“Still hasn’t responded.” Burden shook his head and reholstered his phone. Before he moved his hand aside, the device began vibrating. “Hang on-” He lifted it from his belt. “Robert just texted me. Says he’s tied up at the moment.”
“Great.” Vail tilted her head and looked at the body, then stepped back a few steps to get a broader perspective. “Something else is different.” Her eyes moved from shoes to head and- “That’s it. He’s wearing a hat. Do priests wear hats?”
“No idea,” Burden said. “But why not?”
Vail shook her head. “It’s more than that. None of the other males had hats on.” She stepped up to the body, then stopped. “Price-gloves?”
Price pulled out a couple from her kit and tossed them to Vail, who stretched them across her hands. She lifted the hat-and a note fell into Father Finelli’s lap. Vail carefully unfolded it. In printed computer text, the note contained one sentence:
where is inspector friedberg?
52
November 21, 1960
United States Penitentiary – Alcatraz
San Francisco Bay
Alcatraz, California
The cold, damp fog blasted MacNally’s face as he debarked from the white wooden launch inscribed with the name Warden Johnston. The boat rocked a bit as he stepped onto the swaying gangplank. Ahead of him, a large black-on-white sign stared at him, informing him of the obvious:
UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY
ALCATRAZ ISLAND
ONLY GOVERNMENT BOATS PERMITTED
There was other text on the sign, but the rest of it did not matter. He was here. On an island, in the middle of the Bay in the Pacific Ocean, a long way from shore. One of the officers onboard the ship told him there were sharks in the choppy, gray waters, but MacNally did not care to look. It was an ocean; he did not doubt it.
Ahead of him stood a five-story cream-colored brick structure-an apartment building, he guessed. To his right, a black steel guard tower rose from the dock. An armed officer stared down at him, a high-powered rifle cradled in his hands. Daring MacNally to try something. By the look on his face, his morning had been as exciting as the desolate waters around him, and a little action would be welcome. MacNally decided to move along as instructed and not give the hack any chance to relieve the day’s boredom.
Then again, he was wearing leg irons and handcuffs, and he was surrounded by three officers. If he was going to attempt an escape, this would not be the time or place he would choose.
From the Bureau of Prisons’s perspective, Walt MacNally was a man who had robbed two banks at gunpoint, kidnapped a child, participated in one escape attempt at Leavenworth, engineered another, and had been strongly suspected in the brutal attack of two other inmates.
MacNally did not blame them for moving him to a prison island and taking stringent precautions. To them, he was a dangerous convict capable of heinous things. And he had to admit, who he was a year ago and who he was now were as different as summer in Spain and winter in Siberia.
“Move it,” the officer said with a shove.
A transport bus’s rough diesel engine idled impatiently as MacNally ascended the steps as best he could with his ankles fastened together. He took a seat and the vehicle lurched forward. A moment later, it strained to climb the steep switchback roadway that led to the prison building.
Seagulls swooned and dove above and around the truck, and their droppings littered the pavement and penitentiary’s exterior brick facing. Even inside the bus, he heard the large birds’ screams. He had a feeling this was a sound with which he would become intimately familiar.
Through damp and dirty windows, the institution loomed before him. He craned his neck and looked up at the building. Three or so stories. Barred windows. The design was not as elaborate or grandiose as Leavenworth. More stark, prison-like. Dreary.
Vegetation was everywhere, however. The hillsides were well planted and lush, and as the bus chugged up the incline, he saw a garden of some kind along the roadway. The transport hooked another left, and then headed up again, toward the entrance to the penitentiary.
Finally, the bus screeched to a halt.
“Up,” the guard said.
MacNally pulled himself from the seat and slowly stepped down the stairs, stooping his tall frame to avoid striking his head while taking care not to trip over the leg irons. The wind was blustery, fiercer here at the top of the island. He took a moment to glance at the Bay view.
“Get a good, long look. That’s what you’ll be missing out on.”
“Incentive to keep your nose clean here,” one of the other guards said. “We don’t tolerate bad behavior, MacNally. We’ve seen your sheet at Leavenworth. That shit won’t fly here. You’re on The Rock now.” The officer gave him a shove forward.
MacNally walked into the sally port and stood before a barred metal gate.
“Opening up,” the duty officer said.
A buzzer sounded and a metal plate slid aside electronically, baring a lock mechanism. The guard removed a key and inserted it into the opening.
The uniformed men led MacNally through an additional gate and then down a hallway before turning left into a large room. To his side stood a long row of shower heads; in front of him, a caged area where two men folded clothes.
One of the guards pulled a key from his pocket and gestured to his feet. “Be still. No fast moves. Understand?” MacNally agreed, and the officer crouched down to unlock the irons. He handed them to his colleague, who headed off the way they had come.
MacNally and his escort continued ahead about thirty feet, stopping at a wire mesh gate with a pass-through opening.
Two trustees dressed in denim shirts and white pants asked him his shoe and clothing sizes, then turned to the wood wall-mounted bins and selected the appropriate items. The inmate tossed it into a neat pile, then added a shaving kit: mug, brush, and soap. “You gotta shave three times a week, no exceptions. No beards, moustaches, sideburns. Nothing. From 5:30 to 8:30, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, guards’ll come around and pass out razors. They collect ’em when you’re done.” He grabbed a printed booklet from a stack and slapped it atop the pile. “It’s all in here. These are the rules. Read ’em. Learn ’em. Things go easier that way.”
He handed it all to MacNally through the opening in the metal mesh wall. MacNally took it and looked down at the thin blue-on-white printed manual titled Institution Rules & Regulations.
“Your new name’s AZ-1577,” the trustee said. “You’ll be in cell C-156.” He turned and walked back to the bins.
MacNally took a moment to glance around. “You been here a long time?”
“Five years, nine months. Six days.”
“How is it?”
The man glanced sideways at the correctional officer. “Some guys here call it Devil’s Island. How do you think it is?” His eyes slid over again to the guard, then back. “You’re in the middle of one of the most beautiful places on earth. Most of the time, you can’t even see it ’cause you’re either locked in your cell or you’re workin’ in Industries. But you can hear it. When the party boats pass by on New Year’s, you can hear the people laughing. When you go out to the yard, if it’s a clear day, you’ll see all the pretty women in bikinis cruise by in them fancy boats. You can look but you can’t touch. You’re stuck here. On a fucking rock in the middle of the goddamn ocean.”