MacNally took a seat at a barred window and watched as the vehicle chugged its way through the Missouri countryside. A chase car, containing what MacNally presumed were either more marshals or some other type of federal agent, trailed the van, no doubt guarding against an attack or a coordinated attempt to free him. He found the humor in that: he knew no one, and now, separated from his son, he had no one. No one would care that he was being imprisoned. No one would have the slightest interest in breaking him out.
The prison transport crossed over the Missouri River and into Leavenworth, where Missouri 92 turned into Metropolitan Avenue. As the convoy came to a stop at a traffic light, MacNally could not help but notice the front entrance to Fort Leavenworth.
Ahead on the right, MacNally saw the penitentiary’s overbearing silver dome reflecting a sunny haze that hung as thick as the humidity permeating the bus. Beads of perspiration rolled mercilessly down his forehead. With his hands shackled to his feet, which were themselves in leg irons, he was unable to swipe away the lines of sweat as they dripped onto his tan trousers.
As the van began moving again, MacNally shifted his butt in the seat to get a better view of his new home. The dome dominated the structure, which extended in both directions to its left and right. The building was massive and imposing.
“See them columns? That dome?” the guard asked him.
“Yeah.” MacNally kept his gaze on the approaching penitentiary.
“Supposed to look like the US Capitol in DC. Funny, don’t you think? They built this place and designed it to hold the worst of the worst. Criminals, all of ’em. And they made it look like the place where our senators and congressmen do their business.” The man chortled heartily, then leaned forward, inches from MacNally’s face. “You should laugh, asshole. Where you goin’, may be the last time you feel like laughin’ for a long, long time.”
MacNally turned to face him but kept his expression impassive. The last thing he needed was to antagonize a law enforcement officer on his way to doing hard time at a penitentiary. He didn’t know what it was like inside, but he imagined that the inmates and guards did not get along well. He did not want to make the situation worse.
The van chugged down the road, a wide green median, not unlike pictures he had seen of the National Mall, laid out to his right. Ahead was a tan stone guard tower with a gray-green roof. An American flag flew beside the structure.
As they approached, MacNally had to admit that the place looked like a government structure. He had never been to the U.S. Capitol, though he remembered seeing a photo in a high school textbook. If the guard was right, and it seemed like he was, the Capitol was an imposing edifice.
The monstrosity ahead sported massive columns that striped the front of the building. But they weren’t real—they appeared to be carved from the limestone surface, as if in relief. The vertical windows were barred. What looked like nearly four dozen concrete steps led up to the entrance.
At the top of the façade, below the dome, the words United * States * Penitentiary were engraved into the stone’s face. As if there was any doubt.
The transport squealed to a stop and a marshal reached over to unshackle MacNally’s restraints from the metal bars of the seat. “Up, let’s go. End of the line.”
MacNally was led down the steps of the van and up the stairs of the penitentiary. The sun’s heat tightened the skin on his face as if he had walked into an oven. But it was a wet heat; humidity was a killer at this time of year, in this part of the country.
But as Walton MacNally was soon to find out, that would be the least of his problems.
25
The morning gloom hovered outside the large windows of Homicide, bringing a more intense chill than even the first few days of Vail’s visit. Roxxann Dixon was en route, toting a packed bag. Vail had invited her to room with her for as long as she was in town working the case.
Clay Allman’s San Francisco Tribune article made page one. Vail, Burden, and Friedberg huddled over the worktable, reading the paper, when suddenly Vail stood up straight. “Son of a bitch.”
Friedberg’s eyes darted around the page. “What’s wrong?”
“You guys read as fast as a third grader.”
“Oh.” Burden frowned and pushed back from his desk. “He mentioned you.”
“Yeah, he mentioned me.”
Friedberg tilted his head. “And mentioning you is a problem...why?”
“It’s one thing for the UNSUB to know certain things about our investigation. This kind of offender, he’s gonna want that interaction. We have to control it, even fan those flames—but very carefully. I’ve unfortunately been a part of a few of these cases, and it can really complicate things. I’d rather handle it low key—”
“You?” Burden asked. “Low key?”
“This UNSUB’s got a lot of narcissism and grandiosity. He’s arrogant and self-assured, the kind that taunts law enforcement. He’s posed his bodies in public to show off his handiwork, how great he is. It’s a monument to his skill as a killer. So announcing the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit is involved turns up the stakes, makes him feel more important. So that’s not bad. But mentioning me by name. That focuses things on me. I’d rather be in the background, in a position where I can pull strings the offender doesn’t know I’m pulling. But now that I’m on his radar, he’s going to be playing to me.”
“How’s that?” Friedberg asked.
“There’s a strong pull between profiler and offenders. Cat and mouse stuff. But the fact I’m a woman...makes it worse. Some of them see it as cool. After their arrest, a lot of ’em want to meet the woman profiler who worked their case.”
“And that’s bad?”
Vail chuckled. “He’s not looking at it as a situation where we’ll meet after the arrest. He’s going to do his best to find me before then.”
“So you want protection,” Burden said.
“Me? Protection? No. I’m saying that it adds a dynamic we didn’t need, a complication we’d have been better off without. And—it just goes to my point that we need to control the media, what they release. Even the precise wording they use in their reports, their articles—”
“Can’t unring a bell.” Burden tossed the paper on the desk. “What’s done is done. Let’s run our investigation based on what we know and what we don’t, not what the media knows and doesn’t know. Okay?”
“Of course,” Vail said, “but to ignore the media’s role and how the UNSUB—”
“I’m not ignoring it. But you planted that inane bit about the ocean. You wanted him to contact you. Maybe he will.”
“You. I wanted him to contact you.”
Burden grumbled something under his breath, then shook his head. “I’m beginning to think that the only thing that’s gonna solve this thing is good old fashioned ass-to-the-grindstone police work. Now. I think we need to look at the ’82 case and see what it can tell us regarding our current vics.”
Friedberg said, “I put out a message to Millard Ferguson.”
Vail ground her teeth. They’re missing the point. “And? Has he replied?”
Friedberg coyly pulled out his BlackBerry and thumbed through it. He tilted his head back to look out the bottoms of his glasses. “He did. Wants to meet.”
Burden grabbed his sport coat. “Why don’t you two go, I’m going to follow up with—”
“Agent Vail.” Before Burden could finish his sentence, a woman entered the room from the outer reception area. “This just came for you.” She handed Vail an envelope.
“Who’s it from?”
“It was messengered over. The man said it was time sensitive and extremely urgent.”
“What man?” Vail asked, heading for the anteroom where the receptionist’s station was.
“The messenger. He gave it to me and left.”
Vail looked at the envelope, then walked back toward Burden. “But other than us, and my unit, no one knows I’m here.” This is not good. Not good at all.
Shit, that’s right. What did I tell them? “Gloves?”
Burden stuck a hand inside his coat pocket and pulled one out.
“What do you do, carry an entire supply in there?”
“Boy Scout 101. Always be prepared.”
Vail slipped on the glove. “Boy Scout 101, huh? How about Anal Inspector 202.”
Burden wagged a finger at the envelope. “Shut up and open it.”
Using the tip of a pen, Vail carefully pried open the flap, then slipped out the piece of paper inside. Yeah. Not good at all.
Staring back at her was a message. From the offender:
THANK YOU FOR COMING AGENT VAIL.
26
August 6, 1959
“Leavenworth’s known as the ‘Big Top,’” the US Marshal said as he led MacNally up to the administration building’s double doors. “It’s also been referred to as the ‘Big L.’ We’ll be calling it your new home. But you’ll be calling it the biggest mistake of your life.”
A heavy steel rolling gate stood there ominously, MacNally’s first indication that this place was seriously committed to keeping its inmates contained on the other side of freedom.
The gate slid aside with the speed of molasses, agonizingly pointing out that once MacNally stepped across the threshold, his life was going to change forever. MacNally craned his neck upward to get a last glimpse of the sky as a free man, but the overhang of the building’s façade impeded his view.
MacNally tripped on the leg irons and stumbled through the gate into a lobby. To his left, a series of similar steel-barred barriers blocked the hall. To the right, a short corridor led to a couple of rooms.
The marshal grabbed hold of his left arm. “Wait here for the R&D officer.” He must have noticed MacNally’s confusion, because he clarified, “Receiving and Discharge.”
A man with the build and expression of a lumberjack walked up.
He pointed at MacNally. “Face the wall to your right.”
MacNally squinted. “What?”
“Face. The. Wall,” he said, as if MacNally was incapable of comprehending English. “Eyes front.”
MacNally did as ordered.
The marshal handed over a document. “Commitment order.”
The R&D officer took the paperwork and began to read it, then noticed MacNally was stealing a look at the text. “What the fuck you looking at? I said eyes front!”
MacNally swung his head back toward the grimy wall.
“Thanks, Deputy,” the officer said. “I’ve got custody. Be back in a few with the iron.”
The man grabbed hold of MacNally’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Ahead of him, barely visible through two more gates that boasted inch-thick steel bars, was an oddly out of place, intricately designed rotunda. An officer’s desk sat squarely in its center, with dark lines along the floor radiating outward toward the walls. Columns rose in pairs all around him, with hallways leading off the main hub.
The first gate’s bars slid apart and the two men walked through. They waited as it slammed shut behind them. The third one then opened slowly, and as they stepped forward into the rotunda, this door also struck metal with a violent echo as it banged closed.
Above him, a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty feet off the ground, rose a dome. Just like his design work on the exterior, the architect honed close to the US Capitol’s schema for the interior, as well.
The officer escorted MacNally through the rotunda and down a stairwell to their right that led to Receiving and Discharge. The arm and leg irons were removed and the officer left to return them to the marshal.
MacNally was stripped naked in front of the processing personnel and then searched for contraband and weapons—including his rectum and beneath his scrotum. An intake screening followed: a counselor interviewed him, asking about his work history, his education level, religion, and other such details. A physician’s assistant then asked him about his health to determine if he had any special needs. He had none.
He was then given his supplies—a printed manual that outlined Leavenworth rules and procedures; his clothing and bedroll; a towel, toothbrush and Dr. Finks tooth powder.
MacNally looked quizzically at the name on the latter product.
“That’s specially formulated stuff,” said the man issuing his kit. “After one good brushing, you won’t be able to keep your mouth shut.”
He said it with a straight face, but MacNally figured it had to be a joke. But he didn’t feel much like laughing.
A correctional officer approached, dressed in a tie and jacket, with a stern face and graying temples. His badge read, Voorhees.
“Take him to A&O,” the man said to Voorhees.
Voorhees frowned. “This way.” He led MacNally back through the rotunda. “Big L has four cellhouses, all joined right here. Centerhall. See those gates?”
MacNally saw them all right.
“Each cellhouse has only one door. Leads right here. Guards need to, they can seal off a cellhouse by slamming ’em shut.”
“Why would they need to do that?” MacNally asked.
Voorhees eyed him. “You ever been in prison before, boy?”
MacNally lifted a shoulder. “County, while I waited for my trial.”
The officer made no attempt to stifle his laugh. “Really. Well you in for one hell of a fucking rude awakening. Keep your eyes and ears open. Listen. Learn. This is the big time, boy. You’re in for a heap a trouble.”
MacNally swallowed hard. A font of fear welled up in his throat. Robbing those banks now didn’t seem like the prudent thing to do. But it was too late. He’d done it. He got caught. Now he had to learn how to survive.
“That there hallway,” Voorhees said, pointing ahead, “the one leading off Centerhall. That’s the main corridor. See the floor?” He got a nod from MacNally and continued. “White and red tiles. Walk on the white ones only. Step on the red, a guard’s gonna knock you good, back onto the white.”
“What’s the red for?”
“Staff.” Voorhees gestured into the distance. “Lieutenant’s office is down that hallway. And that’s the rear corridor way down there. The steel grill straight ahead leads to the dining room and the auditorium. The Protestant chapel’s located in the auditorium, Catholic chapel’s behind the stage. Kitchen, if you got that detail, is by the mess hall. Those grill doors on either side of the rear corridor down there lead to the hospital, laundry, and the yards. Commissary’s located on the yard.”
“What can you buy in the commissary?”
“Not much. MoonPies. Snacks, clothing, that sorta shit.”
Voorhees examined MacNally’s face a moment, then said, “Come with me.” He led him into the lieutenant’s office, and then closed the door. “Now listen to me. You trust no one here. Keep your mouth shut and do your own time. You go sticking your nose where it don’t belong, it could get you killed. Guys here, they’re interested in one thing. And that’s them and their own interests.”
MacNally nodded.
“What’d you do?” Voorhees asked. “To get a ticket here?”
“Armed robbery.”
The guard looked him square in the eye. “You do it?”
MacNally bit his bottom lip. “Yeah. But it’s not that cut-and-dry.”
“Everyone in here’s got a story, buddy.”
“My wife was murdered and they thought I did it—which I didn’t—and the jury found me not guilty. It was a big case, big trial. Everyone knew about it. But as I began to learn, ‘not guilty’ isn’t the same as innocent, and I couldn’t land a decent job. Even when I tried to hide it, soon as they found out, they canned me. For years, I tried everything.” He looked squarely at Voorhees. “I’ve got a young son, I had to put food on the table. I didn’t have a choice.”
Voorhees nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear about your wife. And your troubles. But everyone’s got a choi
ce. You remember that. ’Specially here. Guys are gonna talk shit, some may even make you do things. You’re gonna have choices to make, choices that are gonna define your life from this point forward. You did armed robbery and they sent you to Leavenworth. That’s one choice you fucked up royally, I can tell you that right now. This place’ll eat you alive, you let it.”
Voorhees opened the door and they stepped out. A rumble emerged in the distance. The odd acoustics of the prison made it appear as if a stampede was approaching.
“The hell is that?” MacNally said.
“Lunch. The cellhouses are released on a rotation.”
A wave of men flowed into, and consumed, the rotunda as they moved into the hallway that led to the mess hall, sticking to the white tiles. Many eyed MacNally as they passed, one running his tongue across his upper lip. His gaze remained glued to MacNally even as he followed the moving line down the long corridor.
“What’s your name?” Voorhees asked, keeping his face forward, watching the prisoners as they continued on.
“Walt. Walton MacNally.”
“Listen here, MacNally. See those guys?” He gestured toward the flow of prisoners, who had moved out of earshot. “Ain’t no one of them gonna give a shit about you. It’s all about what they can do for themselves.” The last inmate in line turned and snarled at Voorhees.
“Turn around, you fucking scumbag,” Voorhees yelled after him. He shook his head, and then gestured at the corridor ahead of them. “Don’t forget. Walk on the white. Follow the rules and everything’ll be fine. If you don’t...” Voorhees shrugged. “Choices, MacNally. Remember that.” He gave the prisoner a gentle shove from behind. “Let’s go get you to your cell.”
MacNally moved alongside Voorhees. Had he had choices? He guessed he did. But like everything else, it just wasn’t that simple. One thing was certain: it seemed he would have plenty of time to reflect on what he had done. What he could’ve done differently.
For now, he needed to figure out how things worked here. Because of all the unknowns, there was one fact of which there was no doubt: this was now home. And he didn’t care much for the new neighborhood.
Inmate 1577 Page 15
