Inmate 1577

by Alan Jacobson

  “I tried that,” Vail said, studying the pad. “Not enough letters. Clay Allman—”

  “That’s because his full name is Clayton W. Allman. Remember? You saw it on his byline in that article we read.”

  Word play wasn’t Vail’s game, but one particular four-letter noun flooded her thoughts.

  She grabbed her phone back from Dixon and dialed Yeung, hoping the call would go through. “We need all available agents, cops, inspectors, everyone—looking for Clay Allman. I’m betting he’s somewhere on the island. Use extreme caution—he’s the Bay Killer.”

  After a beat of silence, Yeung said, “Come again?”

  “You heard right. Clay’s our UNSUB.” Vail pressed END, then started up the hill toward the cellhouse. “There was more to his message.” She tried to steady her hand long enough to read the text: “‘I can see clearly now’ is another dig at us—can’t we see what we’ve been missing? But he’s ‘on top of the world’...” Vail craned her neck up at the structure that stood on the highest point of the island. “The cellhouse roof. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Burden and Dixon said simultaneously.

  They took off running, toward the building’s entrance.

  70

  “There,” Dixon said, pointing to an open set of barred doors along the side of the institution. Above the entrance, a green sign read, Main Cellhouse.

  They jogged through what was once a sally port and saw a park ranger standing at the end of the long hallway that led to the Showers and Clothing room.

  “FBI,” Vail said, holding up her creds. “What’s the fastest way to the roof?”

  “East Gun Gallery,” the woman said. “Why?”

  “Take us,” Burden said. “Fast.”

  As they ran up the adjacent staircase and entered the cellhouse at Times Square, Carondolet appeared. He jogged with them down Broadway and over to the corner of Park Avenue and the end of C-Block. They entered the East Gallery via a ladder, then climbed three more flights before emerging on the roof, handguns drawn.

  The fog was beginning to lift, as Vail saw the city poking out across the Bay. Behind them, the lighthouse was working overtime.

  A blast from the foghorn sounded off in the distance, and the scream of scattering gulls filtered up from the old parade ground below.

  Using hand signals, the four of them spread out in a V formation, Burden and Dixon on Vail’s and Carondolet’s flank, slightly ahead of them. They advanced slowly, toward the north end of the roof.

  To their left stood two massive, horizontally mounted black metal cylindrical water tanks perched atop concrete stands. They moved past them onto the largest, and widest, section of the roof.

  Carondolet held up a hand and they stopped. He pointed at the brick and glass structures that extended into the distance lengthwise along the roof and said, in a near whisper, “These are the cellhouse skylights over Broadway, Seedy Street, and Michigan Avenue. And there’s the vent Morris and the Anglins climbed through in ’62,” he said, gesturing at a flat, welded-shut metal plank.

  “Can the Park Ranger tour,” Vail said. “Useful information only—what are we looking at with this roof?”

  “I’m getting to it,” Carondolet said.

  “Get to it faster.”

  He frowned at her and continued: “The height of the skylights on the east and west ends limit our fields of vision to only what we can see in that particular aisle. There are also pipes that run the length of the roof, circular vent outlets, and two large skylights down there, over the hospital. Plenty of places to hide behind.”

  Vail did not think Clay Allman was interested in hiding—that’s not what this was about.

  “And the roof drops off up ahead, over the hospital wing,” Carondolet said.

  Vail peered into the thinning fog. “So there’s a big blind spot.”

  “Exactly.”

  Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. Now that’s useful.

  Burden looked over the area in front of them, then said, “Let’s each take an aisle and move forward, toward the hospital. Roxxann, clear that east section. It’s blind from here, so we’ll wait for your signal.”

  Dixon moved to her right and pushed her back up against the flat end of the skylight. While the others waited and stood at the ready, eyes prowling the remainder of the expansive rooftop, Dixon spun toward the hidden section, her SIG extended, knees bent, anticipating—anything. But seconds later, she gave them an all-clear hand signal.

  They shifted left, toward the west end of the building, and headed down the remaining three aisles: Burden to the left, Vail along the middle section, Carondolet one section over to her right, and then Dixon. They moved slowly but methodically forward, toward the narrow portion of the roof, which at that point spanned approximately forty yards in width and about a hundred in length: the hospital.

  Carondolet’s description was correct: there was a substantial drop-off in the roofline. As they approached, the skylights ended and the four cops had a view of one another.

  Vail held up a hand and they all stopped; she pointed at the hospital roof, fifteen feet ahead, then held out her Glock in a Weaver stance.

  “Come out, Clay. Slowly.”

  Clay Allman backed away from the blind spot. “About fucking time. You people are so damn stupid, you know that?”

  Allman was holding a pistol in his right hand and what looked like a Boker stiletto knife in his left. But he was not making any threatening moves.

  “Clay,” Burden said. “What the hell?”

  Vail knew that to get the most out of this discussion, she needed to play to his grandeur. But she was not interested in learning about Clay Allman...or whatever he chose to call himself. At the moment, all she really wanted to do, deep down, was put a bullet in his brain. She shoved those visceral thoughts aside and said, “You understand you’re not in control anymore, right, Clay?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. I’ve accomplished most of what I wanted. I blew up the island. Officers, cons, didn’t matter to me. They were all here today. It was, I have to say, a perfect day to take care of business. I’ve been planning this for a long, long time, Vail.”

  “But you didn’t blow up the island. You can’t see what’s going on down there, but we drained the tank before the bomb went off. You caused some damage, yeah. But when the fog burns off, you’re gonna see. Everyone’s safe—the former prisoners, the officers—they’re below us, eating breakfast.”

  Allman’s face stiffened and his grip tightened around his pistol.

  Vail knew he was using every bit of self-discipline to keep from lashing out at her—because that would, in effect, give credence to what she was saying: that he had lost control.

  And she knew he would not yield that power to her.

  “Let me describe it to you, Clay. You knocked out the corner of the Powerhouse, and there’s a brush fire. But the buildings are still standing. No one died.” She tilted her head. “You accomplished nothing.”

  “Scheer’s dead. That’s something. I saved the city from a second rate reporter who got his lunch handed to him by a crime-writing serial killer.” He chuckled—a forced attempt to cover his anger. “What kind of headline would that make?”

  “I have to give credit where it’s due,” Vail said. “You had me. All of us—we had no clue. And that thing with Mike Hartman. That was very, very smart.”

  “I figured you’d make that connection, and I also knew you wouldn’t ask him about it. According to him, it was pretty embarrassing for you. And it posed a bit of a risk to you and your cushy career. It was patently obvious that you two didn’t like each other. It was a calculated risk for me, but I know you better than you know yourself.”

  Don’t bet on it. You guessed right this time, but that’s it, pal.

  “So I established a connection between Scheer and Hartman, so that you’d see they talked. Because I knew you’d look at his phone logs. See, I’ve been hanging around Homicide for thirty years. I kno
w how you people think, how you run investigations. I knew what you were going to do before you did it.”

  You framed Scheer. And you ran us ragged because you knew we couldn’t help ourselves. Texting us right under our noses, a dozen, two dozen feet away. Fuck you, asshole. She wanted to say that—but held her tongue. Instead, she pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “I have to give it to you Clay, you got us good. Even faked your own death. That was particularly astute—for a kid, that’s impressive.” Actually, it’s goddamn scary.

  “I still remember that day, when I figured it out. What an awesome feeling, to know I could set things in motion and then observe the cause and effect. That’s when I realized the power of the media. I could make people do things, lots of people, all by myself. So I acted distraught for a few days. Didn’t talk to anyone. Then I told a couple kids I was gonna jump off the bridge, where and how. Then that night I snuck out of the orphanage, and waited. They went ape-shit looking for me. They finally must’ve questioned those kids, because they swarmed the bridge and the water. Pretty funny to watch.”

  “I don’t think they found it funny,” Vail said.

  Allman contorted his face as if she had just spoken gibberish. “They didn’t give a shit about me. I was a bastard of a kid, no one liked me. But people did come. I watched what happened, how the cops showed up, how the reporters came, too, scribbling on their notepads, taking photos. And the article in the newspaper the next day. The town, coming out and laying flowers on the bridge. The power! What a fucking rush. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Vail nodded. “Yeah, Clay. I get it.”

  “Do you really? The media ruled. A journalist—he writes something and people believe it. Right? I mean, now we have the Internet and blogs and anybody can write shit and the idiots of this country think these ‘experts’ know what they’re talking about. But!” he said, raising the knife as if to make a point, “until a few years ago, the journalist—the real journalist—interpreted. Analyzed. Composed—and controlled the news.

  “I knew then, back in 1963, that I could do what I wanted. I dreamed of working alongside the police and killing people—and laughing at the cops’ ignorance. And then to have the ability to legally return to the crime scenes and see everyone’s reaction, to objectively view my work—and then write about it afterwards for hundreds of thousands of people to read. How fucking awesome would that be?”

  Allman held up the hand with the stiletto. “Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. Very awesome. It’s what I’ve lived for. It’s what’s kept me going, day after day, year after year...plotting, waiting, planning.” He grinned slyly. “But it turned out to be even better than I’d fantasized. Having drinks with the detectives the same night that I killed someone.” He chuckled and locked eyes with Burden. “And they had no fucking clue! No one would suspect me; I had the perfect cover.” He looked up at the sky. “I get goosebumps even now, just thinking about doing it again.”

  Vail heard Burden’s shoes crunch against the roof’s loose gravel. She extended her left arm and held him back.

  Allman canted his head in mock sympathy. “Sorry if that hurts your feelings, Birdie. You know how many times I walked into Homicide after murdering someone? And not one of you had a clue. You and I sat down over lunch an hour after I killed Billy Duncan in ’90. Remember that? When I told you I was late because I got tied up? I thought you’d key in on that when I sent the text at Inspiration Point about Friedberg. But you disappointed me. I thought you were a better detective than that.”

  “That’s what happens when people we care about are involved,” Burden said, his voice tight, intense restraint evident. “We don’t think clearly. We don’t suspect those close to us because we don’t want to think they’re monsters.”

  “Aww,” Allman said, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “I understand. But...actually, I don’t. I don’t know love. Or friendship. Or guilt. I realized a long time ago I’m not like other people—how they feel things, how they get hurt by things, how they love things. I know what they’re saying, but I don’t understand it.”

  So true. The failings of a psychopath. No emotions other than periodic anger and rage.

  “No emotional attachments, no bonds, with anyone.” Allman looked off for a second, as if pondering his own self. Then he turned back to Vail.

  “You can fake it, but you can’t feel it,” Vail said. “So why’d you do it? Why kill all these people, Clay? Or should I call you Henry?”

  A loud banging noise—from behind Allman.

  “What’s that?” Burden asked.

  Allman looked over his shoulder, behind the large skylight several feet behind him. “Oh, someone’s awake. Let me show you.”

  Vail raised her Glock, but Allman did the same as he backed away.

  “I’ve got someone here you’re gonna want to meet.”

  Vail, Dixon, and Burden shared a quick glance.

  Another officer? Another con...or another...con?

  Allman reached behind the skylight, grabbed hold of something, and dragged a man toward him, in front of the outcropping. His hands were fastened behind him and his mouth was stuffed with a rag.

  Allman grasped the end of the duct tape and yanked it off his mouth, pulling out the gag.

  The elderly man moaned.

  Using the stiletto, Allman sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. “Hey, gang. I want you to meet my father. Walton MacNally.”

  Of course.

  MacNally rolled to his knees, then, unsteadily, stood up and faced his son. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why? Why?” Allman tilted his head, as if MacNally was a child who could not understand that which should have been a simple concept. “All these years, I’ve been showing you what you haven’t had the guts to do. I was showing you how to be a fucking man.”

  MacNally squinted anger; his face reddened.

  “But you haven’t been paying attention,” Allman shouted. “Have you? Have you been following it in the newspapers? I sent you all the articles!”

  MacNally blinked and recoiled his head at Allman’s raised voice. “I didn’t—I didn’t know who they were from,” he said quickly. “It didn’t have your name on them. I didn’t understand.”

  “Then you’re as stupid as the people who imprisoned you. As stupid as the cops who were my best buddies while they were investigating—and I was writing about—the people I’d just killed.”

  MacNally shook his head, as if doing so would jar something and bring things into focus. “I don’t think as well as I used to—my brains were scrambled, I’m—”

  “Pathetic, that’s what you are,” Allman said. “If you were a real man, you’d have taken care of all these jerkoffs yourself. They wronged you, they abused you. They beat you, they threw you in a goddamn sensory deprivation cell and drained your soul. Total darkness, never seeing the sun, twenty-four hours a day. Day, after day, after day.”

  “And how would you know about that, Clay?” Burden asked.

  “I read the goddamn books. All of ’em. And I’ve watched the interviews with the guards and the cons. And I read the warden’s records in the San Bruno Archives. It’s all spelled out there in detail. What a fucking wimp my father was. What an embarrassment.” He turned back to MacNally. “But what did I expect? If you’d been a man when I was young, you wouldn’t have ended up in jail on some stupid plan to rob banks. Banks! What a pathetic excuse you were for a father. You couldn’t even do that right.”

  “I tried to be a good father. That’s the only reason why I did it, why I destroyed my life.” MacNally’s face crumpled in pain. “You know that. I only wanted to give you food, a house. A bicycle...”

  “And did I ever get that bike?” Allman leaned into MacNally’s face. “Answer me!”

  MacNally recoiled, raising a shoulder as if it could provide a defense against painful vitriol.

  “You’re a failure, Dad. Always were.”

  “Not true!” the muscles in
MacNally’s neck went taut, the veins in his forehead bulged, spittle flying forth from his lips as he spoke. “I had a job. A family. A wife, a beautiful soul. And I was a good man.” Tears flooded his eyes and he fell to his knees. His voice rose in a painful whine as he craned his neck toward the sky. “Doris... Why’d you have to die?”

  Allman spit on his father. “You’re a pathetic old man. Clueless to this day. All that time to think, and you still don’t know.”

  “Mr. MacNally,” Vail said gently. “Henry killed your wife. He killed Doris.” She turned to Allman. “You never had the courage to tell him, did you? Go on, Clay. Tell him.”

  Allman glared at her, his eyes black...no reflection. Soulless. She had seen this many times before when a psychopath felt threatened. Snake eyes.

  MacNally looked at his son, perhaps putting events together in combinations he had never thought to do—could never think to do.

  “You killed her,” Vail said firmly. “Didn’t you?”

  Allman’s face relaxed, broadening into a grin. “She was my first. It made me who I am.”

  MacNally pulled his gaze up to Allman. “How could you?”

  “Mom knew I was different. She didn’t know why or how, but she knew. It was you that was the problem. You didn’t want to hear it.”

  MacNally looked at Vail, his eyes glossing over.

  Despite the anger and blind rage that Walton MacNally had built up over his years of incarceration, deep down, Vail believed he regretted having to kill to survive; that he would not have taken a life had he not been placed in the do-or-die situations he had undoubtedly confronted in prison. He killed out of necessity. MacNally was capable of emotions, of bonds, of deep love for his son. He was not a psychopath, even with his brain injury. Vail was sure of that.

  But he gave birth to one.

  MacNally brought his sleeve up and dragged it across his face.

  Henry MacNally—Clay Allman—was a sexual serial killer who did not need a reason for killing—but in his distorted view of things, his father presented him with one that brought cohesion and purpose to his murderous ways.