically cleared to participate. He had met with a defense attorney, who told him that the evidence against him was inconclusive at best. It appeared that his accomplice, Reece Shoemacher, had murdered Officer Taylor, and that comported with the statement that MacNally had given while in the hospital.