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.”
Burden swung around. “Robert, get us a helicopter. Faster than taking that Zodiac and we can land somewhere central, like maybe the cellhouse roof.”
“Bureau’s Regional Aviation Assets might have a chopper,” Vail said, “but I’m not sure if San Fran-”
“We just got one,” Yeung said. “A Bell 407, all tricked out. Staged at Crissy Field.”
“Perfect,” Burden said. “Get it hot. We’re on our way.”
Dixon rose from her chair. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Burden harrumphed. “We don’t have a plan.”
Vail tucked in her blouse as she moved for the door. “Sure we do. And I can sum it up in three words: Catch this asshole.”
Dixon grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair. “Works for me.”
THE BELL MOTORED OVER THE fog-socked Bay. Visibility was almost nil, with white enveloping the helicopter’s windows and increasing the confining feel of the chopper’s modest compartment. Vail closed her eyes and tried to calm the anxiety, focusing instead on what their next steps would be.
Dixon, Burden, Carondolet, and Yeung sat alone with their thoughts until Vail tapped Carondolet on the knee. They were all outfitted with headsets tuned to the same channel.
“Any agents still there from last night?” Vail asked.
Carondolet shook his head. “They left on a cutter this morning. Around four or five, if I remember. Soon as they cleared the island.”
“How many armed LEOs are normally on the island?”
“None. There was a law enforcement ranger there for a few months once, but it wasn’t a permanent position. Just no money for it. Park Service has got the same problem Bureau of Prisons had with Alcatraz-costs a goddamn mint to maintain the buildings and keep that place in one piece. The salt air’s a killer. And cops just haven’t been necessary.”
“Until today,” Vail said.
Carondolet, seated beside the pilot, shrugged: What do you want me to say? “Park Police and FBI’s got people en route. I’ll get an ETA.” He twisted the radio dial and began speaking into his mike. A moment later, he tuned back to their channel and then turned his torso to face his task force members. “Backup should arrive about ten to fifteen minutes after we do. But you’re not gonna like this. It’s Alumni Day.”
Vail leaned closer. “What the hell’s Alumni Day?”
“Once a year deal. Former correctional officers and their families-and ex-inmates-go to the island. Have meals, reminisce, give talks for the tourists.”
“Inmates and officers, socializing?” Vail asked. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
Burden said, “And that’s today?”
Carondolet nodded. “And tomorrow. It’s not publicized. The tourists who come this weekend just luck out.”
“I don’t think ‘luck’ is the right word,” Vail said. “Call it off, turn the ferry around-”
“They’re already there. Probably in the hospital by now. That’s where they eat and hang out. They close off the whole floor from the public.”
The helicopter swung left, circling from over what Vail presumed was choppy Bay water, inward toward the island.
“I’m gonna land us on the fresh-water cistern,” the pilot said. “Better access to all the buildings than the roof. Assuming I can see it.”
Vail nudged Dixon. “This guy’s got a sense of humor.”
The FBI pilot swept around in a tight arc, then hovered and slowly descended, as if the agent was holding out a hand and feeling around for the ground. A moment later, with a slight jolt, he brought them to rest on a large, flat, cement area just north of the cellhouse and water tower-both of which were barely visible in the fog. Dozens of seagulls scattered, vacating the improvised landing pad for a much larger bird.
Carondolet pointed as he spoke. “We’re near the north tip of the island. Industries building and the Golden Gate are to our right.” Their heads swung in that direction. “Trust me, behind that wall of fog, they’re both there. Cellhouse and rec yard’s in front of us, which you can kind of make out. Powerhouse is to our left, down the hill.”