And dead.
44
February 19, 1960
Leavenworth
MacNally was sentenced to ninety days in segregation, a fair punishment, he had to admit, given that he had assaulted an innocent man and had been strongly suspected in aiding the attempted escape of another inmate. Although none of that could be proven, he had to give the warden and his executive staff credit for their even-handed treatment of him.
Segregation gave him time alone with his thoughts, which were focused on reuniting with Henry. He realized he had graduated to thinking like a convict, a shift in attitude necessary for survival at an institution like Leavenworth. As Voorhees had told him, and as he had come to learn, the rules of society did not apply inside prison. There was an entirely different set of laws that governed inmate behavior behind penitentiary walls.
In the outside world, if you had a problem with someone, you’d report it to the police. In the slammer, you couldn’t run to the correctional officers-because, like Voorhees had said, they’re off-duty sixteen hours a day. You had to settle it yourself.
If someone hit you, you had better hit them back. Even harder than they had hit you. You had to convince them you were the baddest, meanest son of a bitch that existed in your cellhouse so they wouldn’t bother you again. They had to know-or believe-that if they bothered you, you were going to make them pay twice as hard. The goal was to make them think it was not worth starting up with you.
And part of that was developing a rep, the power to invoke the fear he had sought to establish since his rape at the hands of Gormack and Wharton. Between his shower attack and the dining hall charade, which had been witnessed by dozens of inmates, word of what he’d done had wormed its way through the institution like a virus, cementing his reputation as an aggressive, loose cannon. For now, he was safe.
UPON RELEASE FROM SEGREGATION, MACNALLY picked up his new bedroll kit and returned to his cell to find that he and Anglin had inherited a new cellmate. The man was asleep, curled into a ball under the blanket.
“Hey, wake up,” MacNally said as he tossed his bag on his cot. Receiving no response, he kicked the bunk’s metal framework. “Who the hell are you?”
The man startled, then lifted his head and looked at MacNally.
“I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ And what are you doing in my cell?”
“Rucker. Harlan Rucker. You MacNally?”
“You realize you’re in John Anglin’s bed?”
Rucker sat up. “First of all, J.W.’s still in the Hole for another three months. Word is he ain’t comin’ back here. Been moved to another block, if you can believe rumors. But makes sense. They didn’t want you and him together no more, is my guess.” Rucker pushed off his bed, mumbled something about having something to take care of, and then walked out of the cell.
MacNally snorted. A transfer of Anglin was an unavoidable result of their suspected collaboration. He wouldn’t be surprised if Voorhees was behind it. But it didn’t matter-during the three months in the Hole, he had devised what he thought could be a viable escape plan. He had implemented the first phase during those four weeks-which entailed a workout regimen to get into the best physical condition possible. He reasoned that because of the route he had chosen, he would have to be able to run and jump in order to elude police and search parties. And he might have to survive on a minimal amount of food and water for prolonged periods while on the run.
More immediately, if he could get himself physically fit enough and lose excess body fat, then he could squeeze through barred windows and other narrow places-and have the endurance to climb the forty foot perimeter wall without struggling. The longer it took, the greater the chances of a tower guard seeing him.
Despite a lack of formal training, he designed a protocol that he thought would yield results: high leg-kick; running in place; pushups; sit-ups; and leg lifts that entailed lying on his back and repeatedly lifting his bunk with his feet. He also restricted his caloric intake, and when it came time to leave Seg and return to his cell, he was substantially thinner and sported more lean muscle.
But his plan required the assistance of another participant. And that was an obstacle for which he had yet to find a solution. Although John and Clarence Anglin were possible conspirators, given Clarence’s failed escape, he was likely out of the equation. Postponing it until Anglin was released from the Hole would set him back another three months minimum-but because of Anglin’s pivotal role in his brother’s escape attempt, he was going to be watched more closely than he otherwise would have been. Teaming up with Anglin would mean MacNally would have to wait until the increased scrutiny subsided-several months, if not longer.
And while MacNally’s aggressive behavior had the benefit of making him less of a target among the inmate population, that rep had a flip side, as welclass="underline" the officers also knew who he was, and, as a result, he was on their short list of problem children.
Fortunately, his escape plan had the benefit of working even though the hacks might be scrutinizing him more closely. Bringing Anglin into the equation, however, would be unwisely tipping the risk scale into the red zone of danger.
MacNally lay back on his bed, brought both hands behind his head, and glanced over at his new cellie’s empty bunk. Perhaps the answer lay a few feet away.
Still, trust was an uncertainty with inmates you knew well. With a con you just met, there needed to be some kind of third-party verification. Rucker apparently knew Anglin; that would be as good a place as any to start.
45
Vail stood beside Dixon, looking up at the ten-foot-tall bronze sculpture. “It’s Christopher Columbus,” Vail said.
“I can see that. His name is carved in large letters around the base.”
“You think Chris was as fit as the sculptor made him out to be?”
Dixon tilted her head as her eyes moved up and down the icon’s body. “I always pictured him as a plump, ruddy old explorer. Obviously, that’s not what they wanted to depict with a humongous monument in front of Coit Tower.”
“Which begs the question of why Columbus is even here.”
“I think you should ask Friedberg.”
Friedberg and Burden were talking with the SFPD officer twenty feet away. Allman was a foot back of them, pen and pad out, furiously taking notes.
“We’re avoiding the dead body in front of us,” Dixon said.
“I know,” Vail said with slumped shoulders. “I’ve seen too many the past few days. If I ignore it-”
“It won’t make it go away.”
“No,” Vail sighed. “It won’t.” She stepped closer to the edge of the planter, within five feet of Raymond Strayhan. Vail decided that Strayhan was not in as good physical condition as was Christopher Columbus-though one could argue both were past their prime. The Bay Killer’s latest victim looked to be about five foot five, and as a result, was dwarfed by the enormity of the statue. Both were atop a four-sided pedestal, around which blossomed a planter with colorful, leafy vegetation.