“Elderly male,” Hartman said. “Looks to be late seventies, early eighties. No I.D. A full set of upper dentures and two partials on his lower. Callused hands.”
“Is he in IAFIS?” Vail asked, referring to the FBI’s national automated biometric database.
“Don’t know yet,” Price said. “I took a set of prints and emailed them to the lab. Because it’s after hours, I don’t know how long it’ll take to get an answer. But I asked them to expedite.”
Vail asked the men to move aside so she, Burden and Dixon could get a look at the crime scene. Staring back at them was an elderly male standing upright, his legs and arms handcuffed to the bars, facing forward. The numeral 23 was drawn on his forehead. “Looks like our UNSUB.”
“As if there was a question?” Dixon asked.
“I meant the text he sent. He said he gave us ‘some latitude.’ I thought he meant he gave us some leniency, but there was a double meaning-those latitude/longitude readings. The missing number was 23.”
“TOD?” Burden asked.
“Just a guess at this point-I can’t even get to the body-but rigor hasn’t yet set in, so less than three hours.”
Hartman’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and moved off.
“Mike,” Vail called after him. “Hang on a sec-”
The BlackBerry pressed against his ear, Hartman held up his middle finger as he walked away, without turning around.
Lovely.
Burden pointed at the wall behind the victim. “There are things in the cell. Books, paintings. A magazine on the shelf.” He twisted his head. “From 1961. Looks like this cell’s a diorama of sorts, for the tourists.”
“Exactly,” Detective Carondolet said. “I got my start as a ranger here on the island when I was seventeen. Lots of stuff has changed, but I still remember a fair amount of my Alcatraz history and training.”
Vail grabbed the bars and gave them a yank. “Can we open this thing?”
“Only way,” Carondolet said, “is using those locked vertical closets at the end of each cell block. I checked, but the keys aren’t where they used to keep them after hours. Dispatch is trying to find a ranger who can tell us where they keep ’em now. They’re the original keys from back when the prison was open.”
Keys. “Would those keys be short, stubby, funny looking things?”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Unfortunately,” Burden said. “Killer leaves them at some of his crime scenes.”
Carondolet said, “They sell facsimiles in the gift shop. Look just like the real thing.”
“His clothing’s a bit odd,” Dixon said, nodding at the victim. “Don’t you think?”
Vail turned back to the cell. “Deep creases in the shirt, sun bleached along the crease marks. As if it was folded and on a shelf a long time.”
“Denim shirt and khakis,” Dixon said.
“Prison dress,” Carondolet said. “Posters-maybe you saw ’em on the way in. Photos of famous prisoners who did time here. Capone, Machine Gun Kelley, the Birdman-”
“You think the UNSUB dressed him in these clothes just for us?” Dixon asked.
“Bet on it.” Vail knelt down and viewed the body from below. “Going with our theory, this vic either worked here or did time here. Way he’s dressed, looks like the latter.”
“Unless,” Dixon said, “the UNSUB didn’t like a particular guard and this is his way of finally getting justice. He puts the guy in a cell and handcuffs him to the bars. Treating him like the UNSUB was treated.”
Vail pursed her lips. “That’s good, Roxx. You might be right.” She turned to one of the agents. “Are inmate and employee records still kept on the island?”
“I doubt it,” Carondolet said. “Bureau of Prisons abandoned the place sometime after they shipped off all the inmates and closed it down. A lot of the laundry and medical equipment was sent to other penitentiaries and a chunk of the records were given to some doc for a research project, some kind of sociology study or some shit like that. He never returned ’em. About fifteen to twenty years later, I think a judge compelled him to turn everything he had over to the National Archives facility in San Bruno.”
Vail stood up. “San Bruno. That’s where the archives building is? And the Alcatraz records are kept there?”
“They’ve got all sorts of things, like evidence the Bureau found after the big ’62 escape. The raft, paddles, tools, stuff like that.”
“That vic, back in ’82,” Burden said. “Edgar Newhall. Wanna bet that building where he was found was the National Archives?”
“Things are starting to come together,” Dixon said.
Yeah, but are they coming together fast enough? Where the hell’s Friedberg? How much longer does he have-if he’s even still alive? With that thought, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed.
“I’m gonna call the office,” Burden said, “let ’em know what we’ve got here and see if they’re anywhere on that roster of officers and inmates who served here.”
Vail looked at the phone; it was her boss, Thomas Gifford. Doesn’t he ever sleep? “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Gifford said.
Vail pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it. Then she brought it back to her face and said, “What are you, like a hound dog, sniffing out my emotional state?”
“So I’m right.”
“Sir, no offense. But we’re busy here. Is there a problem?”
“Not a problem,” Gifford said. “For me, at least.”
“Now it’s my turn to say, ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’”
Gifford plowed ahead. “Just decided this evening. BAU’s going through a reorganization.”
“A reorg- Are you telling me I’m fired?”
“I’m not that lucky. No, nothing that radical. Years ago we were organized into regions. West coast, east coast-”
Vail looked at her phone. “Hello?” She moved back a few feet, then glanced at her handset. One bar.
Price’s camera flash spread light across the front of the cell block.
“Sir,” Vail said, turning again and taking several steps to her right. “You there?”
“Yes-yes. Did you hear what I said?”
“You winked out for a few seconds,” Vail said. “But yeah. The regional setup. It went out the window right after I started.”
“It’s coming back in the window,” Gifford said. “One SAC’s failed policy is another’s solution. So we’re shifting back next month. And since you’ve done so well out west, you’ve been assigned that region.”
“No, sir,” Vail said. “Just… No.” She rubbed at her forehead with thumb and forefinger, then glanced at Burden. He was still on the phone. Dixon was sticking her pen through the bars and moving aside the man’s shirt, gesturing to Price about something.