Burden motioned to the woman in front of him. She displayed nearly identical burn marks, the same gruesome vaginal and anal injuries, and bruising around the head. “What do we know about this vic? I assume her name’s Rucker?”
“Cynthia Rucker,” Dixon said. “When I saw what we had here, I called Redd. He told me to call Karen. The sheriff went through the FBI’s National Academy training, so they felt it was best to find out if we were dealing with a psychosexual killer.”
“Kudos to all of you,” Vail said. “We’re getting away from using that term, but that is what we’re dealing with here. And that’s not all. There’s a lot more to this case. I’m not sure what, just yet, but we’re dealing with a very volatile and unstable killer.”
“Great,” Brix said.
Vail moved around the bed and examined Cynthia’s head wounds. “Thing is, his recent murders-if he did the one in ’82-have been confined to San Francisco. In fact, her husband, Harlan, is in the city. In case you were wondering.”
“We were,” Dixon said. “Any chance we can get a sit-down with him? Obviously, we’ve got a lot of questions.”
“He’s tied to a telephone pole,” Vail said. “I don’t think your sit-down would be too fruitful.”
Dixon and Brix shared a look.
“Karen thinks there’s geographic significance to the killer’s choice of victims,” Friedberg said.
“Yeah.” Vail shifted her feet. “About that. I’m not so sure. This one kind of throws a monkey wrench into that theory.” She thought a moment. “But maybe not.”
“Worth checking into?” Burden asked.
Vail shrugged. “Yeah. But-this case is very unusual to begin with. Married couples being offed is odd enough-but he’s transporting the males and leaving them, in some cases, miles away. To my memory, none of that’s ever been done before. I can turn this over for a geographic profile, but it’s going to make for a challenging analysis.”
“I’m done here,” Matt Aaron said, snapping his kit closed.
“The contact at SFPD is Rex Jackson,” Vail said. “Can you make sure he gets copies of everything you-”
“I know the procedure, Agent Vail.” He rose and faced her, standing a little closer than what would normally be considered a comfortable distance. “You know, it sure was nice not having you around. I already have a few bosses. Don’t need someone like you looking over my shoulder.”
Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. Calming her. Vail didn’t feel calm. But she forced a smile and said, “You must be really, really good on all the other cases you handle in Napa County. Because from what I’ve seen on the two you handled while I was here, your professionalism left a lot to be desired.”
Aaron dropped his kit. “I’ve had-”
“Okay,” Brix said, shoving his arm in front of his criminalist. “That’s enough. Matt, if you’re done here, you can go.” He waited for Aaron to react.
He did-he bent down and picked up his case, then threw Vail a stern look.
“I’d appreciate if you two weren’t like two cats in heat all the time,” Brix said. “Learn to get along. We’re on the same goddamn side.”
Aaron frowned at Brix, then pushed his way out of the room, through the crowd of detectives.
“He does have a point,” Brix said.
Vail looked at him. “And what point is that?”
“Things have been a lot more quiet in town since you left.”
“Don’t you remember my nickname?”
“The serial killer magnet,” Dixon said with a grin.
Burden shook his head. “Oh, that’s fucking great. Couldn’t you have told us that sooner? I knew I should’ve insisted on Safarik.”
“What’s your procedure?” Dixon asked. “You’ve obviously got another jurisdiction involved. I’d like to be part of what’s going down on your end, help solve this thing together. Does SFPD set up major crimes task forces?”
“Only for drug and gang-related crimes,” Burden said.
Vail spread her hands, palm up. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. Meet in a room, either at Homicide or somewhere else. Not a task force-”
“But a task force,” Dixon said.
“Exactly.”
Burden shook his head. “The lieutenant won’t be happy.”
“We can have meetings, exchange info, that sort of thing,” Friedberg said. “As long as it doesn’t hit his bottom line, if we don’t ask for money or staff support, any shit like that, I think we’ll be fine. If we’re making progress, who’s gonna complain?”
“And if we don’t get results?” Burden asked.
Friedberg chuckled. “Then we deserve whatever heat the lieutenant sends our way.”
24
August 6, 1959
United States Penitentiary
Leavenworth
1300 Metropolitan Street
Leavenworth, Kansas
“The defendant is hereby sentenced to forty-five years’ incarceration in a Federal penitentiary, the location of which shall be determined by the Bureau of Prisons.” The judge rapped his gavel, and Walton MacNally’s fate was sealed tighter than the animal skin on the surface of a drum.
His arms were engaged from behind by two burly, sour-faced US Marshals. But MacNally was numb, unemotional, and not tuned in to the ramifications of the verdict. He understood the meaning, but he could not comprehend the depth behind the words.
As he was led out of the courtroom, MacNally objectively reviewed the previous week’s proceedings in his mind. Unlike his prior journey through the judicial system in Doris’s murder trial, this one had not gone well; in fact, there was not one hour during his six days of justice where he felt he had even the slightest chance of overcoming the charges.
His court-appointed attorney attempted to prepare him for the worst well before the trial began. He reviewed each of the pieces of evidence they had against him: the handgun found still tucked in his waistband-a rare brand of an unusual vintage for America-damning in and of itself because the weapon had been documented by a local newspaper when Lieutenant James September returned from his distinguished service in Germany. September had shot an enemy soldier who was attempting to stab one of his fellow infantrymen. The lieutenant then took the sidearm back to the States as a keepsake. The plan was for him to donate it at some future date to the Smithsonian.
That it was found on MacNally, along with the eyewitness identification made by the bank’s security guard and Emily September…and, of course, possession of the satchel stuffed with bills that matched some of the serial numbers purported to have been given to Emily only an hour prior, were more than enough to send the jury scurrying back to their room.
But there was more: the discovery of a gold Cross pen in MacNally’s pocket, with the name “G. Yaeger” engraved on the barrel, which matched an object reportedly stolen from Township Community Savings during a robbery two months earlier.