“He already contacted us,” Friedberg said.
Vail massaged her temples. Control the media. I told them that. It’s so important…“Yeah, but did he write his note before, or after, he saw Scheer’s article?”
“I’ll find out if they have a similar release schedule as the Trib,” Friedberg said. “But we couldn’t know for sure if he saw it when it came out-or if he saw it at all.”
“Safe to assume this guy’s monitoring the media,” Vail said.
“Then I’ll find out when it posted to their website.”
“Could Allman have told Scheer about the key?” she asked.
Burden chuckled. “Stephen Scheer’s not exactly on Clay’s Christmas list-and vice versa. Remember I told you Clay doesn’t talk to him anymore? Twenty-five, thirty years ago they were close friends. Scheer had a three-year head start, built a decent rep in town covering cases. Scheer took Clay under his wing, broke him in, taught him how things are done. They co-wrote articles, covered cases, that sort of thing. But something happened, Scheer got pissed, and ended up leaving the Trib. No way is Clay Allman a source for Stephen Scheer.”
Friedberg’s phone rang. He lifted the headset, then said, “Got it. Thanks.” He turned to Burden. “Detective Dixon’s on her way up.”
“Do you know much about Scheer?” Vail asked.
“A bit of a head case,” Burden said. “Other than that, just rumor.”
“About what?” she asked.
“Alcohol,” Friedberg said. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. “Did some time in rehab. But I heard stuff about domestic violence. Knocked the wife around or something. He lives in Berkeley. I can call over, see if they’ve got anything on record. Actually-Birdie, you’d better do it. Because of my history with him-”
“My pleasure. I’ve always wanted to rattle his cage.”
Friedberg shook his head. “He’s not gonna give up his source.”
“Whose source?”
The voice came from behind them. Vail turned. Dixon had just walked into the unit. As Vail filled her in on the Allman and Scheer articles, Dixon took a seat atop the worktable that was pushed up against the wall where the whiteboard was mounted.
“All right,” Burden said. “Let’s do this. Robert, how about you go meet with Millard Ferguson about the ’82 case. And you two-track down Scheer and see what you can get from him. I’m not too optimistic, but he might tell a couple of women more than he’d tell me.”
Vail and Dixon faced each other. “Did he just insult us?” Dixon asked.
“Nah, he’s harmless.” Vail winked at him. “It’s just his way.” She led Dixon out of the Homicide unit and into the wide corridor. “Burden doesn’t think we can get Scheer’s source.”
“Then we have to work extra hard to prove him wrong.”
28
August 28, 1959
United States Penitentiary
Leavenworth
MacNally spent three weeks in Administrative Orientation, located to the rear of Two Gallery in A-Cellhouse. As it was explained to him, new arrivals were not placed into the general population without being afforded time to learn the rules for each area of the institution and meet with the department heads.
MacNally was given his permanent cell assignment by the cellhouse Number One Officer, who said he knew just the placement for him. “An officer’ll be here in a minute to take you to your new home. You got free reign of the cellhouses, but remember: there are five counts a day, and you’re expected to be in your cells at that time. The one at 4 PM ’s a standing count. When you’re not working or in school, the rec yard’s open.”
Voorhees walked in and nodded at the Number One.
“Get him outta here,” he said to Voorhees with a dismissing wave of his hand.
Voorhees led MacNally out of processing and toward the cellhouse. “Remember, MacNally. Cons here were sent to the Big L because their crimes were pretty goddamn bad, or ’cause they were problems at other prisons. So all the shit they did out in the street, they do in here. Dealing drugs-heroin’s a big one-they smuggle it in from the outside. Guys extort money, run scams on other guys, bankroll poker games. Some get assaulted, some are pimped out.”
“Pimped out?”
“You got your homos in here, and then you got your horny fucks who are in for twenty years and haven’t seen pussy in a long, long time. For them, they’d rather stick their dicks in your ass than give up sex for the rest of their lives. They’re the predators. Weaker guys, their victims, are called lops.” Voorhees turned and gave him a quick once-over. “You look like a lop to me, MacNally. That means you’re gonna have trouble.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Just telling you like it is.”
They walked up the steps to Two Gallery. The air got thicker and noticeably hotter.
“Fifth tier’s the shits. Heat rises. No air movement, no ventilation up here. Somebody don’t like you, MacNally. They gave you a piece a crap cell. What’s the saying? Location, location, location.” He guffawed at his own joke.
They walked past iron-barred cells, the gates rolled open and the inmates lying still on their beds…no doubt their way of dealing with the intense heat.
Voorhees stopped at cell 511. “This is it.” He turned and started to walk off, but stopped. “Good luck.”
MacNally eyed Voorhees, then turned to his cell. The lone light bulb was off, his two cellies lifeless lumps on the mattresses. But they suddenly swung their legs off the bed and sat up. Four eyes traversed his body.
Reflexively, MacNally swallowed hard. He knew then that Voorhees’s “lop” assessment was probably correct. He put his head down and stepped into his new home, trying not to think about what awaited him.
29
Vail and Dixon arrived at the San Francisco Register on Mission Street. It was a four-story brick building, built about ten years ago during more optimistic times, before the newspaper industry started crumbling due to declining readership and subscriptions and the attendant slide in advertising revenue. Now the Register, like most other dailies in major US cities, was under intense economic pressure to survive.
Vail got out of Dixon’s car, then said, “Hold it. What are you wearing under that jacket?”
“Tank top. Why?”
“Good. Lose the jacket.”
“It’s freezing,” Dixon said.
“Exactly.”
Then she got it. Blonde, with a body she shaped in the gym several days a week, Dixon often had a predictable effect on male suspects and sources. It was a tactic she and Vail had used once before during the Crush Killer case.