Authors: Alan Jacobson
“Great,” Brix said.
Vail moved around the bed and examined Cynthia’s head wounds. “Thing is, his recent murders—if he did the one in ’82—have been confined to San Francisco. In fact, her husband, Harlan, is in the city. In case you were wondering.”
“We were,” Dixon said. “Any chance we can get a sit-down with him? Obviously, we’ve got a lot of questions.”
“He’s tied to a telephone pole,” Vail said. “I don’t think your sit-down would be too fruitful.”
Dixon and Brix shared a look.
“Karen thinks there’s geographic significance to the killer’s choice of victims,” Friedberg said.
“Yeah.” Vail shifted her feet. “About that. I’m not so sure. This one kind of throws a monkey wrench into that theory.” She thought a moment. “But maybe not.”
“Worth checking into?” Burden asked.
Vail shrugged. “Yeah. But—this case is very unusual to begin with. Married couples being offed is odd enough—but he’s transporting the males and leaving them, in some cases, miles away. To my memory, none of that’s ever been done before. I can turn this over for a geographic profile, but it’s going to make for a challenging analysis.”
“I’m done here,” Matt Aaron said, snapping his kit closed.
“The contact at SFPD is Rex Jackson,” Vail said. “Can you make sure he gets copies of everything you—”
“I know the procedure, Agent Vail.” He rose and faced her, standing a little closer than what would normally be considered a comfortable distance. “You know, it sure was nice not having you around. I already have a few bosses. Don’t need someone like you looking over my shoulder.”
Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. Calming her. Vail didn’t feel calm. But she forced a smile and said, “You must be really, really good on all the other cases you handle in Napa County. Because from what I’ve seen on the two you handled while I was here, your professionalism left a lot to be desired.”
Aaron dropped his kit. “I’ve had—”
“Okay,” Brix said, shoving his arm in front of his criminalist. “That’s enough. Matt, if you’re done here, you can go.” He waited for Aaron to react.
He did—he bent down and picked up his case, then threw Vail a stern look.
“I’d appreciate if you two weren’t like two cats in heat all the time,” Brix said. “Learn to get along. We’re on the same goddamn side.”
Aaron frowned at Brix, then pushed his way out of the room, through the crowd of detectives.
“He does have a point,” Brix said.
Vail looked at him. “And what point is that?”
“Things have been a lot more quiet in town since you left.”
“Don’t you remember my nickname?”
“The serial killer magnet,” Dixon said with a grin.
Burden shook his head. “Oh, that’s fucking great. Couldn’t you have told us that sooner? I knew I should’ve insisted on Safarik.”
“What’s your procedure?” Dixon asked. “You’ve obviously got another jurisdiction involved. I’d like to be part of what’s going down on your end, help solve this thing together. Does SFPD set up major crimes task forces?”
“Only for drug and gang-related crimes,” Burden said.
Vail spread her hands, palm up. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together. Meet in a room, either at Homicide or somewhere else. Not a task force—”
“But a task force,” Dixon said.
“Exactly.”
Burden shook his head. “The lieutenant won’t be happy.”
“We can have meetings, exchange info, that sort of thing,” Friedberg said. “As long as it doesn’t hit his bottom line, if we don’t ask for money or staff support, any shit like that, I think we’ll be fine. If we’re making progress, who’s gonna complain?”
“And if we don’t get results?” Burden asked.
Friedberg chuckled. “Then we deserve whatever heat the lieutenant sends our way.”
August 6, 1959
United States Penitentiary
Leavenworth
1300 Metropolitan Street
Leavenworth, Kansas
“The defendant is hereby sentenced to forty-five years’ incarceration in a Federal penitentiary, the location of which shall be determined by the Bureau of Prisons.” The judge rapped his gavel, and Walton MacNally’s fate was sealed tighter than the animal skin on the surface of a drum.
His arms were engaged from behind by two burly, sour-faced US Marshals. But MacNally was numb, unemotional, and not tuned in to the ramifications of the verdict. He understood the meaning, but he could not comprehend the depth behind the words.
As he was led out of the courtroom, MacNally objectively reviewed the previous week’s proceedings in his mind. Unlike his prior journey through the judicial system in Doris’s murder trial, this one had not gone well; in fact, there was not one hour during his six days of justice where he felt he had even the slightest chance of overcoming the charges.
His court-appointed attorney attempted to prepare him for the worst well before the trial began. He reviewed each of the pieces of evidence they had against him: the handgun found still tucked in his waistband—a rare brand of an unusual vintage for America—damning in and of itself because the weapon had been documented by a local newspaper when Lieutenant James September returned from his distinguished service in Germany. September had shot an enemy soldier who was attempting to stab one of his fellow infantrymen. The lieutenant then took the sidearm back to the States as a keepsake. The plan was for him to donate it at some future date to the Smithsonian.
That it was found on MacNally, along with the eyewitness identification made by the bank’s security guard and Emily September...and, of course, possession of the satchel stuffed with bills that matched some of the serial numbers purported to have been given to Emily only an hour prior, were more than enough to send the jury scurrying back to their room.
But there was more: the discovery of a gold Cross pen in MacNally’s pocket, with the name “G. Yaeger” engraved on the barrel, which matched an object reportedly stolen from Township Community Savings during a robbery two months earlier.
Although MacNally’s attorney pointed out that the Community Savings incident did not involve a firearm, the local police introduced MacNally’s handwritten letter, given by the defendant to the teller during the robbery, inferring the possession of a weapon and his inclination to use it. The writing and linguistic patterns contained in both notes matched, and they appeared to be strikingly similar to an exemplar the prosecutor asked MacNally to provide before the trial commenced.
A minor transgression at the time—the gold pen had some value, of course, to Mr. Yaeger, its rightful owner—but it carried far greater worth to the prosecution. The writing implement implicated MacNally in the earlier robbery and linked the two crimes, indelibly marking Walton MacNally a criminal who had committed multiple armed robberies. But not just armed robberies. Bank robberies. A federal crime.
And an innocuous comment made to a cop at the scene proved equally as damaging—if not the final nail. One of the officers involved in MacNally’s arrest stated that he saw another occupant in the vehicle—a young boy running from the scene when they arrived. MacNally did not want Henry’s involvement to be anything more than an unwilling passenger, so he initially denied it. But as the manhunt intensified, MacNally attempted to have it called off by telling them that the fleeing suspect had been his son, who was merely along for the ride because he had no place to leave him. He insisted that Henry had known nothing of the robbery, and, in fact, that he hadn’t even wanted to go with him.
Based on these admissions, the prosecutor added kidnapping to the charges. And because he had crossed into Georgia from Alabama, the federal “crossing state lines” statute added severity to his crimes.
As far as the jury was concerned, the prosecution’s case was as tight as the security at Fort Knox. They deliberated for twenty-one minutes. The verdict was read and the judge imposed his sentence.
Now, several months after being arrested, after watching Henry vaporize into a dusky evening, he was being flown to what would be his new domicile: the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Many famous criminals had called the prison home, from gangsters like Machine Gun Kelly to murderers like Robert Stroud. Now, the name of Walton MacNally would be added to the prison’s vaunted ranks.
The Boeing 707 taxied to a secluded runway at the recently constructed Kansas City Industrial Airport. The two US Marshals escorting Walton MacNally led their shackled prisoner off the plane and down the stairs before the remaining passengers disembarked. On the tarmac, another marshal and two Leavenworth guards took custody and escorted him to a waiting security van.
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.
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.”