I know how you feel. “The husband,” Vail said. “You said he’s an attorney. I assume he’s got no criminal record.”
“I’m sure there’s some crude joke here about lawyers, but no, Mr. Anderson’s got a clean sheet. Like I said, we’ve got an APB out on him.”
“I’m trying to eliminate him as a suspect.”
Burden pushed the toaster back in place, then gave a final look around the townhouse. “Looks like all plugs and appliances are intact. Which means he probably brought the electrical cord with him.”
“So,” Vail said, “he’s either killed before or he intends to kill again. He might also be keeping the tool as a reminder, kind of like a trophy. A way for him to relive the murder.”
“I thought a trophy was something of the victim’s, like a lock of hair or a photo.”
“It can be anything,” Vail said. “Something that has psychological significance to the offender that allows him to relive the kill. I’m not saying this electrical cord is a trophy, but it could function for him like one. Or it could be that it’s a tool in his murder kit.”
Burden sat down heavy in a soft overstuffed living room chair while Vail walked over to the bay windows. The fog was lifting a bit. She could now see more of the Golden Gate’s tower.
“You think this UNSUB will kill again?”
Vail watched the fog roll by. It moved swiftly, tumbling and swirling, like time-lapse photography.
“Unless there’s something else you want to see here, we should get over to the morgue.”
She pulled herself away from the window. “Drive me around the neighborhood a bit so I can get a feel for the area.”
“One thing’ll be obvious,” Burden said as he pushed out of the deep chair. “This isn’t the kind of place you’d expect something like this to happen.”
Vail chuckled. “Thing is, Burden, this shit can happen anywhere. Anytime. To anyone.” Vail glanced back at the bedroom. “Even, unfortunately, to old ladies.”
7
January 20, 1958
366-1/2 Service Creek Road
Independence Township
Aliquippa, Pennsylvania
Walton MacNally blew on his hands, then replaced his worn leather glove. He looked over at Henry, who was fiddling with the radio dial. “Shut the radio, son. It’s time.”
“But it’s Elvis, Dad.”
MacNally tilted his head but did not reply. His stern look said enough. Henry reached over and turned off the radio.
“This isn’t exactly the way I thought we’d be spending your tenth birthday,” MacNally said. “I figured we’d have a party, with candles and friends and lots of gifts.”
“But I don’t have any friends.”
MacNally felt a deep sadness wash over him. Henry was right. They had moved so often it was impossible to forge meaningful relationships. Just when he’d settled into a school, they had to uproot and go somewhere else to find work. It was a process they had done more than a dozen times over the past three years, and it was getting tough to continue the trend. He didn’t want Henry to grow up without friends, because they gave depth and meaning to a child’s youth.
He was no expert on children, for sure. Henry was his one and only source of knowledge. His experience was limited, and god knows he’d made a ton of mistakes. But he always did everything within his power to give his son a happy childhood.
MacNally had seen a headline in a local paper a couple of years ago that the police had charged a man for Doris’s murder, a drunkard who had robbed another neighborhood home and killed the man who lived there. MacNally wanted to see the guy, shake him, spit on him-yell at him, maybe. Tell him the pain he had caused. But what would that do? Doris was gone, and his and Henry’s lives had been irreparably changed.
In the intervening years, MacNally had become Henry’s one and only friend. They fished together, hunted together, bowled together and, more recently, even snuck into a few Pittsburgh Pirates ballgames at Forbes Field. But he knew that was no substitute. It was simply the best he could do.
Lately, though, his best was not enough. Money was short, food was scarce, and work was not just sporadic, it was almost nonexistent.
“I know you don’t have any friends, son. And I’m sorry about that. If we didn’t have to move so much, things’d be different. A lot of things.”
“I don’t need friends. I’ve got you.”
Tears formed in MacNally’s eyes. He turned away so Henry wouldn’t see him cry. His thighs were so cold they were numb. He rubbed his gloved hands across the threadbare denim of his Levi’s to get some feeling back into his legs. It gave him something to do while he composed himself.
“I wanna turn the radio back on,” Henry said.
“We need to go through things one more time.” MacNally pulled at his muffler, straightening out the folds in the thick wool where it crossed his neck. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Sit here and wait for you to come back. Keep a watch on the bank’s entrance. When I see you come out, I put the car in drive. You get in and I floor it.”
“Yeah, but don’t press the pedal too hard too fast. Do it just like we practiced, okay?”
Three weeks ago, MacNally had taken Henry to a parking lot in a Pittsburgh suburb, where he taught his son how to handle a Chevy just like this one. Henry was tall for his age, just like his father, and had no difficulty reaching the pedals. They practiced for a solid week in secluded parking lots until he had demonstrated good control of the vehicle, then graduated to streets, after dark, that saw little traffic.
When they abandoned that Chevy-they’d stolen it in Florida and had been driving it too long for MacNally’s comfort-he was intent on finding as close a match as possible to ensure Henry would be able to handle it properly under pressure.
“It’s important we do this right. It’s dangerous. But we need the money for food. We don’t have much of a choice. Besides, banks have a lot of money, they aren’t gonna miss the few bucks we’re gonna take.” He reached over and brushed back Henry’s dirty blond hair. “And I’m gonna buy you a birthday present. Tomorrow, as soon as we get to a safe place.” What was safe, MacNally didn’t know. But he didn’t want his son to be nervous. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want nothing.’”
“Anything. You don’t want anything.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“So c’mon. What would you like?”
Henry looked around a moment, thinking. “An Elvis record.”
“Nah, we’ll get you something better than that. It’s your tenth birthday. How about a bike?”
Henry sat up straight. “Really?”
“If we do this right. Yeah. I’ll get you a bike.”
“I never had a bike. Can it be a Royce Union?”
“Sure.”
“A black one?”
MacNally smiled. “If that’s what you want. Black it is.” He looked at his watch, then leaned forward in his seat and let his eyes roam the street ahead and behind them. “I don’t know how long we can sit around in this car. And I don’t know how good the cops are in this city. We’ve just gotta do it and get as far away as fast as possible. You ready?”
“Ready.”
MacNally pulled his gaze over to his son. “Okay then. Just like we planned. I’m going to pull up in front and when I get out, you move behind the wheel.” He got a nod from Henry, then he drove a block east and took an open curb spot in front of Township Community Savings Bank. He shoved the gear into Park, then looked out the window at the blue and black TCS logo on the brick building.
MacNally took one last glance at Henry, gave the boy a smile and a wink to mask his own building apprehension, and then popped open his door.