Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “I’ll get on it. Call you as soon as we have something.”

  They met Carondolet and Yeung in front of the hood of their car. Yeung had his laptop open, and a warden information card filled the screen. A mug shot showed a man wearing a red, white, and black placard around his neck, identifying him as ALCATRAZ 1577. Walton MacNally.

  “So this is our guy,” Burden said.

  Vail placed both hands on the car’s hood and leaned closer to the PC. The screen’s brightness, amidst the dark parking lot, played harshly across her face. “One of them.”

  “You’ve had time to look this over,” Dixon said. “What’s the big picture?”

  Carondolet folded his arms across his chest. “They had MacNally pegged as a very bright guy, scored a 135 on a prison IQ test. Resourceful, motivated, hard worker. Did fifteen months at Leavenworth but was involved in two escape attempts and was suspected in the violent assault of two cons. After the second attempt, he was transferred here, where his history of violence continued. His intake card said he was considered a ‘serious escape risk.’”

  “What was the original offense?” Burden asked.

  “Convicted of two counts of armed robbery and one of kidnapping. Oh, and he’s listed as widowed. Get this—he was arrested and tried for murdering his wife but was ultimately found not guilty.”

  Vail pursed her lips. “Well, that’s certainly...an impressive record. We’d be silly not to consider this guy a prime suspect.”

  “I thought we already did,” Yeung said.

  “We did. But we’ve been running all over the place tonight looking at Stephen Scheer.”

  “And?” Carondolet asked.

  Dixon bent over the laptop beside Vail and scrolled down. “And he’s looking guilty. Of what, it’s hard to say. But something isn’t right with him.”

  “How old is the guy?” Vail asked. “MacNally.”

  “Apparently,” Dixon said, paging down a document, “a spry and fit 79.”

  “A few other things you should know,” Yeung said. “He was involved in a number of violent altercations. One with a guy you’re familiar with: one of our vics, Harlan Rucker, who he apparently had some bad blood with dating back to Leavenworth. Rucker and an accomplice attacked MacNally in Industries with a knife.”

  “I’m liking MacNally more with each passing minute,” Burden said. “What else?”

  Yeung cocked his head. “There was a clergyman at Alcatraz by the name of Finelli. He tried to pass a letter from MacNally to his son, but it apparently got returned unopened. The kicker is that there’s a warden’s note saying that Finelli tipped off prison officials about MacNally’s plans to escape, and the attempt ended very badly.”

  “Badly for who?” Dixon asked.

  “Everyone. An officer was killed, and an inmate who was in on the escape with MacNally also got killed.”

  “Who killed the CO and inmate?” Vail asked.

  “The reports of the incident are sketchy,” Carondolet said. “The file says it was unknown who killed the officer, MacNally or the other inmate. It also says MacNally fell down the rockbed during his escape attempt and the responding officers rescued him from drowning.”

  “But?”

  “But when I was a ranger we were told that rumors were rampant at the time among the inmate population that MacNally killed both the guard and the prisoner. And that revenge was dished out by one of the guards who found MacNally in back of the Powerhouse, on the Old North Caponier. Tuned up MacNally pretty badly. The doc, according to the rumor, covered for the CO and wrote a bogus report.”

  “Let me guess,” Vail said. “The doctor’s name was Martin Tumaco.”

  “Give that lady a pat on the ass,” Carondolet said. “And the officers involved were—ready for this? Russell Ilg and Raymond Strayhan.”

  “Holy shit,” Burden said. “We’ve got our guy. MacNally is our fucking UNSUB.” He looked at Vail. “Right?”

  Vail pushed up from the hood. “Maybe.” Something’s still not adding up. “It looks that way. But...a couple of things are bugging me. MacNally is a violent criminal, I get that. But I’m not seeing convincing evidence he’s a psychopath. The behaviors we’ve observed at the crime scenes, particularly what he did to the women... It doesn’t fit, at least not given the information we’ve got.”

  Burden sighed. His frown telegraphed the disappointment that was now burnished on his face. “You said there were two things bothering you.”

  “Scheer. He threatened Hartman to get dirt on me, and when Hartman was all too happy to give it to him, that information ended up in my hotel room along with the type of key that the offender left at crime scenes.”

  “You’re wondering,” Dixon said, “what the connection is between a deadbeat journalist with a shady past—and present—and a former Alcatraz con.”

  “Shady past?” Yeung asked.

  “Scheer’s got a sealed juvie record,” Dixon said. “And remember, his wife didn’t exactly paint a Man of the Year portrait for us.”

  “Scheer’s his son,” Vail said softly.

  “What?” Burden asked.

  Vail curled some hair behind her ear. “MacNally had a son. Maybe it’s Scheer.”

  “But I thought Scheer was adopted.”

  Vail shook her head. “We don’t know that. It’s a likely explanation for the two birth certificates. But it’s just a guess.”

  “Even so,” Dixon said, “big deal. MacNally’s son could’ve been adopted.”

  “Could Scheer be a psychopath?” Bledsoe asked.

  Vail sighed deeply. “Psychopaths are very skilled at deception, so it’d be possible for us not to pick up on it. Not to mention he had us running all over the goddamn city, keeping us busy while he readied his grand show: killing John Anglin and placing him in his original cell for us to find. Everything he’s done has been planned, calculated. But he also works off what we do and shifts strategy on the run if he needs to.” Vail massaged her forehead. “So yeah, it’s possible. I need something to eat. And some coffee.” And some sleep. “I’m having a hard time thinking straight.”

  “What happened to MacNally?” Burden asked. “Where is he now?”

  Carondolet moved in front of his laptop and clicked, then scrolled. “Here it is.” He read a moment, then said, “That head injury was pretty bad. He had brain damage to—”

  “Brain damage?” Vail nearly shouted. “That could change everything. You numb nuts didn’t think to tell us that earlier?”

  “Excuse me,” Yeung said. “You’re not the only one who’s been up all night. Back off.”

  Vail held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. My ASAC wants me to play nice with you guys out here because I may be making more trips out to California. So let me rephrase. You numb nuts didn’t think to tell us that earlier?”

  Carondolet and Yeung looked at Burden, who was merely studying the ground, shaking his head. And doing his best to stifle a laugh.

  “His injury was to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe,” Yeung said with a tight jaw. “According to the doc’s report in the file, that means he—”

  “Suffered from severe impairments in judgment, insight, and foresight,” Vail said. “My colleague’s done a lot of research on brain trauma and violent crime, and this kind of frontal disinhibition syndrome was something he briefed us on a few months ago. If that’s what MacNally has, that might explain a lot. I can dial him up, see if he can shed some more light on it.”

  “So where’s MacNally now?” Dixon asked.

  “After Alcatraz closed in ’63, he was transferred to Atlanta, then to the new max pen at Marion when it opened a few months later. He served another fifteen years and was released in ’77.”

  “Released,” Burden said. “That’s freaking great.”

  “We all know that’s common,” Yeung said. “Last known whereabouts, he was in Chicago. But that was back in ’78. He fell off the radar after that.”

  “Please tell me one of you
guys put out a BOLO,” Vail said.

  Yeung closed the lid of his laptop. “Done.”

  “All right, look,” Burden said, rubbing his hands together as if trying to generate warmth. “We can’t stand out here all night. Let’s go back to Bryant. Get some food and coffee, give ourselves time to clear our heads, then attack it fresh.”

  It was approaching 4:15 AM when they walked into Homicide with several coffees and a selection of pastries from Sparky’s all night diner.

  Vail, Burden, and Dixon greeted Friedberg, who looked pallid and drawn, but otherwise appeared to be holding his own.

  While the others settled in for an all-staff conference to review the latest developments and relevant case points, Vail called the profiler at the BAU who had written a number of research papers on brain injuries and their impact on violent behavior: her new partner, Frank Del Monaco.

  “Frank,” Vail said, moving away from the commotion of gathering inspectors and interns. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “You mean you need something from me,” Del Monaco said. “Admit it and I’ll be more than happy to help you. Well, I’ll help you. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Vail rolled her eyes. “Yes, Frank. I need your help.”

  “Isn’t it like the middle of the night in California?”

  “Now there’s the perceptive man I’ve come to know and loathe.”

  “Karen, I know you have a hard time with this. But when you call someone to ask a favor, you shouldn’t start the conversation with an insult.”

  “Goes to my point, doesn’t it? Your perceptive powers are truly exceptional. So. My question pertains to the research you’ve done on brain injuries. We’ve got a suspect we really like who suffered substantial head trauma that resulted in damage to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe. I remember you telling us about the inhibitory effects—”

  “Wait, wait. Hang on. You mean you were actually paying attention to what I was saying?”

  “I know,” Vail said, “as hard to believe as that may be, sometimes you say something intelligent. So I have to be on my toes for that rare moment. Now, can you help me or not?”

  “You know we’re going to be working together, right?”

  “If you’re trying to piss me off by bringing that up, you’ve succeeded. Now, your research.”

  “There’s actually a new study out of Israel that I’m incorporating into a paper I’ve been working on. I won’t bore you with the details of the trial, but the bottom line is that the impairment patterns we see in the personalities of psychopaths are mimicked in individuals who’ve sustained frontal lobe damage. Very aggressive and highly impulsive and uninhibited violence.”

  “You’re shitting me. You wouldn’t joke about that, right? I’m serious—this could be huge.”

  “First of all, the frontal lobe symptoms they observed in the study were a bit different from the typical psychopath’s instrumental, cold-blooded, and predatory violence. Second, just because such an injury can cause psychopathic-like behaviors, doesn’t mean it has to. Third, no. I’m not yanking your chain. The study was conducted out of the University of Haifa and—”

  “Was it good research? I mean, do you trust it?”

  “The sampling’s smaller than I’d like, but the study’s sound, Karen. I think you can take this to the bank.”

  “All right, listen up, Frank, because you’re not going to hear this often: Thank you.”

  Before Del Monaco could come back with a sharp retort, she disconnected the call and shoved the BlackBerry in its holster. She rejoined the group, related the information, and explained the implications of the new research. “I’m thinking this changes our focus. Or at least my assessment. It seems that MacNally could very well be exhibiting psychopathic-type behaviors.”

  “So you think he’s our guy?” Friedberg asked.

  Vail hesitated. “Could be, Robert. It’s not a definite. But I’m fairly certain he’s involved. Is he the offender? He fits the profile. I would’ve pegged the UNSUB to be a younger guy, no later than his mid-fifties. But given his long history of incarceration and everything that happened to him, the age can be adjusted.”

  “Adjusted how?” Carondolet asked.

  “First of all, incarceration retards social growth, so even though we’re looking at a seventy-nine year old, given that he spent almost twenty years in prison, that takes us down to the late fifties. And if we consider that the first murder we might attribute to him occurred in ’82, I think we are definitely in the ballpark.”

  “Can a seventy-nine year old do the murders we’ve seen?” Dixon asked.

  “Depends on the person,” Burden said. “Some guys that old are frail, others are fit and pretty freaking spry. Done right, he can control the victim with a gun or a knife or even his words. The only question would be the way he’s gotten the males tied to the columns and poles. But the rope and pulley setup he used could explain that.”

  “And he could’ve had help,” Yeung said.

  “Karen,” Dixon said, “you mentioned Scheer could be his son. If so—”

  “Negatory on that,” Carondolet said. “I kept reading the file on the way back here. His son was placed in an orphanage in ’59, committed suicide in ’63. Jumped from a suspension bridge in upstate New York.”

  Friedberg said, “Another son, then? A nephew? Maybe on his wife’s side of the family. Or he had a son by another woman and he didn’t find out till later in life.”

  “See what you can find out,” Burden said.

  Friedberg conferred with an intern, who began tapping away on the inspector’s keyboard.

  Forty minutes later, they informed the others that there was no record of other children fathered by Walton MacNally. “At least, none in the available databases that can be traced to MacNally.”

  “So we’re back to our two suspects, MacNally and Scheer,” Burden said.

  Carondolet’s phone rang. He slid off the worktable and, forcing down a yawn, answered the call. A moment later, he said, “The teams are leaving the island. They just wrapped up their search. It’s clean. Our guy’s not there.”

  “No surprise there,” Dixon said. “He killed a federal agent... He’s gotta know the heat’s been jacked up to the max. Why the hell would he stick around?”

  “We had to check,” Yeung said. “Now we know for sure.”

  “Here we go,” Friedberg said. “Just got an email from the cop I asked to track down the detective who handled Scheer’s case. The sealed juvie record.”

  “And?” Burden asked.

  “And he was more than pissed we woke him in the middle of the night. But he remembered the case, even though it was thirty-something years ago.” Friedberg scrolled down with the keyboard. “Scheer was sixteen when he raped a girl.” He swung his eyes over to Vail.

  “Two teens having a good time and then she said no and he didn’t listen?”

  Friedberg read a bit, then said, “Well, the detective didn’t so much as remember the details of the rape as much as what the kid did to him. Guy said Scheer went into a rage when they arrested him, kicked him pretty badly trying to get away, and broke his wrist. Had to get it pinned and was on medical disability for a year before he was able to fire a handgun.”

  Dixon poured another cup of coffee, then set the pot down. “I think we’ve got a decent view of who Stephen Scheer was—and is. Between the rape and what his wife told us, he’s not exactly the kind of guy you want to bring home to your mother.”

  “But is he the kind of guy who could torture and murder several women and men?” Friedberg asked. “Is he the Bay Killer?”

  “We’ve got that video of our UNSUB from the Palace of Fine Arts,” Burden said. “Now that we’ve narrowed our suspect pool, how about we take another look at the tape?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Friedberg had called up the footage on his PC and was scrolling slowly through the dark and grainy image of their hooded offender. Carondolet and Burden felt it could be Scheer
; Yeung, Vail, and Dixon thought it was impossible to reach a conclusive determination. The others either shrugged or walked away without rendering an opinion. Friedberg kept looping the excerpt. Finally, ten minutes later, he pressed Stop and buried his face on his desk.

  THEY SPENT ANOTHER TWO HOURS reviewing the files, discussing the timeline and the victimologies. With the morning sun hiding behind thick, low-hanging fog, and the first support personnel beginning to filter into the office, Vail pulled her feet off the worktable and sat up straight. She felt like crap, and thought she probably looked like it, too.

  Just as she was entertaining the thought that they had not heard from the offender—nor had they been able to find any trace of Stephen Scheer or Walton MacNally—her phone began vibrating. Vail yawned and reached for the BlackBerry at the same moment. But what she saw on the screen nearly knocked her back into the chair.

  “Hartman’s phone.” She looked at Dixon, then brought it to her ear. “Vail.”

  But she realized it was a text, and instantly pulled it away from her face. Jesus. I really need some sleep.

  did you miss me

  oh yes you did

  because im still doing my thing

  “That’s it?” Vail stared at the screen. “What the hell do we do with that?”

  Burden, Friedberg, Carondolet, and Yeung had joined Dixon at Vail’s side. The phone began trembling yet again.

  time has come to purge the evil

  meet me where the devil still resides

  “Devil’s Island,” Friedberg said. “A nickname for The Rock. What else could he mean?”

  “He who,” Burden said. “Gotta be Scheer. Hartman’s phone was missing when we found him tied to the smokestack, and Scheer was the one who left that note for Karen—”

  “But if we’re convinced it’s Scheer,” Yeung said, “what’s his connection to MacNally?”

  “Without more facts,” Vail said, “we can fall back on the kindred-souls-find-each-other scenario. Whatever the reason, we’ve got to find him—them—fast. If we can believe his text, our offender’s back on Alcatraz.”