Burden came around the vehicle. “You two know each other?”
“I was out here a couple of months ago on another case. Friedberg helped out on a cold case of his.”
“More like frozen. And she cleared it for me. Ain’t that a goddamn kick?” He pulled the cigarette out and expelled a wisp of smoke from the side of his mouth. “A dozen years working the case, I got a big goose egg. Then she blows into town and in a week, she solves it.”
“The task force solved it,” Vail said. “I was just part of the team. But let’s hope we clear this one just as fast.”
“Speaking of which,” Burden said, “what’s the deal with the husband? Where is he?”
“Follow me.” Friedberg led the way through the path between the two large stands of columns.
“You said this place was the Palace of...what?”
“Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.
“What’s it for?” Vail asked. “And don’t say ‘fine arts,’ or I’ll have to kick you where it hurts.”
Friedberg glanced at her over his shoulder. “The way you say it, I think you’re capable of doing just that.”
You wouldn’t be the first.
“Ten of these buildings were built to celebrate the rebirth of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake. They weren’t supposed to be up more than a year, so they made ’em out of wood, plaster, and burlap. But people really liked them. I mean, they were freaking gorgeous, right? So they raised money and collected a gazillion signatures, and the city eventually made castings of the original structure. Around 1964, I think, they tore the whole thing down, then rebuilt it in concrete.”
Burden, striding to catch up, shook his head. “I don’t know how he keeps all these facts crammed into that brain of his.”
“Is he like this with everything?” Vail asked.
“He is right here,” Friedberg said. “And it’s just Bay Area stuff. For the most part. What can I say, I like history. Shoulda gone into teaching. Instead I carry a gun and badge and try to teach lessons to the scum of San Francisco.”
They had walked through the colonnade and were headed toward a large rotunda. Vail stopped and brought her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes against the bright gray, glaring sky as she looked at the columns. They were conjoined by a walkway of sorts, with what appeared to be female figurines standing with their elbows draped across the top of the portico, as if peering over its uppermost boundary.
“It’s quite beautiful.” She swung her gaze to Friedberg. “But where’s the husband?”
“In here.” Friedberg led them into the rotunda, a large structure that dwarfed the pergola and served as its centerpiece.
“What’s he afraid of,” Burden asked. “That the killer’s going to find him?”
Friedberg stopped walking. “Nope, that’s definitely not a concern of his.”
“Then why meet us here?” Burden asked. “Why not the local Starbucks?”
“I think the answer to that question’ll be evident in a minute.”
Vail peered up and around the vast structure, which she figured stretched over fifty feet into the air. Half a football field ahead, there appeared to be a body of water. “C’mon, Friedberg. You interrupted my morgue visit, and you just gotta know I cherish my time in those places. Where is this guy?”
Behind them, footsteps. Vail turned and saw a man dressed in a county uniform marked CSI. He was carrying a kit. She looked at Friedberg.
Friedberg took a long drag on his Marlboro, then pulled it from his lips and watched the smoke swirl on the breeze. He then tipped his head back and gestured above them with the cigarette. “Agent Vail, meet William Anderson.”
Vail and Burden craned their necks and saw, twenty feet above them, an ashen elderly man. Tied to the base of a massive wine-red column.
“That’s William Anderson?” Vail asked.
Friedberg brought his eyes down to meet Vail’s. “Yes ma’am.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Right again.”
Vail looked away. “Shit.”
11
MacNally pulled his shoulders back, shoved his right hand in a pocket, then looked up and met the teller’s eyes.
“Good afternoon,” she said with an absent-minded glance down at her watch. Then, with rote skill: “How may I help you?”
The woman’s nameplate read, Mrs. Wilson. MacNally slid the note forward, keeping his gaze locked on the woman’s face. Looking for a gesture toward the security guard, an unfriendly movement of any kind.
Her eyes rotated from her watch to the note, then quickly up to MacNally’s face.
“It’s real easy,” MacNally said, hardening his brow. In a low voice, he said, “Do it. Now. Fast, or I start shooting. You’ll be the first I kill.”
Mrs. Wilson fumbled for her drawer, then pulled it open. Her hands were instantly unstable, trembling as she reached for the neat stacks of bills. “This is a very dangerous thing you’re doing, Mister.”
“I don’t want any kinda commentary. Put it in a bag. Do it real quick. That’s all I want you thinking about.” He moved his arm, as if he was tightening his grip on the phantom weapon in his pocket.
“I don’t have a bag,” she said.
“And I don’t want excuses. Put it in something. Fast.” Fact was, though, he had zero leverage here. If she refused, or called his bluff, he could only run out empty-handed.
It was a moot point because Mrs. Wilson began stacking the bills in front of her. But she was moving slowly, as if stalling for time.
MacNally was trying to look calm, but how could he? He was perspiring from having the wool wrapped across his mouth and nose, and the pressure of the moment was no doubt making things worse. He stole a glance at the guard to his right. The man was folding the newspaper. He tossed it aside and looked up. MacNally swung his head away, back toward Mrs. Wilson.
Jesus Christ, hurry the hell up!
She grabbed a brown bag that was pushed to the side, removed a container, an apple, and a bottle of Coke. She stuffed the money into the sack, which was bulging from being so full, and attempted to roll the top closed.
“That’s good,” MacNally said. Glance at the guard. He was headed toward him. “Give it to me.”
He snatched it, then took a breath to relax. He didn’t want to look guilty, but he needed to get the hell out of there before Mrs. Wilson flagged the approaching man.
In five long strides MacNally reached the glass door. He pushed through, then continued to the curb, where Henry was sitting and the Chevy was idling. MacNally got in, Henry pressed the accelerator, and the heavy car swiftly left the curb.
Lacking skill, Henry hung a right faster than he was able to control. The rear of the sluggish vehicle swung wide, but he recovered control and seconds later they were speeding down the side street.
MacNally tore open a seam in the bag. “Whoo-hoo! We did it, son.”
“Did we get enough?”
MacNally flipped through the combination of used and new bills, watching the twenties and hundreds as they fluttered by his eyes. “I...I don’t know. Must be like a thousand. Something like that.”
“A thousand dollars?” Henry asked, turning to steal a glimpse of the money in the remaining strains of twilight.
“Hey, hey,” MacNally said, pointing at the road ahead of them. “Keep your eyes where I taught you.” He shoved the bills back in the bag, then leaned back. “Yes, son. Dollars. Lots of dollars.”
12
Vail shook her head. “Inspector, forgive me if this is a dumb question. But why the hell didn’t you tell us he was dead?”
Friedberg squished his Marlboro against the outsized cement brick that made up the adjacent wall of the rotunda. “You didn’t ask.”
“It’s not you,” Burden said to Vail. “He sometimes gets like this.”
“I forgot. You like puzzles. Guess you and Robert were made for each other.”
“It does help,” Burden said. He followed Friedberg
, who was climbing a semicircular set of stairs that led to the column to which Mr. Anderson was fastened.
“Scene’s yours,” said an SFPD officer as he pushed away from the fifteen-foot concrete urn that he was leaning against. “ME’s en route.”
Behind them, the CSI set down his kit, then brought a Nikon DSLR to his face and began fiddling with the lens.
Vail looked up at the body. “COD?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Friedberg said. “Maybe kicked. But as to what actually killed him, there are bruises on his neck. I’d guess asphyxiation.”
“How’d you find him?” Burden asked.
“One of the ice cream vendors saw him. As he got closer, he realized the guy wasn’t moving. And he was, well, he looked kind of awkward just standing there like this.”
Yeah, no shit.
Mr. Anderson’s back was pressed upright against the square face of the column’s base, his shoulders pinned back and his head erect. His right knee was slightly bent, but the left was locked straight.
Burden took a couple steps closer. “Is that—yeah, he’s tied up with fishing line. Significance to that?”
“Too soon to speculate if there’s a psychological component,” Vail said. “Obvious first thought is that he didn’t want anyone to see the bindings. He wanted it to look like the vic was just standing here.”
“And why would that be?”
Vail shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he liked the way it looked. Who knows...it could be significant, could mean nothing. If you’re going to tie someone to a pole, or a column, the first thing you reach for is not gonna be fishing line. So, yeah, common sense says there might be something behind that. What it is, we don’t know. Yet.” She turned her body and took in the scene from their elevated perch. “Nice view up here.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Burden asked.
“I’m serious. The view, that could be significant, too. For now, we note it. Could just be that he was posing the vic and this seemed to be an intriguing spot to place him.”
The CSI had taken all his photographs from ground level, and had now joined them near the body. “Did you see the drag marks?” He shifted the camera to his shoulder and shook Vail’s hand. “Jackson. Rex.”
“Vail. Karen. What drag marks?”
“Here, and down there.” He pointed at two streaks in the disturbed loose dirt that lay atop the cement. He then led them to the steps they had climbed. Pointed. “See?”
Vail tilted her head. “Yeah. So he dragged the body.” She walked back over to Mr. Anderson and looked up at it. “How much you think he weighs?”
“He’s an old guy,” Friedberg said. “And only about five-five. I’m guessing he’s 135.”
Burden nodded. “Seems about right. So, fireman’s carry, over the shoulder. Not that big a deal to get him up here. Not the easiest thing in the world. But not impossible.”
“Hold that thought a minute,” Friedberg said. He pointed to something lying behind the column. “Rope.”
Jackson had finished placing markers and a ruler beside, and then shooting photos of, the drag marks. He joined Friedberg, snapped pictures of the coil of yellow rope, and then the inspector gathered it up in gloved hands and examined it.
“Looks like the kind used for climbing, or search-and-rescue,” Jackson said. “Braided nylon sheath, probably over a nylon strand core. And it’s frayed.” He looked around and said, “If you’re going to use a rope, you need a pulley-type system. Or an anchor.”
A moment later, Burden knelt in front of the massive concrete pot. “I think I found that pulley.”
Jackson shot photos of the lower portion of the urn, which was round, slightly ridged, and narrow at its base. “I’m guessing these yellow particles here are nylon fragments.”
They looked at the rope, then at the colored specks dotting the rough surface of the pedestal.
“So,” Friedberg said, “the UNSUB wrapped the rope around this thing and pulled the body up from below. Then what about the drag marks?”
“Sometimes we see what we want to see,” Vail said. “And sometimes we don’t have all the answers to reach a valid conclusion.”
“Right,” Jackson said. “Maybe they’re not drag marks. Document and figure it out later.”
“Pretty ingenious, if that’s what he did,” Burden said.
“Given the type of rope he used,” Friedberg said, “any chance this guy’s a mountain climber?”
“Yeah,” Vail said. “There’s a chance. But I’d say a small one. Without other hobby-specific equipment, like those anchors Jackson mentioned, the kind climbers hammer into the rock face, or footprints from special types of climbing boots, I think we just have to look at this rope as, well, rope—sturdy, reinforced rope. The kind that’d help the offender accomplish his task.”
Vail stood there a moment working the scene through her mind. She swiveled a bit, looking around, then said, “From what I’m seeing here, it’s safe to conclude this offender planned the kill—and the location and positioning of the body. So if he scoped out the place, he’s been here more than once. Maybe someone saw him, a regular—you said an ice cream vendor found him. If the guy’s here a lot, maybe he saw someone looking around, doing things the typical tourist doesn’t do.” She swung back to Burden. “Cameras?”
“I’ll have to check on that. Maybe in the parking lot. Nothing in here, I don’t think.”
Vail stepped over to the body. A large number 37 was scrawled in black marker across the man’s forehead. “Any San Francisco relevance to the number 37?” Vail asked.
The inspectors thought a moment. “There’s a Pier 37.”
“What’s there?”
“It’s on the Embarcadero, near North Beach,” Burden said. “Other than that, not much. It’s small, not commercialized like 39 and 35 are.”
“What else?”
“Golden Gate Bridge was completed in 1937,” Friedberg said.
That’s not it. Vail sucked on her cheek. “Anything else?”
“It’s a MUNI route,” Burden said. “Public transportation. Starts at the Haight, I think.”
“The what?” Vail asked. “The hate?”
“H-a-i-g-h-t,” Friedberg spelled. “Famous area of the city. It’s kind of considered the melting pot of the sixties hippie movement, when it was a haven for drugs, cheap rooms, and plunging property values. It’s had a mixed history. It’s still kind of bohemian.”
“Bohemian,” Vail said. “Hippies.” This isn’t helping.
Burden moved in front of the body and looked at the forehead marking. “Don’t forget the painted ladies.”
Painted ladies. “Is that an old case?”
Burden grinned. “Victorian homes. Colorfully painted rowhouses. They’re called painted ladies. They’re really kinda nice.”
“I don’t think so,” Vail said. “Thirty-seven’s gotta have some other meaning.” A moment later, she tapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Rex, can you process Mr. Anderson so we can cut him down? I want to get a look at his back. If he was pulled up with that rope, we’re going to see scrape marks on the skin and the clothing. His front looks clean.”
Friedberg had gone quiet. He was staring out at the Bay, his back to them. “This doesn’t look right to me.”
“How do you mean?” Vail asked.
He turned to face them. “Well, think about it a minute. If you saw this body here, and his wife’s body at their townhouse—but they weren’t husband and wife—would you think it was the same killer? Or just two unrelated murders, killed by two different killers? Point is, is it the same guy who offed both Andersons?”
“Maybe we’ve got two killers,” Burden said. “Working together, each with his own—what do you call it? Signature?”
“Ritual,” Vail said. “And that scenario is certainly possible.” She stopped, thought a moment.
Burden tilted his head back. “Ritual. I remember that term from that violent crime symposium you people d
id out here in ’06.”
“I’m sure it was discussed,” Vail said. “Ritual refers to those things the offender does with the body, things that aren’t necessary for him to pull off the crime without getting caught. They’re the things that tell us the most about the killer. It’s not stuff he does consciously—well, I should say that he knows he’s doing it, but he doesn’t know why. To him, it’s sexually gratifying. It fills the need to be powerful and in control. That could manifest as cutting off a body part or writing numbers on the face. Those peculiar behaviors form what we call ritual. So if we’ve got two psychopaths, each with his own deep-seated needs, yeah, we’d probably see two different crime scenes like these. But not necessarily.”
“But if there were two of them,” Friedberg said, “you wouldn’t need the rope to hoist Mr. Anderson here up to the column. Much easier to just carry him. Really, the vic’s so slight that even if there was only one of them, he could’ve still been able to carry him over his shoulder.”
“I think there were two killers,” Burden said. “Two different rituals, two different killers.”
Vail winced. This was dangerous territory for a profiler. Behavioral analysis was a science, yes, but it was also dynamic, based on the totality of what you know at the time. You took the information, compared it to what you knew of other crime scenes and behaviors and killers, analyzed the psychology behind the actions taken by the killer and the victimology of your victims, and drew conclusions based on your assimilation of all those factors.
Asking for a quick and dirty analysis at this early stage risked forcing her into making incorrect assumptions. She didn’t want to lose their confidence—or, worse, send the investigation in the wrong direction.
Vail crouched near the victim’s feet. “Look at the raw facts. Husband and wife. Both murdered, both exhibiting blunt force trauma. The time frame is important, too, but for the moment, I think it’s best to assume it’s a single killer until proven definitively otherwise. Besides, despite the glaring differences in the scenes, we don’t have anything solid that tells me we’re looking at two offenders here. There are other explanations for the disparity.”
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