They were quiet as they processed that thought. This is it. I can feel it. C’mon. Look. What are we missing?
Burden looked at the board, then pointed. “Tumaco’s place-SDL. Sensory Deprivation Lab. Think about it. Those flotation tanks. What is sensory deprivation?”
“Isolation,” Vail said. She rose from her seat. “Isolation. Segregation. The hole. Leavenworth.”
“Leavenworth’s a key to this killer,” Dixon said.
“Let’s get a list of inmates,” Burden said, “who did time at the penitentiary for-what? The past fifteen, twenty years?”
“I’d go farther back,” Vail said. “These are all elderly vics and if they have a tie to the offender, he could be an older UNSUB. Go back…five decades; start with 1960-no, make it 1950 so we don’t miss anyone.”
“I’ll get someone on that,” Burden said as he pulled his phone.
“Can an older guy commit these murders?” Dixon asked. “Does that fit your profile?”
Vail turned to face the board. “In terms of the female vics, an older offender can easily incapacitate them using his intellect. Even more so if he knew them. It may be enough to keep them from freaking out when they made eye contact. There are a lot of ways to gain control over someone. A gun, a knife, a stun wand. Once he’s got control, yes, very possible. As to the male vics, it’d require the UNSUB to be a fit older man. And remember, he used a rope for leverage. And the two that required a rope were slight, small men.”
“So it’s physically possible,” Dixon said.
Burden had hung up and was listening to Vail’s analysis. “What about your profile?”
“I would not have pegged this on an older offender. But that’s why behavioral analysis is but one tool in the forensic kit. If he’s disguised it well, I could’ve missed it.”
“Knowing that, let’s take a fresh look at these photos,” Dixon said.
Burden was staring at the murder board. A few moments later, he said, “Those numbers on their forehead.” He turned back to his PC and started clicking his mouse. “I may have something.”
“We have background sheets on our vics?” Dixon asked as Vail moved closer to the board to examine Rex Jackson’s photos.
Burden was now pounding the keys. “Robert was working on that. He had some stuff assembled, nothing detailed.”
“Let’s be smarter about this,” Vail said. “Instead of trolling thousands or tens of thousands of Leavenworth inmates, let’s take a shortcut. Any of our victims do time at Leavenworth?”
Dixon turned to Vail. “You mean, like inmates?”
Vail thought a moment. It doesn’t have to be inmates. Not inmates. Guards. “Anything. Inmates, guards. Especially guards. People in positions of power.”
“I’m sure Bureau of Prisons can get us that info, but we can’t wait till tomorrow. I’ll see what I can find online. Hopefully there’s a publicly available database.” He opened a new tab in the browser, then clicked his mouse.
“Those funky brass keys,” Vail said. “Let’s see if keys like that were used on Leavenworth during that same time frame. But how the hell are we gonna find that out?”
“We need an archivist,” Dixon said. “Or a historian who specializes in US penitentiaries.”
“I’ll give a shout to the guys in the other room, in case they-or the interns-know of a way to find someone at this time of night.” Burden lifted his phone and made the call.
“How does this get us closer to finding Friedberg?” Vail asked.
“Don’t know yet,” Dixon said, preoccupied. But she then pointed at the text message hanging on the board. “Folsom Street. One of those clues the offender texted us. He sent us to Folsom. Folsom’s a state prison.”
Prisons. Segregation. “There were, what, three bars at that intersection on Folsom? And what else was there? A cell phone store. Bars and cells.”
Burden hung up. “I heard what you said-bars, cells, Leavenworth, Folsom. What if we’re wasting our time? It might not be Leavenworth.”
“I don’t think it is. Right idea, wrong prison. We’re in San Francisco.” Vail rose and stood in front of one of the photos. “What’s that in the middle of the Bay?” She stabbed at a spot on the picture with a finger. “We kept thinking the vics were facing the Bay. But that’s not it.”
Burden’s phone rang. Keeping his eyes riveted to the murder board, he reached for the receiver, then turned back to face his screen. “You’re shitting me.” He twisted his mouth, said, “Thanks,” then hung up.
His eyes shot over to Vail. “SFPD dispatch just got a call from a security guard. Guy found a DB.”
“A security guard?” Dixon asked. “Where?”
Burden swallowed hard. “Alcatraz.”
58
June 10, 1962
Alcatraz
Walton MacNally stood at the bars as the correctional officer moved along the B-Block cell fronts, doing his morning count. MacNally was hoping this would be the last one he would have to endure, as all the pieces were in place and now it was a matter of days-today, tomorrow-it was a function of when they could break through the blower vent above B-block.
Once West had completed painting all the individual cells, he informed the cellhouse duty officer that he needed scaffolding to reach the expansive ceiling, which had begun peeling in the caustic sea air. Shortly thereafter, West was climbing the metal framework, which gave him an ideal look at the area above the third tier of the institution-and the ceiling above B-block, in particular. It was a gated, locked area that would require an officer to provide admittance each day. But once he scouted the mechanism in person, West described to MacNally the blower and attached ductwork.
MacNally then set out to secure the tools they would need to disassemble the pieces-which would give them access to the metal tunnel that led to the roof. It was a process that demanded patience and extreme care. One inmate known to trip the metal detector due to a plate in his skull was often used as a conduit to pass through small tools and hardware that would’ve otherwise set the snitch box in a tizzy. Over a period that spanned eleven months, piece by piece, they secured their stash.
Finally, with everything falling into place, West explained in March that in order to work atop the cellblock in the evenings, he would need to convince the officer in charge that it was necessary to hang tarps along the interior periphery of the caged area.
None of them thought that was possible-but somehow, the credibility West had built during the past year of providing trouble-free, quality, and dependable craftsmanship while painting the cellhouse won him the benefit of any doubt the penitentiary leadership may-and should-have had. The tarps were permitted and the men got to work.
Their efforts were assisted by Alcatraz’s music hour, a loosening of the once-stringent rules implemented by prior wardens charged with running the nation’s toughest federal penitentiary. Playing an instrument thus became a popular pastime on The Rock, with inmates of all skill levels taking up the challenge of making music. Some of it was downright awful-and for those who were good musicians, it did not matter-dozens of men simultaneously playing different songs on wind and string instruments in a cement-walled structure blended the good and bad into an echoing disharmony of cacophonous noise.