“Why?” Henry asked.
“Back when we left, I think I saw a guard come out of the bank. If he got a look at the car-”
Before MacNally could complete his sentence, the whine of a siren wound to life behind them.
Henry and MacNally shared a glance. But it was quick, because Henry apparently made his own choice, absent discussion: he floored the accelerator and the Chevy’s engine muscled up with a vicious roar, propelling them forward as the speedometer needle wound around toward seventy. On a residential street, it was a dangerous move-but there weren’t many options. They had the money in hand, and-something MacNally had not thought of…he had used a handgun. That would make it armed robbery. He didn’t know the law, but he had read enough in the newspaper about Machine Gun Kelly and Bonnie and Clyde to know that associating weapons with banks led to long prison sentences.
Such a prospect was something he would have to live with-he was an adult and he had made the decision to move forward with their plan. It was simple. He had to provide for his son. And given his circumstances, this was the only way he could think of doing that.
But despite the wisdom beyond his years, Henry was not even a teenager. MacNally could not stand to think of a life behind bars for him. What did they do with kids, anyway? They couldn’t put them in cells with grown men, could they?
All this ran through his head as Henry swerved, swung the car left and right, ran stoplights and generally did a yeoman’s job of handling a big, heavy vehicle. Still, MacNally wished it was him behind the wheel. He didn’t know if he could do any better, but he felt powerless to control their destiny.
Henry accelerated again. MacNally twisted his torso to look behind them-the cops were about four car lengths off their rear bumper, falling back rapidly as they darted forward.
Before they pulled away, MacNally saw that there were two officers in front. And they did not look happy.
“Shit-”
MacNally swung his head back around to see another police cruiser ahead of them, in the distance, its lights rotating. His eyes darted around, looking for a way out. “There-turn left!”
Thirty feet ahead was a side street. Henry yanked the large wheel toward their escape route and the Chevy tilted hard and fast-slamming MacNally up against the right passenger door.
But their tire struck a pothole and the left side of the hulking vehicle left the asphalt and sent them skidding into the curb and up onto the lawn of a house. They smashed through the front window and came to rest with the hood protruding into the living room.
Something was sticking into MacNally’s right thigh, pinning him down. He turned to Henry, whose nose was dripping blood from colliding with the steering wheel.
“Get out. Go on, just run!”
Henry popped open his door and fled. It slammed behind him and MacNally watched as his son darted behind the nearest house, out of sight.
And in that moment, two police cars pulled into the street behind him. He leaned toward the driver’s seat, pulling on his leg-but a piece of metal was jammed against it and he was pinned in place.
He looked down at the satchel stuffed with money. He thought of Henry, of a young son on the run. No money, and now no father, no mother. Nothing and no one.
Tears filled his eyes as he heard guttural yells coming at him from both sides of the car.
“Don’t move!”
“Hands-gets your hands where we can see them!”
MacNally craned his neck left and right. Officers stood on both sides of him, their pointed handguns staring accusingly at him through the two broken windows.
He struggled to free his arms, then complied with their order.
“Where’s the other guy?” one of the men said.
MacNally looked up at the cop. “What other guy?”
“The one who was driving.”
“Just me,” MacNally said, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I was driving.”
“That’s a load a horseshit,” the officer said to his partner. “His leg’s good and stuck, no way he was driving. ’Sides, I saw two men in that car.”
“Me, too,” said a cop from the other cruiser. “Not a man. A kid. Maybe twelve, fourteen.”
“Pete, Roger, search the neighborhood. Stan, call this in and tell ’em we got ourselves a fugitive. Then start a canvass. Find the sum-bitch. I’ll deal with this asshole.” The three men ran off.
So that’s what he was now. An asshole bank robber who broke into an innocent woman’s house, terrorized her dog, and stole her belongings. For what?
MacNally let his head fall back against the seat. Wondering how this had happened. Three years ago he was an upstanding citizen with a good job, a good marriage to a bright woman, and a young son.
As he lay there, he realized that he no longer had any of them.
22
Vail had returned to her hotel at 1AM-Burden and Friedberg had left three hours earlier, telling her the lieutenant would never approve their overtime and had rules against working cases around the clock. Ballooning state and local budget deficits drove a lot of what happened in California these days, and not much of it was good.
The next day passed uneventfully. They worked the forensics of the case and accumulated usable data-but none of it brought them any closer to identifying an individual or even providing them with a suspect pool to pick from. The crime lab was backed up with cases and evidence, and they did not get an immediate hit on the brass key. Identifying it was going to be a longer slog than they had hoped.
They shifted their efforts toward identifying the portion of the key that had been ground away. Whatever had been stamped or struck in the metal must have contained a clue to where it was made and by whom, or at very least what it was used for. But the filing appeared to be sufficiently deep to obliterate the markings.
Likewise, the video capture of their UNSUB led nowhere. Further analysis of screen shots only told them the killer wore a ski mask. And because it was black, or some other dark color, there was no way to evaluate shadows to discern his facial landscape. Like the rest of the case, his image was stuck in limbo and it became increasingly frustrating to look at the man and not be able to see him.
Friedberg and Vail sat in Homicide staring at the whiteboard when Burden called out from his desk. “Email from Clay. His Trib story, photos and notes on the ’82 case.”
“And?” Vail asked, walking over to his desk and bending over to see the monitor. Friedberg followed, taking up a spot over Burden’s other shoulder.
“And I sent it to the printer.” He double clicked on the PDF and Acrobat opened. Scans of Allman’s article appeared on-screen.
Vail read the headline: Bold killer Leaves Body in San Bruno, by Clayton W. Allman, October 25, 1982. A man was found seated on a bench in front of the Federal archives building, fully clothed. Head trauma. “Head trauma,” Vail said.
“I see,” Burden said.