Authors: Alan Jacobson
Burden led them around and brought them up Filbert, an intensely angled street that tested the Taurus’s anemic horses trapped under the hood.
With the sedan’s engine groaning, Vail said, “Why don’t you let me out? I can probably walk it faster. And it might help you get up the hill.”
Burden ignored her dig and eventually got them to the base of the Filbert Steps, where he parked the car at a ninety-degree angle to the curb.
Vail surmised that on a street of such intense incline, the parking brake and transmission weren’t sufficient locks against a runaway vehicle.
As they unfolded themselves from the Ford, a steady wind blew against them. The air was crisp and the sun was bright, with scattered, yet plump stark white clouds sliding rapidly across the deep blue sky.
Allman got out of his car and began digging around in his trunk for something.
Vail craned her neck as high as she could see. Looming above her was an imposing, sand colored, architecturally modern cylindrical structure. Cypress trees surrounded the base, and an American flag fluttered strongly above a California state flag.
Burden gestured at a green sign twenty feet ahead of them that read, Stairs to Coit Tower. “We’ll walk it. Much faster.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Vail said, taking in the multiple flights of endless stairs staring back at her. An exercise session on an elliptical was one thing, but with her surgically repaired knee only recently beginning to feel fully healed, she didn’t feel like testing it on what surely looked like a million steps.
“C’mon,” Dixon said. “Time to move beyond that wimpy elliptical stuff. This’ll be a good little workout for you. I stair climb at the gym every day.”
“I’m sure you do,” Vail said. “But I don’t.”
Burden and Friedberg had already passed the green sign when Burden swung his head around. “Quit complaining. You’re wasting time.”
Vail and Dixon followed, with Allman bringing up the rear, heading up the staircase that ran along a wall of townhouses on the right, before turning left and crossing Telegraph Hill Boulevard, where the cars were still at a standstill. They continued up additional flights of steps that were fronted by bricks engraved with what appeared to be donor names.
Probably some
Save Coit Tower
movement, and a fundraiser run by vegans and alternative energy nuts.
Vail chuckled.
A few months ago, I’d have said that aloud.
They continued along an asphalt-paved, tree-shaded path that led to...more steps.
“I think this qualifies as a week of workouts,” Vail said.
Dixon snorted. “Give me a break. Have you even broken a sweat?”
Vail pulled at her blouse. “Haven’t you?” She instantly realized the answer to her own question. But she could see Burden and Friedberg slowing down, pausing every dozen steps or so before proceeding. “So what is this place?”
I don’t really care. But it’ll slow ’em down.
“It’s a tower,” Friedberg called back to her.
“No shit, Inspector Sherlock.”
Friedberg stopped and turned to face her. He took a deep breath and bent over to rest his hands on his knees. “It was built in ’33, a monument funded by a wealthy, eccentric woman named Lillie Coit for the volunteer firemen. They fought fires before the city had a real fire department, which was a big deal back then because all the buildings were made of wood. She actually hopped on their truck and helped put out fires decades before women did that stuff. She’s now the patron saint of the city’s fire department.”
“Really,” Vail said with admiration. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”
“I think she lived around here. She left instructions in her will for the tower to beautify the city. The view from the top of Telegraph Hill, where we’re headed, is—well, you’ll see. You get a panorama of the Bay and the city that’s worth cramming yourself into that tiny elevator.”
“Just so you know,” Vail said, looking up at the massive structure. “Using ‘tiny’ and ‘elevator’ in the same sentence is about as appealing to me as using ‘serial’ and ‘killer’ together. Nothing good comes of it.”
Burden turned and continued up the steps.
Vail opened her mouth to ask another question—to give herself one more moment to breathe—but nothing came to mind.
The one time I want him to give me a freaking dissertation and he’s actually brief. Can’t catch a break
.
They reached the base of the tower and Burden led the way around the front. To the east, the Bay was stunningly clear, the wind having blown away all fog and clouds, highlighting the expansive Bay Bridge, not unlike the view she had from her hotel room.
A steamboat sat moored in the foreground at a pier, a large sign atop the vessel reading
San Francisco Belle
. Vail thought of Robby, and how fun it would be to get a room on the ship, then cruise around the harbor. The last trip they’d taken had turned into a disaster. A wave of superstition suddenly enveloped her, as if uttering the word “vacation” would cause things to blow up into a serial killer nightmare.
She stopped and took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool sea air. To her left, the north and west areas of the Bay, a dense bank of fog obscured all that lay before them.
“Nothing quite like it, huh, Agent Vail?” Allman asked.
She had to admit that the panorama before her was exquisite. “Virginia’s pretty special in its own right.”
“I don’t doubt it. But...” Allman gestured with a sweeping motion of his hand. “This is like paradise.
Paradise. I probably wouldn’t use that term while a serial killer ran wild through the city.
Burden led them around a circular path that brought them to the front entrance of Coit Tower. He stopped at the top of a small staircase, then led them down toward a circular parking lot—and the reason for the traffic jam.
“I thought it was typical tourist traffic,” Friedberg said. “Apparently, it was us.”
An SFPD cruiser sat at the lot’s mouth, its lights swirling silently. Two cops were outside the car and standing near a large statue that rested in the center of the paved rotunda.
“Not us,” Vail said. “Him.” She gestured at the front of the statue, where a male body was strapped. Erect. Serene.
And dead.
February 19, 1960
Leavenworth
MacNally was sentenced to ninety days in segregation, a fair punishment, he had to admit, given that he had assaulted an innocent man and had been strongly suspected in aiding the attempted escape of another inmate. Although none of that could be proven, he had to give the warden and his executive staff credit for their even-handed treatment of him.
Segregation gave him time alone with his thoughts, which were focused on reuniting with Henry. He realized he had graduated to thinking like a convict, a shift in attitude necessary for survival at an institution like Leavenworth. As Voorhees had told him, and as he had come to learn, the rules of society did not apply inside prison. There was an entirely different set of laws that governed inmate behavior behind penitentiary walls.
In the outside world, if you had a problem with someone, you’d report it to the police. In the slammer, you couldn’t run to the correctional officers—because, like Voorhees had said, they’re off-duty sixteen hours a day. You had to settle it yourself.
If someone hit you, you had better hit them back. Even harder than they had hit you. You had to convince them you were the baddest, meanest son of a bitch that existed in your cellhouse so they wouldn’t bother you again. They had to know—or believe—that if they bothered you, you were going to make them pay twice as hard. The goal was to make them think it was not worth starting up with you.
And part of that was developing a rep, the power to invoke the fear he had sought to establish since his rape at the hands of Gormack and Wharton. Between his shower attack and the dining hall charade, which had been witnessed by dozens of inmates, word of what he’d done had wormed its way through the institution like a virus, cementing his reputation as an aggressive, loose cannon. For now, he was safe.
UPON RELEASE FROM SEGREGATION, MACNALLY picked up his new bedroll kit and returned to his cell to find that he and Anglin had inherited a new cellmate. The man was asleep, curled into a ball under the blanket.
“Hey, wake up,” MacNally said as he tossed his bag on his cot. Receiving no response, he kicked the bunk’s metal framework. “Who the hell are you?”
The man startled, then lifted his head and looked at MacNally.
“I said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ And what are you doing in my cell?”
“Rucker. Harlan Rucker. You MacNally?”
“You realize you’re in John Anglin’s bed?”
Rucker sat up. “First of all, J.W.’s still in the Hole for another three months. Word is he ain’t comin’ back here. Been moved to another block, if you can believe rumors. But makes sense. They didn’t want you and him together no more, is my guess.” Rucker pushed off his bed, mumbled something about having something to take care of, and then walked out of the cell.
MacNally snorted. A transfer of Anglin was an unavoidable result of their suspected collaboration. He wouldn’t be surprised if Voorhees was behind it. But it didn’t matter—during the three months in the Hole, he had devised what he thought could be a viable escape plan. He had implemented the first phase during those four weeks—which entailed a workout regimen to get into the best physical condition possible. He reasoned that because of the route he had chosen, he would have to be able to run and jump in order to elude police and search parties. And he might have to survive on a minimal amount of food and water for prolonged periods while on the run.
More immediately, if he could get himself physically fit enough and lose excess body fat, then he could squeeze through barred windows and other narrow places—and have the endurance to climb the forty foot perimeter wall without struggling. The longer it took, the greater the chances of a tower guard seeing him.
Despite a lack of formal training, he designed a protocol that he thought would yield results: high leg-kick; running in place; pushups; sit-ups; and leg lifts that entailed lying on his back and repeatedly lifting his bunk with his feet. He also restricted his caloric intake, and when it came time to leave Seg and return to his cell, he was substantially thinner and sported more lean muscle.
But his plan required the assistance of another participant. And that was an obstacle for which he had yet to find a solution. Although John and Clarence Anglin were possible conspirators, given Clarence’s failed escape, he was likely out of the equation. Postponing it until Anglin was released from the Hole would set him back another three months minimum—but because of Anglin’s pivotal role in his brother’s escape attempt, he was going to be watched more closely than he otherwise would have been. Teaming up with Anglin would mean MacNally would have to wait until the increased scrutiny subsided—several months, if not longer.
And while MacNally’s aggressive behavior had the benefit of making him less of a target among the inmate population, that rep had a flip side, as well: the officers also knew who he was, and, as a result, he was on their short list of problem children.
Fortunately, his escape plan had the benefit of working even though the hacks might be scrutinizing him more closely. Bringing Anglin into the equation, however, would be unwisely tipping the risk scale into the red zone of danger.
MacNally lay back on his bed, brought both hands behind his head, and glanced over at his new cellie’s empty bunk. Perhaps the answer lay a few feet away.
Still, trust was an uncertainty with inmates you knew well. With a con you just met, there needed to be some kind of third-party verification. Rucker apparently knew Anglin; that would be as good a place as any to start.
Vail stood beside Dixon, looking up at the ten-foot-tall bronze sculpture. “It’s Christopher Columbus,” Vail said.
“I can see that. His name is carved in large letters around the base.”
“You think Chris was as fit as the sculptor made him out to be?”
Dixon tilted her head as her eyes moved up and down the icon’s body. “I always pictured him as a plump, ruddy old explorer. Obviously, that’s not what they wanted to depict with a humongous monument in front of Coit Tower.”
“Which begs the question of why Columbus is even here.”
“I think you should ask Friedberg.”
Friedberg and Burden were talking with the SFPD officer twenty feet away. Allman was a foot back of them, pen and pad out, furiously taking notes.
“We’re avoiding the dead body in front of us,” Dixon said.
“I know,” Vail said with slumped shoulders. “I’ve seen too many the past few days. If I ignore it—”
“It won’t make it go away.”
“No,” Vail sighed. “It won’t.” She stepped closer to the edge of the planter, within five feet of Raymond Strayhan. Vail decided that Strayhan was not in as good physical condition as was Christopher Columbus—though one could argue both were past their prime. The Bay Killer’s latest victim looked to be about five foot five, and as a result, was dwarfed by the enormity of the statue. Both were atop a four-sided pedestal, around which blossomed a planter with colorful, leafy vegetation.
A numeral, 122, was printed on Strayhan’s forehead.
“Another number,” Dixon said.
Another number. Another victim. More puzzles. My brain hurts.
Vail pointed at a section of disturbed soil. “Over there.”
Dixon leaned over to get a better look. “Impressions in the dirt. A ladder, maybe.”
“He needed to get Strayhan up onto the pedestal. Do you see any yellow rope?”
“Isn’t that what was used at Palace of Fine Arts?”
Vail hiked her brow. “You’ve read the files.”
“What little there is, yeah.” Dixon moved around the statue’s circular base. She stopped on the other side, at Columbus’s backside, then pulled a pen from her coat.
“Find something?” Vail asked.
“Think so.” She moved a section of the foliage aside and revealed a coil of rope. “Make that a yes.”