Friedberg blew out a plume of smoke and watched it zip away on the breeze. “And what are the ‘behavioral basics’ in a case like this?”
Vail spread her hands. “It all starts with the victims. Why these people? Why now?”
Burden glanced around the parking lot, then at the tower, then at Rex Jackson, who was processing the body. “So let’s go back to the war room and plot this out.” He nodded at Friedberg. “Where do we stand on the backgrounders you were putting together?”
“I’ve got the first four vics done. I was just getting started on the Ruckers.”
“What happened with your chat with that retired guy, Inspector-” Vail waved a hand, the universal sign for assistance. “The one who handled the ’82 Newhall case.”
Friedberg pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Millard Ferguson. He’s not doing so good. Throat cancer, looks like shit.”
“Sorry to hear the guy’s dying,” Vail said. “But the case. What’d he have to say about the case? Maybe we can prevent others from following him to the grave.”
“That’s cold,” Burden said.
Vail hiked her brow. “Am I wrong?”
“Not wrong…just…cold.”
Vail turned to Friedberg. “Did he give you anything we can use?”
“He only remembered certain things. Like that key. Thought there might be some connection to the building they found him in front of. But nothing panned out. They had a few suspects, nothing that excited them.”
“So a dead end,” Dixon said.
“A dead end,” Friedberg said. “For now. Maybe one of those old cases Clay’s got will pop up on our radar.”
A phone began buzzing.
Friedberg wagged a finger at Burden’s pocket. “You’re vibrating.”
Burden pulled his cell, read the display. He looked over at Allman, who was still standing beside the cop. “Text from Clay. Wants to know when he can come over, see the body.”
They swiveled their heads to look at Allman, who had his hands spread in anticipation.
“I think we can use his assistance,” Vail said.
Burden waved him over.
Vail held up her BlackBerry. “I’ll be right back, gotta make a call.” She moved away from Columbus and walked toward the edge of the parking lot, where it met the vegetation that led to the coastline. A wall of fog-of nothingness-stared back at her. A moment later, her phone connected to the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
“Lenka, this is Karen. Can you look something up for me?”
“How are things going in San Francisco?”
Now there’s a loaded question. “I’d rather just discuss happy things.”
“That bad?”
“There’s a fresh dead body about thirty feet away. If you can look up Agent Mike Hartman and tell me where he’s assigned, it’ll make my day a little brighter.” She heard Lenka tapping the keys.
“Then this may make the sun shine. He’s right in your backyard. San Francisco Field Office.”
Vail felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead. “You’re shitting me.”
“Just emailed you the phone number. You’ll have it in a sec.”
Vail thanked Lenka, then scrolled to her email. She clicked on Hartman’s number and got his voicemail. “Mike, it’s Karen Vail. Can you give me a call? It’s very important.” She left her number, then hung up and stared off into the fog a moment.
What does this mean? Can Mike Hartman be the offender? No. He wouldn’t implicate himself by leaving that note. And he can be a bit of an asshole, but he’s no psychopath. No, either Eugenia told somebody-the Bay Killer?-or it’s gotta be someone Hartman knows, someone who talked to him.
But why would Hartman tell anyone about me, and what I did in New York? Unless he’s trying to embarrass me, cause problems. If it’s someone Hartman talked to, the offender’s gotta know I’m gonna call up my former partner and ask who he told about it. Unless he doesn’t know Hartman’s the only living person who knows. Or the source was someone who bought the info from Eugenia. Vail sighed. Shit.
Vail turned and headed back to the knot of colleagues. Off in the distance, Vail saw Stephen Scheer approaching the officer who was maintaining the crime scene boundaries. She came up behind Allman and said, “You want to print something?” She did not wait for a reply; she knew the answer. “The offender missed something. He made some mistakes and we’re keying in on him.”
Allman’s gaze swung over to Burden, then back to Vail. “Really? I can print that?”
He missed the pun, the play on “key.” If he’d been listening closely, he would’ve realized I’m bullshitting him. Tough. She plowed forward, because she did want him printing the fact that the offender had missed something. “Yeah. Really. You can print that.”
“Thanks,” he said, scribbling on his pad.
“But next time don’t use my name in an article without asking first.”
Allman looked up and did a quick study of her face. “Just a guess…you weren’t happy with that.”
“You’re a word guy, so I think the proper adjective would be ‘pissed.’ Not as pissed as I was at your buddy, Scheer. But pissed.”
“Scheer’s not my buddy.”
“What do you know?” Vail said. “We’ve got something in common.” She forced a smile. “I don’t like him either.”
46
August 31, 1960
Leavenworth
MacNally ruminated on his escape attempt for another three months, until John Anglin was let out of segregation. During that time, he observed the institution’s physical layout, lighting, officer routines-anything that would give him an added advantage. He also spent time with Rucker and got to know him, as much as two inmates can when their only common link is that they’re both criminals sharing a cell in a maximum security penitentiary.
Anglin remained MacNally’s best option as far as determining if Harlan Rucker was someone who could keep his escape aspirations a secret; preventing their lips from flapping was a notoriously elusive trait that did not bless many inmates.
MacNally casually met up with Anglin in the recreation yard, out of view of the guards. They made small talk for a moment, sharing thoughts on their time in the Hole, before MacNally brought up the failed escape.
“Wasn’t your fault,” Anglin said. “Word is you really got into it. Sent Wallace to the hospital.”
“It was pretty convincing.” A damp sweat had erupted under his clothing, a factor of the stifling Kansas humidity. “Broke a bone.” MacNally lifted his hand, which sported a knob on the middle knuckle. “Kind of lost myself there, actually. Took out some frustration, I guess. Poor bastard didn’t know what the hell was going on.”
Anglin glanced around, clearly checking on the guards. “I know I said I’d help you out, but things’ve changed. Risky even standing here talkin’. They gonna think somethin’s up.”