Authors: Alan Jacobson
“And that shows how little you know about what I do, Mr.
Crack Reporter
. I’m interested in analyzing behaviors a killer engages in with his victims. I’m not a repository of the names of all the killers who’ve ever murdered someone in every city in the world. So. Who’s this killer of the past?”
Allman turned to Burden. “He was never caught. But I saw something in there that reminded me of him. I think it’s the same guy.”
“You’ve got our attention,” Vail said. “Go on.”
“Uh uh,” Allman said with a smirk. “Help me, I’ll help you.”
Vail wanted to plant the bit with the symbolism, but realized they might be able to get more in return if she played it right. She frowned, then turned. “C’mon, Burden. We’ve got a lot to do and we’re wasting time.”
“I’ll have to clear this with my lieutenant,” Burden said. “But you can include the vic’s husband. We found him a little while ago.”
Allman pulled out a pad. “Where?”
“No, no, no. I gave you something. Now...” Burden said, flexing his fingers in front of Allman.
“Fine.” Allman bent down and picked up his messenger bag that was lying on the sidewalk. “There’s a key in the vic’s bedroom.”
Vail blurted a laugh. “A key. Thanks for the tip.” She started to turn away.
“A key,” Allman repeated. “It’s a weird shape, doesn’t fit any of the locks in the house, and it’s not a car key. And, according to Jackson in there, it was not used to inflict injury on Mrs. Ilg. The key’s clean. No blood on it.”
“Meaning?” Friedberg asked.
“Meaning,” Allman said, “the key has no overt purpose for being there. And I believe Agent Vail can tell you that means it has relevance to the killer’s behavior. Isn’t that right, Agent Vail?”
Vail turned back. “Potentially. What kind of key is it? Where was it found?”
Allman held up two fingers about three inches apart. “Brass. Big and wide. It looks old, because the brass is tarnished, but it’s not worn. I don’t know if it’s significant, but something’s been filed off the top. It was on the dresser across from Mrs. Ilg’s body.”
“I saw that,” Friedberg said. “I thought it was just a key.”
“And this ties in to a prior murder, how?” Vail asked.
“Back in ’82,” Burden said. “A key like Clay’s describing was found at the crime scene of a male who’d been murdered, his body dumped in San Bruno, outside the federal building.”
Vail tilted her head. “San Bruno—I’ve seen that. On a sign, I think. Where is it?”
“Near SFO,” Friedberg said. “San Mateo County. Ever hear of Keith Hernandez, the baseball player?”
“Wasn’t he on Seinfeld a couple of times?” Vail asked.
“One of the best first basemen in history. Went to high school in San Bruno.”
“I’m sure tens of thousands of kids did,” Vail said. “Why do I need to know this? And why did SFPD get the case if it was San Mateo County?”
“Because,” Allman said, “even though the vic was discovered in San Bruno, he lived in the city.”
“I want to see that file,” Vail said. “Everything you’ve got.”
“Yeah, well...” Burden pursed his lips. “I’d like to give it to you, but a lot of homicide files were destroyed in a fire in ’99. What the fire didn’t get, the water from the fire department did. We’ve got some stuff, but it was all dumped in a warehouse. We never had the money to sort through all that garbage. If we need something, we either find the info some other way or one of us spends hours sifting through all that moldy shit. And most of the time we never find what we’re looking for.”
Allman spread both hands, palm up. “I can help.”
“And what’s that’s gonna cost us?” Friedberg asked.
Allman grinned. “Nothing. I’m offering my services as someone doing his civic duty. Of course, if you find it in your hearts to return the favor at some point in this investigation...”
“How are you gonna help?” Burden asked.
“That murder was the first scene I covered for the
Tribune
as the lead reporter. I’ll give you my story, photos, everything I’ve got that the paper’ll let me release. I might even have some other stuff in my archives. And the
Trib
may have something. I’ll have to see. We were computerized, but we still used onsite servers.”
“Anything you can give us’ll be appreciated,” Burden said.
“We had full access to crime scenes back then, so I’ve got a fair amount of stuff.”
“When can you get it to us?” Friedberg asked.
“I’ve gotta file this story—the one I can’t say much about—and then I’ll dig around and get it all together.”
“You can’t say anything about the key,” Vail said.
Allman jutted his head back. “So let me get this straight, Vail. I give you this all important detail that may provide linkage to a thirty-year-old unsolved case—which all of you missed—and you tell me, a member of the press, that I can’t include that in my story?”
“That sounds about right,” Vail said.
“Well, it sounds
about wrong
to me,” Allman said.
“Clay.” Burden stepped forward and placed a hand around Allman’s shoulders. “Come here for a sec.”
Vail watched as Burden and Allman took ten paces, then turned to face one another. “You have a problem with reporters,” she said to Friedberg.
Friedberg’s face remained still, but his fingers fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. He extracted one, pulled out a match, and set it alight. “You really want to know?”
“I’m not just making small talk.”
“I’ve never told anyone this, and if I didn’t know you from that Crush Killer case, I’d never be telling you.” He took a drag and studied her face. “But I feel like I can trust you.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Can I?”
“I’m a cop, of course you can trust me. But that’s a loaded question. If you’re going to confess to a murder, I’m not sure how that would work out.” Vail thought of a situation exactly like that, something that had occurred only two months ago. The circumstances were different, but the scenario was the same.
“No, no confession.” He held the cigarette in front of him, examined it a moment, then said, “When I was with the county—remember, I was with the sheriff’s department in Marin. There was this case. A reporter was covering it for the
Register
. And he was at a crime scene, outside the tape, about twenty yards away.
“He comes over to me and says he has to talk to me about something. I didn’t know who the hell he was. Then he introduced himself and I knew of him. He used to be with the
Trib
, taught Clay the ropes. Anyway, he says we should do coffee. I thought he wanted some inside scoop on the case, and I’ve never been one to leak stuff to the press, and I know you gotta be real careful what you say to them because it may end up plastered all over the front page, and if it gets picked up and runs nationally, it could cause problems. But I figure, hey, this guy’s been around a long time in the Bay Area, so sure. I’ll give him the time of day.”
“So you met with him.”
“I hadn’t even sat down with my hot coffee before he tells me that he’s gonna report me to my boss. For what, I ask. For planting evidence, he says.”
“Did you know what he was talking about?”
“No idea. But I gotta tell you, I felt the anger rising in my head, like bile. You know? So I bite down and hold my mouth, because I was ready to rip him a new asshole. Like, who the hell are you to accuse me of something like that? I’ve been a cop for twenty-three years, and I’ve never done anything wrong on the job. Never. Goddamn boy scout.”
“So what was the deal?”
“He said he saw me put something on the vic. I told him I checked inside his belt buckle, when I was looking for his piece, which we later found underneath him, caught in his jacket. See, the skel got off a couple rounds, I returned fire and took him down. But at first we couldn’t find the weapon. I thought it was an automatic, turns out it was a revolver. They never did find any of the slugs he shot, which just added fuel to the fire.”
“So this reporter thought you planted the revolver on the vic’s body.”
“Which is stupid. If I was gonna do something like that—which I would never do—but if I was going to, why would I wait till other cops—and the press—are there?”
“That would be pretty stupid. Unless you didn’t have a chance to do it before they arrived.”
“I was the only one there. No witnesses to the shooting. I was eventually cleared—that wasn’t the issue. But this asshole implied that he had something on me, and that he’d keep it quiet.”
“In exchange for something.”
“See, that’s where it gets muddy. He never asked for anything. But I got the impression that’s what he was saying. It wasn’t until last year that Clay told me he vouched for me and called off the dogs, so to speak. And that was a big deal because Clay doesn’t talk to his former partner anymore.”
“And he’s never brought it up again.”
“Nope. But every time I see him, it’s like it’s there, under the surface.”
“Can it be your imagination?”
Friedberg realized his cigarette had burned a fair amount; he took a long drag, expelled it slowly. “Yeah. Probably is.”
“But really, what could he have done to you? No proof. Just his word against yours.”
“Something like that, no other witnesses, coming from a longtime journalist... He’s not just a Joe on the street who says he saw something.” He nodded knowingly. “Would ruin my career. Even if nothing was done about it, it’d be a thing around my neck for the rest of my career. You think they’d promote a guy who’s been accused of a bad shoot and dropping a piece on the vic? No question, they’d pass me over.”
“Maybe your anger is misplaced. He hasn’t done anything or said anything in all these years. Right?”
Friedberg bobbed his head in agreement.
Vail gave his shoulder a firm pat. “I think you’re okay. Whatever Clay said to him did the trick. And even if this jerkoff were to say something, all these years later, the focus would be on him and why he didn’t come forward as a material witness. Not on you.”
Burden and Allman had parted ways, Burden heading back in their direction, Allman toward his car. Friedberg tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the sole of his dress shoe, then bent over and picked up the butt.
“We’re good,” Burden said. “He’s gonna withhold any details about that key for a while, at least until there’s another victim.”
“If there’s another,” Friedberg said.
“I want to give him that symbolism thing,” Vail said. She moved around Burden and shouted, “Hey. Guitar man.” Allman turned.
“Why didn’t you speak up before?” Burden asked.
“We got more from him this way.”
Allman stepped up to them and nodded at Vail.
“I just wanted you to know that we do appreciate you giving us that tip on the old case. I’ll give you something in return. Interested?”
He pulled out a notepad, then clicked his pen. “You really gotta ask?”
Vail watched as Allman thumbed to a blank page. “The male vic was left in an oceanfront tunnel by the Sutro Baths. There’s symbolism in that. The killer’s got something against the ocean, so this is his way of saying ‘Go to hell’ to people associated with it in some way. I think we’re gonna find that the vic was a former Marine, or he served in the Navy. Something like that.”
Allman looked up from his pad. “He’s got a beef with the ocean. You’re serious.”
“We’re serious. Print it or not, your choice.”
Print it, goddamn it. Take the bait.
Allman scanned the faces of Burden and Friedberg, who, Vail thought, gave nothing away.
He flipped his notepad closed. “If you’ve got something else...more substantive, let me know.” Allman nodded at Burden, then walked off toward his car.
When he had moved out of earshot, Burden said, “You couldn’t think of anything better?”
“What was wrong with it?” Vail asked.
“Oh, nothing much. Just concerned the department will come off sounding like
idiots
.”
“I’ll be sure not to take that the wrong way,” Vail said.
“Don’t be so sure,” Burden said, then stepped into the street en route to his Ford.
Vail looked at Friedberg. “Did you think it was that bad?”
Friedberg shoved an unlit cigarette into his mouth, then shrugged. “Hopefully it won’t matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky and this asshole won’t kill again.”
Vail sighed heavily. “If Allman’s right, and this offender’s the same guy who killed back in ’82, it’s not a matter of if he’s going to kill again. It’s a matter of when.”
MacNally closed the door behind him. He stepped over the broken shards of glass and moved to the threshold of the kitchen: and came face to face with a snarling German shepherd.
“Jesus Christ.”
The dog sat there, piercing eyes riveted to his own, powerful shoulder muscles tensing. MacNally smiled and forced his body to relax. “Good dog,” he said, bringing his voice up a few octaves.
He held out the palm of his hand, low, nonthreatening, then stepped forward. The dog did not move his head, but his eyes followed MacNally as he moved slightly to the right so he could enter the kitchen.
“How’s my boy?” MacNally sung. Another step closer. He started to kneel, to get down to dog eye level. He had a feeling this was not a good idea—but he was committed. What was he to do? If he turned and ran, the shepherd would be on his back in half a second. If that.
As he knelt, the dog bared his teeth. Not a good sign. MacNally straightened up and kept his body still, moving his eyes around the kitchen, looking for something—anything—to use as a defensive weapon. Sitting on the stove was an iron skillet. He didn’t want to hurt the dog, but if it came down to him or the pooch, there was not much of a choice.
MacNally inched to his right, closer to the stove. The shepherd, teeth still bared, growled long and low. Clearly, he did not care for that move. Fair enough—but MacNally didn’t have time to screw around with this. He would have to chance it because he wasn’t going to just stand there until Emily returned home and called off the dog. Or told him to attack.
MacNally lunged for the skillet—and, as suspected, the shepherd took offense. He went for MacNally’s left arm—and although he grabbed hold, instantly let go when the heavy iron connected with this skull. The dog slunk to the floor.