“Fraud. It’s called fraud. And all the while, Mike’s on my case about it, and I couldn’t get in touch with Eugenia... So on top of everything else, it looked like I’d taken FBI money without getting info in exchange.”
“But you were just trying to help Eugenia and her dad. It’s not like you benefited financially.”
“Not the point. It wasn’t kosher, no matter how you sliced it. Anyone ever found out, I’d have been censured. And forget a promotion to BAU. You know how many agents want one of those coveted spots? I get passed over, I probably never get another shot. And I needed the promotion because Jonathan was young and it was too risky being on the front line. I figured BAU would be safer. But a letter of censure—I would’ve been permanently fucked.”
“So Hartman knew about this,” Burden said. “And apparently he told someone else. Our UNSUB. Or he told someone who told our UNSUB.”
“No way of knowing which,” Vail said.
Burden cocked his head. “Given the tight timeframe, it’s more likely that he told our guy directly.”
“Why didn’t you just level with us?” Dixon asked. “With me.”
Vail knew what she was asking: given their friendship, couldn’t she at least tell her?
“There was nothing anyone could’ve done. I tried reaching out to Hartman. He wasn’t taking my calls.”
“But you could’ve gone to his ASAC,” Dixon said. “Hartman would’ve answered his boss’s calls. And what could the Bureau do to you now?”
Vail chuckled. “When the shit starts flying, everyone watches their own ass to make sure it doesn’t stick to them. Even if Gifford had my back, I committed fraud and broke vaunted FBI procedure, then knowingly concealed it for years. No offense, but I’d rather not hand them a gift-wrapped excuse to throw the only woman out of BAU—or even out of the Bureau.”
Burden spread his arms. “Just so we’re clear. You put your own interests ahead of Robert’s life?”
“No—I didn’t think—” Vail stopped. Shit, that is what I did. “I didn’t think. You’re right. If I had gone to Hartman’s ASAC, we might’ve gotten an answer from him.” She looked up at Burden. “I know this doesn’t help, but I’m more sorry than I can possibly express with words.”
Burden frowned and shook his head. “We’ll discuss this later. Right now—”
The sound of footsteps coming down Broadway made them all turn. A man dressed in a security guard uniform was approaching on the run. “Here comes my new partner,” Burden said. “Your chance to redeem yourself, Karen. Find Hartman. And find out who he’s been talking to.”
VAIL PULLED OUT HER MAP and consulted it for a moment to identify their area of coverage before they began jogging down the hill. In addition to the whipping, icy Bay winds, Vail was experiencing another type of chill: Dixon chose to express her dissatisfaction with Vail’s poor choice by giving her the silent treatment.
They headed up the main road, past the burned-out Officer’s Club, which was now a shell of a building. They rubbernecked their heads, looking left and right, ahead, and behind them.
This is ridiculous. Dim light...an entire island, several large buildings, a bunch of small ones...he could be anywhere.
“Roxx, I know you’re pissed at me. And you have every right. But can’t we deal with that later? We need to focus on finding Hartman.”
“You’re the one who seems to have a problem with priorities.”
Ow. Guess I deserve that. But the hurt was blunted by the sight of something that lay ahead of them. Vail slapped Dixon’s shoulder, then took off on a run. “Follow me,” she said, heading toward a prominent smokestack that protruded into the foggy mist of an Alcatraz evening.
Down the road, off in the darkness, Vail heard the cry of gulls. They weren’t swirling in a frenzy, but perhaps they had been earlier; in the cellhouse, toward the other side of the island, they may not have heard it.
Vail did not know what building this was until she pulled the map from her pocket and held it out so Dixon could look on. Vail stabbed at the paper with a finger. “Quartermaster warehouse on the right, Powerhouse on the left. Caponier behind it.” She shoved the brochure back into her jeans. “That’s it, Roxx. The smokestack.”
Dixon craned her neck into the darkness. “You sure about this?”
Vail walked forward and ascended a metal staircase that led to the roof of a flat-topped structure. “About as sure as I can be, without having a clue what I’m doing.”
“That’s very confidence-inspiring.”
Vail and Dixon climbed the steps, then ran toward the roof’s edge—and the smokestack, which telescoped skyward from behind the building.
Vail peered down into the darkness. Although she could not see much, she saw enough. She bent over and rested both hands on her knees. “Shit.”
Dixon pulled her phone and dialed Burden. “We’ve got him,” she said. “Behind the Powerhouse building, on top of the Old North Caponier.” Dixon shared a frustrated look with Vail. “No, Burden. He’s tied to a smokestack. Dead, just like the others.”
“THIS DOESN’T BODE WELL FOR ROBERT,” Burden said, standing with arms folded, approximately ten feet from Mike Hartman’s body. Burden had made it to their location in three minutes, followed a moment later by Yeung and Carondolet.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Vail said. “Hartman had information that we think could’ve revealed the offender’s identity. So he was a liability. Far as we know, Friedberg had no idea who the UNSUB was.”
Burden grumbled. “I guess that’s something.”
“He’s tied around the smokestack with an electrical extension cord,” Price said, bending and examining the binding with her flashlight.
“That’s a new one,” Burden said.
Vail stepped closer to check it out. “And possibly significant.”
“And the body’s still warm,” Price said as she strained to see her watch in the scant light. “Which would make sense since he walked out of the cellhouse only about forty, forty-five minutes ago.”
Burden swung around, his eyes probing the darkness. “The UNSUB’s still on the island.”
Carondolet held up a hand. “Not necessarily. Lots of places to land—and hide—a boat here. We take the easiest, most civilized way—the dock. But depending on how hard you want to make it on yourself, if you’ve got a small craft or even something like a Zodiac or a motorboat, there are plenty of spots to come ashore. Except maybe for the sea wall along the south tip of the island, almost anywhere else is possible. In the right spot, with some foliage thrown on top for cover, no one’d even know.”
“His cell still in his pocket?” Vail asked.
“I searched, didn’t find one,” Price said as she leaned closer to Hartman’s head.
“Can you get hold of his office LUDs and cell phone records?” Vail asked Yeung.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He pulled his BlackBerry and started dialing. “This time of night, who knows.”
“Uh...just found something,” Price said as she trained her flashlight on Hartman’s lips. She used a tongue depressor to pry the teeth apart, then said, “Someone give me a hand.”
Burden stepped forward to hold the light while the tech reached into Hartman’s mouth and removed a piece of paper. She handed it back towards Vail, who opened the folded note.
Vail sighed deeply. “Got that light?” She held it toward the illumination that Burden diverted to her hand, then read it aloud. “‘You finally got this one, so I’ll give you one more shot. Look for an old cable in a small dark place, near where California bricks were found long ago. Be quick or bye-bye Bob.’”
“I assume that’s a reference to your kidnapped guy,” Carondolet said.
“At least we know he’s still alive,” Dixon said.
Vail snorted. “If you can trust the word of a psychopath.”
Burden’s gaze was on the ground, and he was mumbling audibly. He looked up and said, “California bricks...San Francisc
o...the Gold Rush...Gold bricks?”
“Back up,” Dixon said. “Where’s there an old cable?” She pulled the note back into the light. “An old cable in a dark place. What kind of cable? The old type of telegraph?”
“Cables are found, where?” Vail asked.
“The bridges,” Burden said. “There are cables that suspend them. Robert once told me how many miles of cables made—
“Cable Car,” Dixon said. “They run on cables below the street, right? That’s a dark place.”
“Yes,” Vail said. “Is there a train depot for cable cars?”
“Something they call a barn,” Burden said. “They park ’em there overnight.”
“We don’t have time to debate this,” Dixon said. “I think we’ve gotta run with it.”
“What if we’re wrong?” Burden asked.
“Let’s hope we’re not.”
Burden nodded at Carondolet. “Detective. Can you coordinate with my office and help them out with the MacNally backgrounder? We need to know everything possible about the guy. And familiarize yourselves with the file. Have the task force email you everything we’ve got. There’s a bunch of vics to catch up on.”
A boat appeared to be approaching at a good rate, a spotlight sweeping the north end of the island.
Dixon nodded toward it. “Looks like backup’ll be here any minute.”
Burden waved his arms and got a light signal in return. “Have them search the island, just in case he’s still here.”
“He won’t be,” Vail said. “But maybe we’ll get lucky. God knows we need it.”
“And I’ll have an answer on Hartman’s phone logs ASAP,” Yeung said.
“Call us,” Vail said as she backed away, following Burden and Dixon toward the roadway. “Soon as you’ve got something.”
64
November 9, 1962
Alcatraz
Consciousness came in increments but remained far off and dream-like. Initially, MacNally became aware of lying faceup on a table, staring at a light green ceiling. His lids were heavy; his thoughts as foggy as the Bay weather. His eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off to a semiaware state.
two voices
far off
but nearby
“Dr. Tumaco’s on his way,” a woman said.
“Finelli warned us he was going to escape,” a male voice said with a Boston inflection. “We were supposed to keep a close watch over him. But someone screwed up and approved kitchen duty...”
footsteps
fast
coming closer
And then, a second male voice: “What have we got?”
The Boston man: “Inmate Walton MacNally. He was attempting to escape and injured himself out behind the Powerhouse.”
“Vitals?”
The woman: “Stable, but pulse is rapid and he appears to have suffered substantial head trauma.”
“Start an IV, saline drip.”
Fiddling, metal clinking...movement. Air brushing by his face.
fading into sleep
far off
nothingness
then a voice
The doctor: “And you are?”
“Ray Strayhan.”
“So, Officer Strayhan. What happened?”
“Like I said, doc, he was involved in an escape attempt. Killed Jack Taylor.”
“I meant what happened to the patient, not Officer Taylor.”
fingers probing—
stomach
neck
head—
pain!
pain!
“What’s it matter?”
“Officer, I’m not going to ask you again. I need to know what type of trauma the patient sustained so I can properly diagnose his condition.”
eyelid pulled open
penlight flicked across face
pain!
hand on wrist
pinprick
pain!
“He resisted, got violent, tried to punch Russ—Officer Ilg. I’m not sure what happened. We did what we had to do to restrain him. It was dark, we didn’t know what weapons he had. Taylor was stabbed and his .38 was missing. We couldn’t take a chance MacNally was gonna shoot or stab us. We weren’t gonna show him mercy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything. I know you men have a tough job and these...these inmates here are the dregs of society. But right now this dreg is my patient. So I’m going to ask you again: what was done to this man?”
“He was kicked. A few times.”
hands around neck holding it
body turned to the side
body flat down on table
“This is...my god. This is quite severe. I— Thank you, Officer Strayhan. You can go. Nurse, wheel him into x-ray and get me a skull series, stat.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Dr. Tumaco,” Strayhan said. He cleared his throat. “I— We—Officer Ilg and me—we’d appreciate if you would be...careful with how you word things in your report. Hopefully MacNally’ll be okay. But we both have families to support. And if the captain reads that our use of force was excessive, it could be our careers. The rocks—so you know, our official story is that while trying to escape, MacNally fell down the rock bed, banged himself up pretty badly. Nearly ended up in the water. Officer Ilg and me...we saved him from drowning.”
bumps
rolling
movement
pain swelling bulging
pain!
The voices faded further into the distance.
“Thank you, Officer. I understand your concern. I’ll take it from here. Rest assured...”
A FOGHORN BLEW IN THE DISTANCE. MacNally opened his eyes. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head and an IV snaked from his right hand. Moaning, he heard moaning. It was him. Pain.
“Pain!”
A man rushed to his side. “Okay, Mr. MacNally. Okay. I’ll take care of it...”
Darkness muted his vision, and seconds later, he heard nothing.
“MR. MACNALLY. WAKE UP.”
A hand rocked his shoulder and he struggled to pry his eyes open. Standing beside his bed was a man in a white coat.
“I’m Dr. Martin Tumaco. I operated on you. You were in pretty bad shape. Do you remember anything?”
MacNally opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt thick and parched.
Tumaco held a cup to his lips and he sipped water from a straw.
“That’s enough,” Tumaco said, then withdrew the drink.
MacNally turned his head toward the doctor. His neck was stiff. “Am I going to be okay?”
Tumaco turned around, grabbed a chair, and moved it to the bedside. “We had to do emergency surgery, but you’ve made an extraordinary recovery. A month ago, you were brought in with significant head trauma. You’d apparently had an accident, and you sustained damage to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe areas of your brain. I don’t want to get too technical on you, but—”
“I’d rather you say it. Be honest with me.”
“Right. Honest. Okay.” Tumaco paused, nodded silently, and then said, “In a normal brain, those areas provide self-control. If it’s damaged, you have less control and increased desire. It feels better for you to act than to stop yourself from acting, even if it’s a bad idea or if it’s likely to get you into trouble. And if you succeed—meaning you don’t get caught—you want to do it again. The longer the reward is delayed, the more the brain produces the hormone testosterone, which—” The doctor stopped and frowned. “That’s probably more than enough for now.”
MacNally glanced around his hospital room: two large adjacent—barred—windows on the wall to his right, a radiator squatting below it. Gray light streamed in and fell across a table fan that sat atop a glass cabinet to his right. “Go on. What does all this mean?”
“There will be certain deficits, that much I’m certain of. But I’m afraid I don’t know yet what they’ll be.”
“But you have
a pretty good idea. My brain will want me to do things without me being able to stop it. Right?”
Tumaco hesitated. “You’re in the right ballpark. Bottom line is that aggression and violence may be a problem. But—we’ll see how things go. I wouldn’t worry about it now. Just get your strength back so you can—”
“So I can go back downstairs to my cell. And live with violent men who do violent things. Like me. Sounds like a recipe for success.” MacNally closed his eyes, then turned away from the doctor.
A moment later, Tumaco rose from his chair and left the room.
65
The Coast Guard cutter delivered them to Pier 33 fourteen minutes later. They ran to their car, Burden driving with Vail riding shotgun and Dixon in the back thumbing her iPhone.
Vail stuck the light atop the Taurus to ensure the ride did not take any longer than necessary.
“I’ve got it,” Dixon said. “It’s called the Washington/Mason Cable Car Barn and Powerhouse. It’s on Mason—”
“I know where it is,” Burden said. “We’re real close—we’ll be there in four or five minutes.”
“It’s the only transportation system listed on the National Register of Historic Places,” Dixon read from her screen. “Been around since 1873.”
“Almost as old as Robert,” Burden said with a laugh. But his grin immediately faded as he—no doubt—realized that his friend and colleague wasn’t in the car to offer a retort.
As Burden pulled down Jackson Street, Dixon pointed at an open rollup doorway on the side of the brick building. “There.”
A painted sign on the gray steel framework above the tall maw read, San Francisco Municipal Railway.
Burden stopped in front of the entrance and they poured out of the car; the wall to the right was dominated by floor-to-ceiling corrugated metal with a freeway guardrail in front of it and two horizontal windows featuring closed cream venetian blinds. Above the windows was an old Market Street and Fisherman’s Wharf Cable Car sign, advertising Rice-A-Roni. Notices and papers were posted across the glass: Authorized Personnel Only, Keep Out, and Cable Car Storeroom, Parts, Receiving.
Inmate 1577 Page 38
