Authors: Alan Jacobson
Inmate 1577 (44 page)
“Elderly male,” Hartman said. “Looks to be late seventies, early eighties. No I.D. A full set of upper dentures and two partials on his lower. Callused hands.”
“Is he in IAFIS?” Vail asked, referring to the FBI’s national automated biometric database.
“Don’t know yet,” Price said. “I took a set of prints and emailed them to the lab. Because it’s after hours, I don’t know how long it’ll take to get an answer. But I asked them to expedite.”
Vail asked the men to move aside so she, Burden and Dixon could get a look at the crime scene. Staring back at them was an elderly male standing upright, his legs and arms handcuffed to the bars, facing forward. The numeral 23 was drawn on his forehead. “Looks like our UNSUB.”
“As if there was a question?” Dixon asked.
“I meant the text he sent. He said he gave us ‘some latitude.’ I thought he meant he gave us some leniency, but there was a double meaning—those latitude/longitude readings. The missing number was 23.”
“TOD?” Burden asked.
“Just a guess at this point—I can’t even get to the body—but rigor hasn’t yet set in, so less than three hours.”
Hartman’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and moved off.
“Mike,” Vail called after him. “Hang on a sec—”
The BlackBerry pressed against his ear, Hartman held up his middle finger as he walked away, without turning around.
Lovely.
Burden pointed at the wall behind the victim. “There are things in the cell. Books, paintings. A magazine on the shelf.” He twisted his head. “From 1961. Looks like this cell’s a diorama of sorts, for the tourists.”
“Exactly,” Detective Carondolet said. “I got my start as a ranger here on the island when I was seventeen. Lots of stuff has changed, but I still remember a fair amount of my Alcatraz history and training.”
Vail grabbed the bars and gave them a yank. “Can we open this thing?”
“Only way,” Carondolet said, “is using those locked vertical closets at the end of each cell block. I checked, but the keys aren’t where they used to keep them after hours. Dispatch is trying to find a ranger who can tell us where they keep ’em now. They’re the original keys from back when the prison was open.”
Keys.
“Would those keys be short, stubby, funny looking things?”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Unfortunately,” Burden said. “Killer leaves them at some of his crime scenes.”
Carondolet said, “They sell facsimiles in the gift shop. Look just like the real thing.”
“His clothing’s a bit odd,” Dixon said, nodding at the victim. “Don’t you think?”
Vail turned back to the cell. “Deep creases in the shirt, sun bleached along the crease marks. As if it was folded and on a shelf a long time.”
“Denim shirt and khakis,” Dixon said.
“Prison dress,” Carondolet said. “Posters—maybe you saw ’em on the way in. Photos of famous prisoners who did time here. Capone, Machine Gun Kelley, the Birdman—”
“You think the UNSUB dressed him in these clothes just for us?” Dixon asked.
“Bet on it.” Vail knelt down and viewed the body from below. “Going with our theory, this vic either worked here or did time here. Way he’s dressed, looks like the latter.”
“Unless,” Dixon said, “the UNSUB didn’t like a particular guard and this is his way of finally getting justice. He puts the guy in a cell and handcuffs him to the bars. Treating him like the UNSUB was treated.”
Vail pursed her lips. “That’s good, Roxx. You might be right.” She turned to one of the agents. “Are inmate and employee records still kept on the island?”
“I doubt it,” Carondolet said. “Bureau of Prisons abandoned the place sometime after they shipped off all the inmates and closed it down. A lot of the laundry and medical equipment was sent to other penitentiaries and a chunk of the records were given to some doc for a research project, some kind of sociology study or some shit like that. He never returned ’em. About fifteen to twenty years later, I think a judge compelled him to turn everything he had over to the National Archives facility in San Bruno.”
Vail stood up. “San Bruno. That’s where the archives building is? And the Alcatraz records are kept there?”
“They’ve got all sorts of things, like evidence the Bureau found after the big ’62 escape. The raft, paddles, tools, stuff like that.”
“That vic, back in ’82,” Burden said. “Edgar Newhall. Wanna bet that building where he was found was the National Archives?”
“Things are starting to come together,” Dixon said.
Yeah, but are they coming together fast enough? Where the hell’s Friedberg? How much longer does he have—if he’s even still alive?
With that thought, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed.
“I’m gonna call the office,” Burden said, “let ’em know what we’ve got here and see if they’re anywhere on that roster of officers and inmates who served here.”
Vail looked at the phone; it was her boss, Thomas Gifford.
Doesn’t he ever sleep?
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Gifford said.
Vail pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it. Then she brought it back to her face and said, “What are you, like a hound dog, sniffing out my emotional state?”
“So I’m right.”
“Sir, no offense. But we’re busy here. Is there a problem?”
“Not a problem,” Gifford said. “For me, at least.”
“Now it’s my turn to say, ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’”
Gifford plowed ahead. “Just decided this evening. BAU’s going through a reorganization.”
“A reorg— Are you telling me I’m fired?”
“I’m not that lucky. No, nothing that radical. Years ago we were organized into regions. West coast, east coast—”
Vail looked at her phone. “Hello?” She moved back a few feet, then glanced at her handset. One bar.
Price’s camera flash spread light across the front of the cell block.
“Sir,” Vail said, turning again and taking several steps to her right. “You there?”
“Yes—yes. Did you hear what I said?”
“You winked out for a few seconds,” Vail said. “But yeah. The regional setup. It went out the window right after I started.”
“It’s coming back in the window,” Gifford said. “One SAC’s failed policy is another’s solution. So we’re shifting back next month. And since you’ve done so well out west, you’ve been assigned that region.”
“No, sir,” Vail said. “Just... No.” She rubbed at her forehead with thumb and forefinger, then glanced at Burden. He was still on the phone. Dixon was sticking her pen through the bars and moving aside the man’s shirt, gesturing to Price about something.
“I know this is sometimes a hard concept for you, Karen, but when I ask a question, my voice rises at the end. When I give you an order, it goes down in pitch. In case you’re not totally sure, my voice is going down now. Way down. You are going to be assigned to the west coast region. So when we get a case that’s somewhere out west, it’s yours—”
“Look, sir,” Vail said. “I really can’t deal with this now.”
“I’ll let you get back to work. You can go through all this with Frank when you get home.”
“Del Monaco? Why should I talk with him?”
“He’s your new partner.”
Vail laughed. “Good one, sir.”
“It could be worse.”
Vail stood up straight. “How on earth could it possibly be worse?”
“Give me some time. I’ll work on it.”
“Is this really the way you want to treat the woman who’s dating your son?”
“I did not hear that.”
“I said, is this—”
“Karen,” Gifford said. “Get back to work. I just wanted to give you a heads-up so you can warm up to it. I was hoping to head off a confrontation.”
“Don’t you know better than to expect things like that of me?”
“Make nice with the agents in the ’Frisco field office while you’re out there. You’ll be making more trips out that way in the future.”
“San Francisco. They hate ’Frisco.”
“See?” Gifford said. “You’re already learning the lingo. This is going to work out great.”
“Yeah, well, you should’ve given me that heads-up a little sooner.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Gifford said, “You’ve already managed to piss off—”
“Not my fault. The guy they’ve assigned to the case is... Well, we’ve got a history.”
“My voice is going down here, Karen. This will not affect our realignment. You’re just going to have to learn how to play well with others. And if you’ve already shit in your bed, well, it’s up to you to clean it up.”
“Great image. Thanks, Dad. Hey, who knows? One day I may say that and it won’t be laced with sarcasm.”
“God forbid,” Gifford said. “Now get back to work.”
Vail pressed END. “Shit.”
Dixon turned away from the body. “You’re lucky this isn’t our cuss-free week.”
Vail sighed heavily. “Your what?”
“California legislature can’t pass a budget to save their lives, but they can pass a decree declaring that one week a year everyone should stop cursing.”
Vail eyed her suspiciously. “You’re shitting me.”
“Just an observation here, but I think you’d have some difficulty with that.”
“Damn right I would.”
“Goddamn politicians,” Dixon said. “Hell with all of ’em.”
They both laughed.
Vail took a deep, cleansing breath. “Thanks, Roxx. I needed that.”
Dixon gestured at Vail’s phone. “Bad news?”
“I’ll deal with it. Right now we need to get our heads around all this.”
Burden hung up from his call. “They’re emailing us what they’ve got so far. It’s not complete—they’ve got a list of inmates, still working on the correctional officers.”
“Something you should all know,” Carondolet said. “Cell door’s locked, right? And I told you the only way to get it open is by getting access to that closet. But what I didn’t tell you is that the locking mechanism is a complicated gear and clutch job. I remember having a tough time learning it when I worked here.”
Vail turned back to the victim. “So you’re saying the offender has to know what he’s doing. An insider?”
“I’m just saying. It might mean something.”
“Actually,” Agent Yeung said, “it’s up on YouTube. Someone filmed a park ranger explaining how it works. My brother gave me the link after visiting from New York.”
Burden sighed. “Is anything about this case easy?”
New York.
Vail looked around; Hartman had still not returned.
Goddamn him.
She turned to Yeung. “I really need to ask Mike an important question. Any idea where he went?”
“I’ll give him a shout.” Yeung lifted his BlackBerry and dialed. A moment later, he said, “Went straight to voicemail. Coverage on the island’s spotty at best.”
Vail clenched her jaw.
Talk about delayed gratification. This is really pushing the limit
. “I’m gonna go find him.” She walked out the way she came in and realized she did not know where she was, or where to begin looking. It was dark and the lighting was insufficient, at best. She thought of asking Carondolet to take her around, but she didn’t want him there when she questioned Hartman. She headed back into the cellhouse and approached the agent who was manning the entrance. “You got a map or something I can use?”
“Just a tourist brochure I picked up on the dock when we got here.” He reached inside his sport coat and handed it over.
Vail thanked him, and then walked back outside. Ahead, the lighthouse was whipping its beacon around at a regular interval. Off in the distance, straight ahead and cutting the fog, was the Bay Bridge, lit up and stretching from the extreme left, across an island, then traversing the ocean to the soupy murkiness of the city on the right.
A gull dove and pecked her hard on the head. “Damn bird.” She brought a hand to the spot to check for blood, but found none.
The temperature had dropped and the wind was slapping rudely against the map she had unfurled. She took a moment to study the diagram of the buildings, then moved ahead a few paces onto a patch of grass and peered into the dark areas around her. To her left stood the burned-out remains of a building: the warden’s house. She started in that direction, but her BlackBerry buzzed. A text from Dixon:
Get back here now.
Vail turned and trotted into the cellhouse, then back down Broadway. “What’s going on?”
“Got an ID on the vic,” Burden said. “And you’re not gonna believe it.”
“Why should this be any different from the rest of the case?” Vail said. “Who is it?”
“That, Karen, is John William Anglin.”
November 9, 1962
Alcatraz
Walton MacNally and Reese Shoemacher had coordinated their plans for escape during each weekend on the yard. Shoemacher had nearly cut through the interior bars on a rear kitchen window, along the south side of the basement. Once through those, the window rotated inward, exposing a second set of flat, and softer, bars. He had cut through a substantial portion of these as well, leaving just enough to withstand the periodic “bar knocking” procedure the guards implemented throughout the cellhouse to ensure inmates were not doing what Shoemacher had done.
Due to the increasing risk of discovery with each passing day, he urged MacNally to move forward as quickly as possible with his role: devising a method of getting them safely across the Bay to land.
MacNally had never disclosed his role in the Morris-Anglin escape, other than telling the investigators that he had assisted in the planning and the gathering of certain materials, such as pilfering dining hall spoons that they used for digging out their ventilation grilles. Fortunately, Allen West did not implicate him relative to his work sewing the life preservers or rafts, and MacNally likewise took care to place a majority of the responsibility on the three men who had left the facility: no disciplinary action could be taken against those who were no longer behind bars.
As a result, MacNally was permitted to return to his job in the glove shop upon release from segregation. The flotation devices he planned to construct would be simple and easy to build, made from raincoat material that he secured from the clothing room on successive shower days, utilizing his Industries pay to compensate the con who passed him the attire. After cutting and sewing the pieces into two pant-leg shaped sleeves, he would manually inflate several rubber gloves another inmate had pilfered from the hospital, and insert them into the hollow tube he had created.