Authors: Alan Jacobson
It was not without risk—as Voorhees suggested, guys like Wharton and Gormack had friends and established alliances, and if anyone stepped in, MacNally’s attack would end quite differently than he planned. His strategy demanded a fast and decisive approach—before they, and their buddies, realized what was going down.
He dropped his clothing off at the laundry, and trudged, naked except for his underwear, into the large tiled room. Water spouted from dozens of overhead faucets; vapor rose from the floor and migrated in billows ceilingward.
In front of him, Wharton walked up to his shower head; Gormack was behind him. As MacNally stepped under the water, his shank curled beneath his right hand and wrist, Wharton turned toward him. Smiled. And then he felt a hard, calloused hand clamp across his mouth from behind. Gormack.
Wharton stepped toward him with a suddenly visible erection.
MacNally threw his head backward as hard as he could, smashing his skull into Gormack’s nose. Wharton lunged forward, but MacNally swung and connected with a vicious right-handed uppercut, the bolt tearing into the obese man’s chin, ripping skin and sending a spatter of blood into the cascading water.
MacNally slammed his right foot against Gormack’s shin to knock him back and gain some space, then whirled to face him.
Gormack’s fist was coming forward to throw a punch, but MacNally blocked it with his left forearm. Before the big man could respond, MacNally swung wildly with the bolt, catching Gormack’s right eye socket.
The bolt penetrated the soft tissue, but got stuck on the bony orbit. He yelped—MacNally yanked it out—then stabbed again at Gormack’s face, catching part of his other eye.
Gormack squealed like a wounded animal and stumbled backwards, falling onto the slippery tile.
Yelling—guttural fury—spilled forth, echoing as surrounding inmates scattered to the periphery.
Off in the distance, angry shouts to break it up.
Chest heaving, face spattered with blood, and water spraying his eyes, MacNally turned to confront Wharton. But Wharton wrapped both arms around him, preventing him from raising his arms.
MacNally, possessed by rage of an intensity that he had never experienced, freed his right arm and swung upwards with vicious ferocity. The bolt penetrated Wharton’s groin. His eyes bulged and his body froze, then fell backward to the wet floor.
MacNally drove onto his knees—and stabbed wildly in the direction of the man’s chest. He missed and struck the tile—and then flesh—and Wharton screamed. He wrapped his thick hands around MacNally’s throat and squeezed.
But MacNally did not yield. He dropped the bolt and grabbed Wharton’s hair, then lifted his head and smashed it down into the tile.
Again.
And again.
His breathing was rapid. Despite the water and humidity, his shallow breaths came in dry, raspy gasps.
MacNally swung around
eyes bulging—
saw the muscled torso of Gormack lying in
a diluting pool of blood,
water raining down on him.
Three loud whistle blasts blew, once, twice, three times—but no guards came running. It was only then that MacNally realized the wild beast-like screaming he had been hearing was coming from his own throat.
He stood up and kicked at the bolt, sending it skittering across the floor. Men were staring at him, standing against the walls, keeping clear.
More whistles. Footsteps, yelling.
MacNally turned into the shower and washed the blood from his hands and face, arms and torso.
Through the cascading sheet of water, he caught a glimpse of approaching officers.
Orders were called out, loud and aggressive:
“Back the fuck up!”
“Shut the goddamn water!”
“Stay back!”
MacNally continued his shower...heart racing...intensely focused...
And numb.
A second later, he was pulled away and brought down hard to the tile by two or three officers.
“Jesus Christ!” Another guard came up along the periphery, taking in the bloody carnage. “MacNally, you do all this?”
The cons looked at the officer, as if he was speaking a foreign language. No one moved. No one spoke.
The guard walked over to a nearby phone, dragged an index finger around the metal dial, then turned to face the bodies of Gormack and Wharton. “Two down in the showers. Send medics.” He listened a second, then said, “Pretty bad.”
MacNally was handcuffed, hustled up, and then led out of the room, the surrounding inmates gawking at the intensity and violence of the attack, which had—in actual time—lasted mere seconds.
Seeing his fellow inmates’ faces as he was pushed out of the room, MacNally felt a broad grin spread across his face. In that moment, though he did not know what his fate would be, he felt certain of one thing: no one at the Big L was going to mess with him again.
As the door clicked shut behind them, Dixon looked at her partner. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
A serial killer with a secret from my past, that’s what.
“Nothing. It was just unnerving to see that key. In our room.”
“Give me a break. Karen Vail doesn’t get unnerved by that shit. She gets angry. And then she gets even.”
That’d be about right. Except for this other little detail I haven’t told you about.
“Yeah, well...” Vail turned away, put her hands on the wood banister and looked down to the floor of the lobby, at the suspended sheets of lights, at the metal globe sculpture, at the conical glass elevator cars that were rising and falling on their tracks. An architecturally stunning view. But she wasn’t seeing it.
Vail turned and saw Dixon staring at her. No, studying her. Hands on her hips. “What?”
Dixon shook her head, then took up a position beside Vail. “So what do you think the key is all about?”
“He’s sending me a message. That he can violate my space and there’s nothing I can do about it. No place is safe.”
“Why not just kill you? If he can find out where you’re staying, if he can get into your room, why not lie in wait and then do to you what he’s done to all his other victims?”
“Because it’s not about me. And if he kills me, he’s losing his playmate. He doesn’t want to do that. He’s having too much fun fucking with us. With me. Allman did us a good goddamn favor by printing my name in that story. He made it all about me.”
“Any way we can use this to our advantage?”
Vail snorted. “If I can clear my head and think straight, yeah, maybe I can come up with something.”
“In the Crush Killer case, you established a line of communication with him. It was important.”
“But this offender isn’t like the Crush Killer. He is in some ways, but he’s also very different. What worked for him won’t work for this guy. We need to think this through.
Let’s start with figuring out what the connection is to my former partner. And where did Stephen Scheer get the information—who’s the leak?
Ten minutes later, Vail saw Rex Jackson come up the escalator into the lobby. “He’s here.”
The sight of the criminalist trudging along, toting his kit, was one she had seen too often of late. For all involved, the Bay Killer was wearing out his welcome.
BURDEN AND FRIEDBERG WERE NEXT to arrive, and they spent fifteen minutes speaking with the concierge, hotel management, security, and the bartender and waitresses in the lobby restaurants. Vail figured it would yield nothing of value, but realized it was standard procedure and good police work to proceed according to accepted case management.
Dixon worked the phone. And Vail, after waiting for Jackson’s cue, returned to the room. “May I?” she asked, picking up his latent print kit.
Jackson was on his knees with a small vacuum, hoping to find errant fibers. “Knock yourself out. I’ve already lifted a few dozen.”
“No doubt mine and the prior week’s guests.” She took it over to the desk, removed the notepad from her suitcase, and quickly twirled black powder across it with the brush. Seconds later, she sighed and curled her lips. Nothing. Not even a partial. But not surprising, either. This offender had been far too careful to leave a meaningful forensic at numerous crime scenes; it wasn’t likely that he would slip up on a simple note that he knew would rattle her.
She brushed off the powder, then rewrapped the note and slipped it into her pocket.
“Anything?” Dixon asked.
Vail spun, guilt sprouting from her pores. “Me?”
“No, Jackson. Anything?”
The forensic scientist swiveled on his knees. “Just about done. I’ve collected lots of stuff, but I won’t know if I’ve got anything till we process it all. With all the budget cuts and the vics and crime scenes this guy’s left us, we’re already so backed up I’ve got no idea when I’m gonna come up for air.”
Burden appeared in the doorway. “No one saw anything. They’ve got security cameras and Robert’s getting the digital tapes for us, they’re burning a DVD. But a guy like this—”
“He’s too careful,” Vail said. “He knew about the camera at that palace place and he made it impossible for us to see his face. He’s gonna know about the ones they have here, too. I’m not optimistic.”
“Me either,” Burden said. “But it’s what we do.” He stepped into the room and said, quietly, to Vail, “You feel more comfortable if we moved you? Another hotel?”
“Honestly? He found me here. He’ll find me wherever you move me. But as I was telling Roxx, I’m not at risk. He wants me alive.”
“How so?”
“If he wanted to, he could’ve killed me just like he killed the others. But he’s playing with me. I’m more important to him alive than I am dead. And whatever the reason he’s killing those men and women, I don’t fit his fantasy.”
“Excuse me for not being so confident, but I think it’s safer to move you.”
“We’ll be fine. Roxx’s here with me. He won’t be able to disable both of us at once. And Roxx is no pushover in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” Burden said.
Vail tilted her head. “You have?”
“I’m a guy. We notice those things.”
Friedberg poked his head in the room. “Anything?”
“Don’t know yet,” Jackson said.
“You wanna stay here,” Burden said, “fine. But my recommendation is that you move.”
“Roxx,” Vail called to Dixon, who was standing in the bathroom. Dixon poked her head out, the phone still against her ear. “You wanna switch hotels?”
“Shit no. I’m not running from this bastard. What about you?”
Vail turned to Burden. “We’re staying.”
Burden gave a disapproving shake of his head, then tapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Get me something as soon as you can.”
Jackson closed a couple of latches, buttoning up his kit. “Add it to the freaking list. Wish you guys would find this guy. You’re giving me a shitload of work. If I was making overtime, that’d be one thing...”
Burden took a final glance around the room. “See you both in the morning. Don’t forget. Clay’s gonna walk us through those other cases.”
Vail sat down on the edge of the bed. “Let’s hope there’s something there.”
Three hours passed. Since the inmates who showered together lived in the same cellhouse, they were all taken back to their cells and the block was locked down. After officers examined each of the prisoners for injuries and traces of blood, they were taken individually to the lieutenant’s office, where they were interviewed by counselors.
Based on the staff’s initial investigation and what the officers had witnessed upon their arrival, MacNally was identified as the instigator and given a nonstop ticket to the Hole, which was located in the west yard of the penitentiary in Building 63, a separate two-story structure. MacNally had escaped relatively unscathed, and except for assorted abrasions and bruises—mostly from when he was being wrestled down and handcuffed—his injuries were nothing compared to those sustained by Gormack and Wharton.
MacNally was escorted to a three-man unit with cement walls, a narrow stall shower in the corner, and formed-concrete bunk beds—one along the left wall and two in a line along the right—suspended by triangular iron brackets.
There was already a man asleep on one of the cots when the officer shoved MacNally inside.
The inmate stirred, lifted his head, but did not get up. “Who the fuck’re you?”
“Walt MacNally. You?”
“John,” the blue-eyed, dirty-blond convict said. “John Anglin. Guys call me J.W.” Anglin narrowed his eyes, then swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. “Wait a minute. MacNally—you’re the guy from the showers? Gormack?”
MacNally could not stop a grin from spreading his lips. “That’s me.”
Anglin nodded slowly, holding his chin back and appraising him. “You’re a fish. Got a lot to learn.”
MacNally set his kit down on the bed, then said, “So? What’s your point?”
“Things work a certain way here. You gotta follow the law.”
MacNally shook his head. “Gormack and Wharton had to pay.”
“Something like you did—it’s gotta be approved by the guy who’s running the place.”
MacNally sat down on his bunk and faced Anglin. “You mean the warden?”
“No, asshole. Every prison’s got gangs, that kinda shit. But nothing happens in a joint without first being ran past the main guy, the head inmate. You know, a guy who’s been around the place a long fucking time, who knows the players and how shit goes down—but still young enough to be callin’ the shots because no one ain’t never gonna cross him.”
MacNally did not think that an apology would be a response that would be respected. Instead, he said, “Didn’t have a choice. They had to be put in their place. But I’ll tell you this, J.W. Those fuckers aren’t gonna move against me again.”
Anglin locked eyes with MacNally, then lay back down on the bunk and drew the covers up to his chin.
Thus far, the Hole or not, his new living arrangements were working out far better than his first cell assignment had.
TWO DAYS LATER, MACNALLY AND ANGLIN were playing cards when they both sensed a presence by the bars. They turned and saw Voorhees standing there.