“Honestly, you’re probably right,” Vail said. “But I strongly believe we’re looking at something different here. A psychopath. But the most important point in all of this is that we’re not just talking about the sexual homicide of an elderly female. He killed the husband, too. And that may tell us more than anything about this offender, and his motivations.”
“Maybe he had to get the husband out of the way. Maybe he killed him first. We don’t know yet on the TODs.”
“Yes, Burden-but what he did with William was far different from what he did with Maureen. It may not look like it, but there were nearly as many behavioral clues left on William as there were with Maureen.”
“How so? William was pretty clean-”
“Think about it a minute. Remember what I said? In placing William in the middle of San Francisco, in one of its beautiful enclaves that symbolized a rebirth of the city, he was telling all of us-SFPD and any other law enforcement who investigated-that he was king.”
“Back at the crime scene, you said something about William not having any defensive injuries.”
Vail curled a lock of red hair behind her right ear. “It would make more sense to me if he had defensive injuries, which would indicate he was forcefully taken, or overpowered by the offender against his will. But the absence of defensive injuries suggests a control issue. The offender wanted to control William during the time Maureen was attacked. So maybe part of the attack on Maureen was a psychopathic maneuver to get William to talk about something. There was no ongoing assault evident in other areas of the house, right? It seemed to all occur in the bedroom. And there was no ransacking. So it got me thinking, what if there was money in the house, and he was trying to get William to tell him where it was? Or maybe they owned bonds or some other asset that he could steal.”
Friedberg pulled out his pad and clicked open the pen. “We can look into that.”
“We should. But, that said…because of the type of violence, I really think…” She stopped. “Cold-blooded instrumental violence once again points toward psychopathy. We need some direction here, so I’m gonna commit. We should approach these murders from the perspective that we’re dealing with an interpersonal psychopath. And in cases like this we always have to ask, How’d the offender find these people? Why these victims, and why now? If we can answer that last question, we’ll have made major progress in solving this case.”
“So if we’re dealing with a psychopath,” Burden said, “in your experience dealing with these monsters, what are the ramifications?”
“He has no remorse for these victims, and like a hardened inmate in a penitentiary, he’s got no regard for the rules of society. So he will kill again, it’s just a matter of time. The only positive in all this is-and this is a macabre way of looking at it-the more victims he amasses, the more we’ll learn from him.”
“As the body count rises,” Friedberg said, “so does our knowledge base.”
That’s a concept I’m all too familiar with. Vail took another glance at the screen, where their UNSUB stood in shadow. She was likely looking right at the killer.
Yet she couldn’t see him.
15
May 16, 1958
Columbia, Alabama
Walton MacNally adjusted his black fedora. He was standing half a block away observing the First National Thrift building-specifically taking note of the flow of people entering and exiting. Evaluating the quality of the clientele and looking for potential pitfalls and traps.
Last time, he more or less had gone in unprepared and, in the end, that had worked out pretty well. But he knew that it wasn’t worth taking such a risk again. He was smart enough to know that he’d gotten lucky.
This time, he wanted to think things through, have a sense of what the bank looked like inside, where the security guards were located, how the tellers dealt with the customers. He wasn’t sure what he should be looking out for, but he would keep his mind-and his eyes-open.
MacNally made three trips past the bank on foot before going inside. It was a stately interior, with marble columns and intricately carved wood desks, velvet-looking drapes covering the tall windows. This was a classier outfit than the community thrift he’d robbed last time. Three security guards stood at strategic locations, in a triangle formation: one at each end of the teller’s row, and one in the back, amongst the executive desks.
He tapped his foot with nervous energy. This would undoubtedly be a tougher job.
“Can I help you with something?”
MacNally spun around, nearly knocking over the woman who was behind him. “I-I was just looking. I was-I was just thinking about opening up an account and I wanted to check the place out.”
The middle-aged woman with poofed beauty parlor-set hair tilted her head. “Are there any questions I can answer for you? Would you like to come over to the vice president’s desk and talk with him about the ba-”
“No-no, that’s okay,” MacNally stammered. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
The woman nodded slowly. “All right. Well, if you think of anything you want to ask, my name is Nancy and I’ll be right here.”
MacNally managed a half smile and, like he had seen Sinatra do in the movies, he brought two fingers up to his fedora and tipped it back. He then gave one more glance around and walked outside.
MACNALLY SAT AT THE DINNER table, a pathetic spread of food in front of him and Henry. In addition to a hunk of stale bread and a boiled potato, the only thing that held any substantial nutrients were two carrots he’d pulled from a neighbor’s garden on his way home.
“I went by the bank,” MacNally said. He felt odd discussing this with his son. But he had no one else. And Henry, despite his youth, possessed insight and hardened analysis that never ceased to astonish him. “I’ve got concerns.”
Henry put his fork down. He tilted his head, examining his father’s eyes. “You’re afraid. I can see it on your face.”
“No, that’s not it at all.” But of course, that’s exactly what it was.
“We need the money.” Henry looked down at the dinner plate, as if emphasizing his point. “You want me to go by tomorrow, take a look see? Maybe I can think of something.”
“No. I don’t want you going anywhere near there. I’ll handle it.”
Henry stared for a moment at his father, then grabbed the loaf of bread and yanked off a handful. He shoved it into his mouth and looked down at the table as he chewed.
MacNally stared off at the wall. Embarrassed. His pride bruised like an apple dropped on a hardwood floor.
“There’s this guy a few blocks away who needs somebody to mow his lawn. He ain’t got no kids. I can do it, git us some money.”
MacNally did not look at his son. “No.”
“I already told him yes.”
“You-” MacNally locked eyes with Henry, then dropped his gaze to his plate. The hunk of bread stared back at him. “Okay,” he said in a low voice.