Authors: Alan Jacobson
Friedberg rested his hands on both knees to examine the left portion of the body. “Can I get some light?”
Vail complied, illuminating the area.
“Fishing line again. Vic’s fastened to the cables that are holding up the sign. But...” Friedberg craned his neck and peeked behind the man. “He’s strapped to a two-by-four.” He stepped back and gestured with a hand. “Take a look. It runs vertically, from head to toe. It’s secured to the two cables that run horizontally across the cave opening.”
Burden surveyed the setup. “He needed that two-by-four to keep the body upright.”
“And that board isn’t from around here,” Vail said. “That much is obvious. Meaning our UNSUB planned this. I mean, we knew that already—but this is pretty definitive. It supports what I said back at your station. Organization, planning. He brought the tools he needed with him. And apparently no one saw him.”
Behind the body, the terrain changed markedly. Over time, pounding waves had done a job on the rock face, chopping it into pieces of varying sizes. Boulders, large and small, rose and fell in height, leading into the ocean a few dozen feet in the distance.
Vail said, “I can’t see how the offender would get in here on this end. He had to have come in where we did. Without anyone seeing him.”
Burden gave a quick look, then turned to study the opposite end of the cave. “Coming from the road, it’s a long haul. And the terrain’s rough. Hard to carry a body. Even using a wheelbarrow, or something like that cart he used back at the Palace of Fine Arts, not as easy to do here.”
“Remember,” Vail said. “Easiest thing for the offender to do is bring the vic here alive, then kill him in the tunnel.” Vail removed a pen from her pocket and handed the flashlight to Friedberg as she separated the ends of the man’s Members Only windbreaker. “Wanna hear my theory?”
“That’s what we brought you out here for,” Burden said.
“This kind of disposal site tells me that this offender has some prior knowledge of what he’s getting himself into here. The challenge of the terrain. But he still uses it—which would suggest it holds some kind of symbolism for him. It’s more than just being ‘in your face.’ He wants law enforcement to get the symbolism. And if I’m right, this kind of offender’s gonna be the type to monitor the investigation. He’ll pay attention to what the media says, so he can find out what we’re thinking about his disposal sites.”
“Maybe we can use that.”
Vail nodded. “The statements we make about these sites are very important. We may even use misinformation. We could totally misinterpret what he’d intended, to get him to contact us—kind of like, ‘No, stupid, you got it all wrong.
This
is why I’m doing it this way!’”
“I think we can arrange that,” Burden said. “A reporter I know, we can use him. He’ll do it.”
“Meantime,” Friedberg said, “if we can find out who this vic is, we may find another body.”
Burden nodded. “His wife.”
“Yeah,” Vail said, her mind shifting to an image of Maureen Anderson’s tortured body. “His wife.” Off to the side, amongst the uneven boulders, two parallel rusted metal strips poking up and between the rock caught her eye. “Is that railroad track? Kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
“That is what it looks like,” Burden said, peering out the opening. “Old. Very old. Maybe there was a gold mine around here.”
Friedberg slipped a gloved hand inside the man’s jacket. He fished around, then pulled out a wallet and opened it. “Russell Ilg.”
Burden pulled out his BlackBerry and started dialing. “Address?”
Friedberg read it off and Burden relayed it to the dispatcher. “Get a unit over there ASAP. Tell them I expect they’re going to find a DB. And it won’t be pretty. And tell ’em to use booties because I don’t want my crime scene destroyed.” He listened a moment, said, “Yeah,” then hung up. “His wife’s Irene. Seventy-nine.”
Vail gestured to Friedberg. “Get a light on his face, let’s see what we can see. And where the hell’s that CSI?”
Ilg’s face had deep jowls and a full head of gray hair that had been tousled by the whipping wind blowing in through the cave’s mouth. But then the flashlight hit the forehead. A 49 was written in black marker.
“So,” Vail said. “First, a 37. Now a 49. Burden, you’re the number scrambling Sudoku expert. What’s the significance?”
“Hell if I know. But forty-nine is significant to California. Gold Rush in 1849. The football 49ers. There’s a Pier 49, too.”
“And there’s a forty-nine-mile scenic drive in the city,” Friedberg said.
No.
Vail shook her head. “Now that we have two vics with numbers, we have to start looking for a pattern or some relationship between the digits.”
And why is it only on the male vics?
“I’ll think on it,” Burden said.
Friedberg ran the beam over the length of the body. “No overt signs of trauma.”
Vail leaned over the cable. “Let’s see the back of his head.”
Friedberg brought the light up.
“There,” Vail said, pointing. “Looks like bruising. Very substantial. Hard to see all of it because that two-by-four is in the way.” She moved around to Ilg’s hands. “Give me some light here.” She leaned in close, studied all ten fingers. “No defensive wounds. Just like William Anderson.”
“Meaning?” Friedberg asked.
Vail stepped back. “Remember I said control is the key? Our offender’s got an effective way of controlling them enough to get them somewhere near where he wants to display the body.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Burden said. “I mean, the guy’s displaying these bodies in public because—what—I assume it’s to make a statement. Right?”
“
Could
be. Could be he’s going for shock value. Could be these places mean something to him. Or he could be taunting us.”
“Taunting us?” Burden asked. “How?”
A whistle echoed in the tunnel. The three of them turned and saw the silhouetted figure of a man headed toward them, carrying a toolkit.
“Our CSI,” Burden said. He turned back to Vail. “What do you mean? How is he taunting us?”
“Could be taunting us. I don’t know. But it’s a possibility. Like I said. The symbolism. We’re supposed to see something here, with these vics.”
“Yeah, but we ain’t seeing shit.”
“And that,” Vail said, “could be a potential problem. But think about it a second. He could pose or leave the bodies in any public place, places that don’t require the same level of effort and risk. But no. He picks these places for a reason. It’s more than just for shock. And while I don’t doubt there’s some taunting involved, it’s probably much more than that, too.” Vail turned to face Russell Ilg’s body. “Maybe we need to shed some light on the subject.”
Burden gave her a look.
“I don’t mean that as a joke. We need more information. Now that we’ve got three, and likely four bodies, we can fine-tune our theories. Hone the profile.”
“What happens if you’re right, and he really is leaving us clues that we’re not seeing?”
“One possibility is that he’s going to get frustrated. He’ll keep killing until we ‘get it.’ No matter what, he’s going to contact us somehow, somewhere. You may want to tell your office staff and operators to be aware of any suspicious calls.”
“On it,” Friedberg said. He lifted his phone and started dialing.
“You really think that’s what we’re dealing with here?” Burden asked.
Vail tilted her head, looking at Ilg’s face, which was oriented straight ahead. “Unfortunately, we’re going to find out. Sooner or later.”
MacNally returned to First National Thrift twice more that week, pretending to request information on opening an account. Fortunately, no one had noticed that he was wearing the same clothes—he owned only one pair of dress slacks and a single button-down Oxford.
On his second trip, he decided on the woman he wanted: Emily September. He had never known anyone named September—had not even realized it could be a real name. She was pert and on the younger side of thirty, with well-styled blonde hair and a tight knit sweater hugging her chest like it didn’t want to let go.
MacNally made small talk with her, then realized he had better leave before she—or anyone watching—would realize he hadn’t transacted any business.
He walked out and returned a couple of days later. Now, as noon approached, he watched Emily September push out the double doors of First National Thrift and turn left, headed toward the parking lot. MacNally followed her around back and watched her get into a light turquoise Ford Thunderbird. He didn’t know a whole lot about cars, but he did know that a T-bird was an expensive luxury car—and a sharp one at that. It was a convertible with a simple, elegant curved windshield, clean lines, and broad whitewall tires.
MacNally started the sky blue Buick Century he had stolen a few miles outside town and followed Emily as she maneuvered the vehicle onto the main drag. Her blonde hair flowed back off her shoulders in the breeze.
A Thunderbird? For a bank teller? She had money. Or, at least, it looked like she did. This presented an interesting dilemma: go after pretty Emily September when she arrived at home and steal what she had in the house, or go after the more risky—but potentially higher reward job—the bank.
He followed a good forty yards behind her, wondering if it was too great a distance. If she made a light and he did not, he would lose her. And how long could he keep this car before the police would discover it was stolen? Before they would find him and Henry?
He made sure to narrow the gap between them, taking care not to get too close: she had seen him—spoken to him—in the bank, and he didn’t want to risk her seeing him again. It could make her suspicious, or she could think he was following her around. Worse still, if he did rob the bank, she would be able to provide an accurate description of him to the authorities.
Ten minutes later, Emily pulled into a well-tended neighborhood with two-and three-story homes lining the green-lawned avenues. She hung a left into a driveway and parked. MacNally drove past her house and parked at the curb. He shut the engine and waited.
Emily went inside and was there for nearly forty minutes before getting back in her car and heading off in the direction of the bank. She must have come home for lunch and was now on her way back to work. MacNally waited until she had cleared the block and then got out of his car. Moving swiftly but cautiously, he walked down the street and into Emily September’s backyard.
The landscape was meticulously groomed, with several mature deciduous trees shading the grass from sunlight. A redwood picnic table sat in the center of the plot. MacNally moved past it and stepped up to the back door. He peered into the window, bringing his hands up to his face to block out the light. He looked around but did not see anyone. As expected—there had been no other cars in the nearby vicinity, so it made sense that no one was home.
MacNally balled up his shirt around his fist and looked for the best place to penetrate the door. He would be in and out as fast as possible. But first he would see if he could find some cash—or anything else of value that could be sold with ease.
“Okay, Emily. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”
Burden, Friedberg, and Vail arrived at Irene Ilg’s home on Ortega Street in the Sunset District as a foggy dusk settled in over the city.
While climbing out of Burden’s Ford, a man whistled at them.
“Birdie!”
“Allman, my man, how’s it hangin’?” The two men met on the sidewalk behind the car and launched into an elaborate handshake.
Vail leaned into Friedberg. “Who is that?”
“Police reporter for the
Tribune
.”
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Some kind of fraternity thing.”
Vail hiked her brow. “I never took cop reporters as the fraternity type. Rebels. Loners, maybe.”
“You’ve actually profiled reporters?”
“Not exactly,” Vail said. “I’m just saying.”
Friedberg shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. But in every profession there are outliers.”
Vail gave him a look. “You getting philosophical on me, Robert?”
“Who tipped you?” Burden asked as the two men approached Vail and Friedberg.
Allman sported graying temples but otherwise a full head of wavy brown hair. Small capillaries zigzagged the side of his sharp nose, suggesting he enjoyed his time on a bar stool a bit more often than his physician would recommend. But his smile was broad and infectious, inviting in a magnetic way. A battered tan leather messenger bag was slung across his shoulder.
“You don’t really expect me to divulge my sources, do you?”
Burden tipped his chin back.
“Okay, fine,” Allman said. “No source. I heard it on the scanner.” He noticed Vail and his eyes widened. “Who’s the beautiful lady?”
“Oh, please,” Vail said.
Please say more.
“This is Clay Allman, police reporter for the
Tribune
. Clay, this is Special Agent Karen Vail. She’s out from the BAU.”
Allman’s head swung over to Burden, then back to Vail. “You’re a profiler?”
“Ah, goddamn it,” Burden said. “That’s off the record. Got it?” he asked, poking Allman with a stubby finger.
“Sure,” Allman said. “Give the dog a bone, then yank it from his mouth. I’m left salivating.”
“Now there’s an appropriate metaphor,” Friedberg said.
“Robert,” Allman said with a big grin. He gave Friedberg’s hand a firm shake. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Jeez. Haven’t seen you since...well, since the last murder in town.”
“You make police reporters sound like the grim reaper.”
Friedberg laughed. “Hey, man...if the shoe fits.”
“You related to the brothers?” Vail asked.
Allman cocked his head. “What brothers?”
“Gregg and Duane,” Vail said. “Allman Brothers. ‘Ramblin’ Man,’ ‘Midnight Rider’—c’mon, I know you’re old enough to know their music.”
“Yes,” Allman said. “And no. Yes, I know their music. No, we’re not related. But I do play a mean guitar.”
“That’s true,” Burden said. “If by ‘mean’ you really meant ‘horrible.’”