“That is what it looks like,” Burden said, peering out the opening. “Old. Very old. Maybe there was a gold mine around here.”
Friedberg slipped a gloved hand inside the man’s jacket. He fished around, then pulled out a wallet and opened it. “Russell Ilg.”
Burden pulled out his BlackBerry and started dialing. “Address?”
Friedberg read it off and Burden relayed it to the dispatcher. “Get a unit over there ASAP. Tell them I expect they’re going to find a DB. And it won’t be pretty. And tell ’em to use booties because I don’t want my crime scene destroyed.” He listened a moment, said, “Yeah,” then hung up. “His wife’s Irene. Seventy-nine.”
Vail gestured to Friedberg. “Get a light on his face, let’s see what we can see. And where the hell’s that CSI?”
Ilg’s face had deep jowls and a full head of gray hair that had been tousled by the whipping wind blowing in through the cave’s mouth. But then the flashlight hit the forehead. A 49 was written in black marker.
“So,” Vail said. “First, a 37. Now a 49. Burden, you’re the number scrambling Sudoku expert. What’s the significance?”
“Hell if I know. But forty-nine is significant to California. Gold Rush in 1849. The football 49ers. There’s a Pier 49, too.”
“And there’s a forty-nine-mile scenic drive in the city,” Friedberg said.
No. Vail shook her head. “Now that we have two vics with numbers, we have to start looking for a pattern or some relationship between the digits.” And why is it only on the male vics?
“I’ll think on it,” Burden said.
Friedberg ran the beam over the length of the body. “No overt signs of trauma.”
Vail leaned over the cable. “Let’s see the back of his head.”
Friedberg brought the light up.
“There,” Vail said, pointing. “Looks like bruising. Very substantial. Hard to see all of it because that two-by-four is in the way.” She moved around to Ilg’s hands. “Give me some light here.” She leaned in close, studied all ten fingers. “No defensive wounds. Just like William Anderson.”
“Meaning?” Friedberg asked.
Vail stepped back. “Remember I said control is the key? Our offender’s got an effective way of controlling them enough to get them somewhere near where he wants to display the body.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Burden said. “I mean, the guy’s displaying these bodies in public because-what-I assume it’s to make a statement. Right?”
“Could be. Could be he’s going for shock value. Could be these places mean something to him. Or he could be taunting us.”
“Taunting us?” Burden asked. “How?”
A whistle echoed in the tunnel. The three of them turned and saw the silhouetted figure of a man headed toward them, carrying a toolkit.
“Our CSI,” Burden said. He turned back to Vail. “What do you mean? How is he taunting us?”
“Could be taunting us. I don’t know. But it’s a possibility. Like I said. The symbolism. We’re supposed to see something here, with these vics.”
“Yeah, but we ain’t seeing shit.”
“And that,” Vail said, “could be a potential problem. But think about it a second. He could pose or leave the bodies in any public place, places that don’t require the same level of effort and risk. But no. He picks these places for a reason. It’s more than just for shock. And while I don’t doubt there’s some taunting involved, it’s probably much more than that, too.” Vail turned to face Russell Ilg’s body. “Maybe we need to shed some light on the subject.”
Burden gave her a look.
“I don’t mean that as a joke. We need more information. Now that we’ve got three, and likely four bodies, we can fine-tune our theories. Hone the profile.”
“What happens if you’re right, and he really is leaving us clues that we’re not seeing?”
“One possibility is that he’s going to get frustrated. He’ll keep killing until we ‘get it.’ No matter what, he’s going to contact us somehow, somewhere. You may want to tell your office staff and operators to be aware of any suspicious calls.”
“On it,” Friedberg said. He lifted his phone and started dialing.
“You really think that’s what we’re dealing with here?” Burden asked.
Vail tilted her head, looking at Ilg’s face, which was oriented straight ahead. “Unfortunately, we’re going to find out. Sooner or later.”
17
MacNally returned to First National Thrift twice more that week, pretending to request information on opening an account. Fortunately, no one had noticed that he was wearing the same clothes-he owned only one pair of dress slacks and a single button-down Oxford.
On his second trip, he decided on the woman he wanted: Emily September. He had never known anyone named September-had not even realized it could be a real name. She was pert and on the younger side of thirty, with well-styled blonde hair and a tight knit sweater hugging her chest like it didn’t want to let go.
MacNally made small talk with her, then realized he had better leave before she-or anyone watching-would realize he hadn’t transacted any business.
He walked out and returned a couple of days later. Now, as noon approached, he watched Emily September push out the double doors of First National Thrift and turn left, headed toward the parking lot. MacNally followed her around back and watched her get into a light turquoise Ford Thunderbird. He didn’t know a whole lot about cars, but he did know that a T-bird was an expensive luxury car-and a sharp one at that. It was a convertible with a simple, elegant curved windshield, clean lines, and broad whitewall tires.
MacNally started the sky blue Buick Century he had stolen a few miles outside town and followed Emily as she maneuvered the vehicle onto the main drag. Her blonde hair flowed back off her shoulders in the breeze.
A Thunderbird? For a bank teller? She had money. Or, at least, it looked like she did. This presented an interesting dilemma: go after pretty Emily September when she arrived at home and steal what she had in the house, or go after the more risky-but potentially higher reward job-the bank.
He followed a good forty yards behind her, wondering if it was too great a distance. If she made a light and he did not, he would lose her. And how long could he keep this car before the police would discover it was stolen? Before they would find him and Henry?
He made sure to narrow the gap between them, taking care not to get too close: she had seen him-spoken to him-in the bank, and he didn’t want to risk her seeing him again. It could make her suspicious, or she could think he was following her around. Worse still, if he did rob the bank, she would be able to provide an accurate description of him to the authorities.
Ten minutes later, Emily pulled into a well-tended neighborhood with two- and three-story homes lining the green-lawned avenues. She hung a left into a driveway and parked. MacNally drove past her house and parked at the curb. He shut the engine and waited.