Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  Nevertheless, charges were brought, including conspiracy, assault, and escape. These were likely to result in added years to his sentence. How much remained to be determined.

  In the meantime, prison officials had sentenced him to five years in solitary. He was unsure what that really meant, because he had heard a rumor from another inmate in the hospital that Alcatraz was due to close soon. That meant he would be transferred to a penitentiary somewhere else in the country. If true, he would welcome the opportunity to get as far away from this place as possible.

  As he sat on the cold metal floor in D-Block’s steel-encased Strip Cell—the mattress was removed in the morning and returned in the evening—he was alone with these thoughts, which were as dark as the cell. He was only supposed to be here for forty-eight hours, but as the days mounted, MacNally asked the lieutenant for permission to move into one of the regular cells in the Hole. He had yet to receive an answer, nor was he surprised. At best, he was involved in the murder of one of their men, and at worst he had committed the act himself. He did not expect to be treated well, let alone fairly.

  The clanking of the solid metal D-Block entrance gate grabbed his attention. Even locked away behind a steel door, he could hear that someone had entered the area. A moment later, rusted metal hinges creaked and a slice of light cut into his room. He swung a hand up to his face to block the blinding glare. After spending days in the dark, normal light stung as painfully as if he’d looked directly into the sun.

  A man blocked the entrance and MacNally lowered his arm. No, two men. William Anderson, captain of the guards, and an officer MacNally knew from his time in Industries: Carson Eldridge, who was holding what looked like a letter.

  Anderson reached for the envelope, but Eldridge moved it out of his reach. “All I’m saying is, let me give it to him.”

  “Stay out of this,” Anderson said. “That’s an order.”

  Eldridge’s shoulders slumped and he handed the document to Anderson, who snatched it away.

  Anderson flicked his wrist and tossed it into the cell, several feet from where MacNally was seated. “Happy reading, asshole.” He started to close the steel door, but Eldridge caught it before it shut.

  “Lock it up,” Anderson said, then walked off, his shoes squeaking against the slick, polished concrete floor.

  Eldridge kept the door open an inch, then looked over his shoulder in the direction of his retreating boss. Through the slit, he said, “I’m sorry, MacNally. I didn’t think it was right for you to find out this way.”

  “Find out what?” MacNally pushed himself off the cold floor and walked toward the envelope. As he bent down, he looked at Eldridge for an answer, but the officer was not offering any further information. “Can you turn the light on?”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “But I can’t see anything,” MacNally said as he tore open the flap. “At least tell me what’s inside.”

  Eldridge sucked his bottom lip, then averted his eyes. “Your son. He jumped from a bridge, committed suicide. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”

  MacNally’s eyes glossed over. His hands trembling, he pulled out the letter. A torn newspaper article drifted to his feet, as well as another, smaller, envelope. He stood there staring at the items that had fallen.

  MacNally bent down slowly and picked them up. With moist, trembling hands, he slipped the letter out of its torn envelope. It was the note he had given to Finelli. All he could make out in the scant light was a postal service marking: “Return to Sender.” Behind it, a newspaper article’s large headline screamed at him. Boy Jumps to Death from Bear Mountain Bridge.

  “No!”

  The guttural, pained cry from a man whose life had reached the low of lows, from a man with weightier regrets than a human being was equipped to endure, echoed throughout the cellhouse.

  MacNally threw himself at the bars. Eldridge, a tear evident on his cheek, flinched. And then he slammed the door shut.

  MACNALLY’S WAILING CONTINUED UNABATED. After twenty minutes, Anderson pulled open the outer steel door. His lieutenant, Donald Wright, and a senior officer, Edgar Newhall, stood at his side. Wright turned on a water hose and blasted MacNally in the chest.

  MacNally fell back to the ground, but fought his way to his feet, dodged the stream, and then charged the bars. He ran into them at full force—and continued screaming, a tirade fueled by anger and guilt and the short-circuiting neurons that now comprised his damaged brain’s electrical system.

  The water hose only fueled his rage.

  “Open it up!” Anderson yelled behind him. “Bring him upstairs,” Anderson said to Wright and Newhall. “He needs to be chilled out.” The door was racked open seconds later.

  The men unfurled a white sheet and charged MacNally, swiftly enveloping him and tightly winding his torso, arms and hands, in the cloth. Newhall stuck his foot behind MacNally’s leg and brought him down hard to the cement.

  While on the ground, the two officers snapped leg irons around his ankles, then pulled him upright and led him into the main cellhouse, into the dining hall and up the steps to the hospital.

  But MacNally continued to thrash and yell, making it an adventurous journey—with the three men twice nearly tumbling backwards down the staircase.

  They yanked and pushed and got him down the hallway, where they hung a right into a spacious, white-tiled room. Wright pulled while Newhall pushed, and they got him over to a free-standing white porcelain bathtub that stood against the wall, beneath a large window.

  As they moved him to the edge, MacNally saw that it was filled with ice cubes. Suddenly, something slammed against the back of his knees, and MacNally’s legs buckled. The officers guided him into the bed of ice and held him down.

  Newhall brought his knee up to MacNally’s chest and rested his full weight there. Wright did the same below, across his legs.

  The cold was achingly painful—and eventually numbing. Finally, MacNally felt his anger fading, the draining tirade waning. His breathing slowed, and as he eased his body into the ice, he began to shiver.

  “That’s it,” Newhall said. “We call this the chill out. You calm down, we’ll get you out, warm you up, and take you back to your cell.”

  As he lay there, the fury seemed to melt from his body, replaced by sorrow and the realization that his only family—Henry, his son—was dead. The sadness he felt brought him back to Doris’s death. Seeing her lifeless, bloody body lying on the kitchen floor was life-altering and emotionally shattering. As bad as that was, this seemed worse.

  “Kill me,” MacNally said as his teeth chattered.

  Wright turned to make eye contact. “What?”

  “Kill me. Choke me, stab me, shoot me. I don’t care. Just put me out of my misery.”

  Wright looked at Newhall, who was frowning. Pathetic, his face said.

  “Believe me,” Wright said. “After what you did to Taylor, a lot of guys would be happy if we did end your sorry life. But some think that’d be a mercy killing. No. You’re gonna do your time, imprisoned like some goddamn rabid animal, facing your punishment like a man, you fucking slug.”

  MacNally closed his eyes and he shivered, tears flowing freely, warming his skin.

  Minutes later, as he began losing consciousness, Wright’s voice roused his mind.

  “Let’s get ’im out. He’s done.”

  The two men pulled MacNally out of the tub. Another officer entered the room holding a wool blanket, and they began unfurling the sheet. His arms and hands were free, but his body was trembling.

  The rage welled up yet again, and he began swinging wildly. He connected with Wright’s jaw, sending the man back against the radiator beneath the window.

  The officers slammed MacNally facedown into the tub, then shackled his arms with handcuffs.

  “I’m fucking done with you,” Newhall said. “MacNally, you just bought yourself a ticket to the Bug Room.”

  They yanked him from the tub, then dragged
him down the hallway, hung a right into a narrow corridor, and up three steps into an area with tan-tiled walls. The third officer swung open a thick door to their left, and Newhall and Wright shoved MacNally into the eight-by-eight room. He went sprawling face-first to the floor.

  MacNally rolled over and lay there on his back: tiled walls, a glass-block window, and a hole in the corner to use as a toilet. That was it.

  The men slammed the thick door closed and locked it.

  67

  Vail, Burden, and Dixon stood in the middle of the California and Mason intersection, which SFPD had closed off with squad cars and officers, diverting traffic to alternate routes. An ambulance sat parked near the still-open cable car hatchway, and a female and male paramedic were tending to Friedberg a few paces away.

  “Why did he do it?” Burden said. “Why not just kill Robert like he did Hartman?”

  “It wasn’t about Robert,” Vail said. “The other vics have some personal meaning to the UNSUB. Robert didn’t. And...” Vail looked off at the Fairmont Hotel.

  “And what?” Dixon asked.

  “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “Oh, okay,” Burden said, nodding animatedly. “So don’t tell us.”

  Vail managed a slight chuckle. “The offender probably did this whole thing with Robert for two reasons. One you know—to fuck with us. Show his superiority. The other was...to keep us occupied.”

  “Occupied?” Dixon asked. “Occupied while he did what?”

  “Exactly,” Vail said. “That’s the problem. I have a feeling some bad shit’s gonna go down.”

  The male medic who was hunched over Friedberg’s left arm straightened up. “IV line established.”

  “Hang saline and give him O2,” the woman said as she applied a compressive pack to Friedberg’s leg. “Neuro intact. No other wounds. Looks like he might’ve nicked the femoral.” She turned to Vail while she finished wrapping the bandage. “The Inspector probably would’ve bled out if you didn’t get him out of there when you did.”

  Thanks, lady. But I was more worried about the goddamn cable severing his head.

  “Vitals stable.” The male medic placed the oxygen mask over Friedberg’s face. “Ready to transport.”

  The medics moved to either end of the gurney, released the legs, and then pushed it into the open ambulance bay.

  As the woman grabbed the right door to swing it closed, she said, “Anyone riding with him?”

  “Yes...” Friedberg said weakly, the clear plastic mask riding up and down with the motion of his jaw.

  “I’ll go,” Vail said. “Burden—I think you should come too. Roxx, you wanna follow in the car? See if you can reach Carondolet and Yeung, maybe they’ve got something on Hartman’s phone.”

  Vail and Burden climbed in behind the male paramedic, who sat at Friedberg’s head. He immediately began adjusting the IV line and the two hanging bags.

  “So weak,” Friedberg said.

  The man reached across Friedberg’s body and reseated his oxygen mask. “You’re one tough hombre, Inspector. To think clearly, let alone talk—pretty impressive. Soon as we get your fluid levels up, you’ll feel a little stronger.”

  Vail leaned a hand on the gurney’s frame. “Can you tell us what happened? Did you see the offender?”

  “Smoke. Want...one.”

  The medic swiveled, nearly knocking out the IV. “A cigarette? Are you crazy?”

  Friedberg lifted the left corner of his mouth in a one-sided grin, then rolled his head toward Vail. “Thanks. For saving my life.”

  She lifted the mask an inch away from his mouth. “Tell us about the offender.”

  “Hit from behind, never saw him. Woke up in a dark place. Never spoke.”

  “Any idea where he had you?” Burden asked.

  “Oil smell, grease. Heard noises...but he had something over my ears.” Friedberg closed his eyes.

  Vail looked over at Burden. “The cable car barn?”

  Friedberg said, “He moved me once—no, twice, I think. Gave me something, drugged me.”

  “How long’s he gonna be laid up?” Burden asked the medic.

  “The doc’s gonna be able to give you a much better answer. But assuming no internal injuries, infections, or neurological damage, two to three days. Best case.”

  Friedberg closed his eyes again. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” Vail said. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Get your strength back. We need you. Apparently, the offender is fixated on San Francisco bakeries.”

  “Bakeries.” Friedberg’s eyes opened. “I’m reading a book—”

  “I know.” Vail grinned, then gently set the mask back in place. “Get better. And get back on the street.”

  68

  Vail and Burden left Friedberg at the entrance to the Saint Francis Memorial Hospital emergency room. Dixon, following in the Taurus, swung by and rolled down her window. “Get in—we’ve got something.”

  She didn’t need to say it twice. The moment Burden hit the backseat and Vail the front, Dixon accelerated.

  “Yeung got Hartman’s cell phone logs. He’s working on it with our guys at Bryant Street, but I can tell you one name stood out like a bullet hole in the forehead.”

  “Someone we know?” Burden asked.

  “Stephen Scheer.”

  Vail’s mouth dropped open. She immediately held up her hands. “Hold on. Let’s think this through before we pull the trigger. They both live in San Francisco, Hartman handled major crimes and Scheer’s a police reporter for a major newspaper. Maybe Hartman had a case Scheer was covering.”

  Dixon, driving twice the speed limit and weaving through the light traffic, was nodding at each of Vail’s suggestions. But then she said, “Certainly possible, and very logical. But it doesn’t appear to be the case. The calls all came within the last few days. And all of them were before you got that note from the offender.”

  That’s not good.

  “As if that’s not enough, his last call was tonight. While we were at Alcatraz.”

  Burden grabbed the front seat and pulled himself forward. “That’s who called Hartman when he left the cellhouse?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Can that be? Was I standing right next to the offender and didn’t see it? Is that possible? No. Yes.

  “Where’s he now?” Burden asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” Dixon said, blaring her horn at a truck that pulled in front of her. “Yeung and Carondolet are on their way to Scheer’s house right now. And, coincidentally, so are we.”

  THEY ARRIVED AT THE NARROW two-story home on College Avenue in Berkeley twenty minutes later. A Ford was double-parked haphazardly, blocking the narrow street.

  “So they’re here,” Burden said as they got out of the Taurus.

  They marched up to the door and were about to knock when Yeung pulled it open. “We woke his wife and sons. She went to put the younger one back to bed.”

  Vail, Burden, and Dixon walked into the entryway. It was a modest home with spartan furnishings. Children’s toys littered the floor in front of an old tube television. Framed newspaper clippings of what were presumably Scheer’s early articles hung over the couch.

  A woman in her late forties walked in, pulling her auburn hair back in a bun. She stopped when she saw another three cops standing in her home.

  Vail, Burden, and Dixon identified themselves. Vail asked, “Ms. Scheer, do you know where your husband is?”

  “You can call me Kathleen.” She bent down and began picking up the mess of toys strewn across the weathered wood floor. “What’s Stephen done now? Drunk in public again? Peeing on some homeless guy?” She uttered a pathetic laugh. “He did that once.” She stopped and put a hand to her forehead. “So embarrassing. I met the editor of the paper down at the police station and had to watch while he called in a favor so they didn’t charge him. Just a misdemeanor, but it’d be humiliating to the paper.”

  “Kath
leen,” Burden said. “It’s not like that. We think he can help us with a case he’s been working on.”

  “Must be important if it can’t wait till morning.”

  They stared at her, feeling their explanation was sufficient.

  Finally, Kathleen straightened up and said, “I don’t know what you want from me. Have you checked his apartment?”

  “We weren’t aware he had one,” Yeung said.

  “We separated last month. I’d had enough.”

  Burden asked, “Did he...abuse you?”

  “He had an addiction problem, Inspector. Mostly alcohol, some drugs. He’d go through rehab, then start drinking and we were off and running all over again. It was a never-ending cycle. I finally played the only card I had. I told him I didn’t want him around our boys if he couldn’t keep himself straight. I changed the locks. He got the apartment, and hasn’t stopped calling and apologizing.”

  “Can we have the address?” Dixon asked.

  “It’s in Rockridge,” Kathleen said, then gave them the street and number. “Is he really a witness? Or a suspect?”

  “We think he has answers to a case we’re working and we really need his help,” Vail said. The truth.

  “Have you noticed any strange behavior the past couple of weeks?” Dixon asked.

  She set both hands on her hips. “Now that doesn’t sound like a question you’d ask about a witness now, does it?”

  Carondolet checked his watch. “Please, Ms. Sch—Kathleen. Just answer the question.”

  “His behavior’s always a bit strange. I mean, people with addictions aren’t normal, are they?”

  Depends on your definition. “Behavior that you’d consider outside Stephen’s norm,” Vail said.

  “No. But I also have been trying to avoid him, so I’m not sure I can answer that.”

  And that could’ve been his trigger. “Is he an empathetic person? Does he socialize well, form bonds?”