Authors: Alan Jacobson
“How well do you know him?”
“Good enough.” Anglin grabbed the front of his denim shirt and pulled it away from his damp skin, then flapped it a few times to generate a breeze. “Goin’ back to Florida. Both did time in the joint there. He won’t hurt ya.”
MacNally pursed his lips, then nodded. “Catch you later.”
He walked back to his cell and found Rucker reading a book. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, in a low voice that required Rucker to lean close to hear, he said, “I’m interested in gettin’ out of here. J.W. says you can be trusted. Interested?”
Rucker indicated he was—and MacNally outlined his plan.
After listening carefully to what MacNally laid out, Rucker cocked his head to the side. “Not bad.”
“The towers on the west wall are pretty far apart, right?”
“But there’s a guard in them,” Rucker said. “An armed guard. And no matter what they say, they’ve got orders to shoot to kill.”
MacNally nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why we’re not gonna let them see us. Now—along that wall, looks to me like the lighting’s gotta be kind of shitty. And because we’re so close to A-Cellhouse, the laundry, and the segregation building, I think this has gotta be the best place for us to get out—”
“Between the two towers? You crazy?”
“Think about it. We go at night, it’s pretty dark. The buildings are close to each other—and close to the wall. Tower five—you know which one I mean?”
Rucker nodded.
“It sits on the northwest corner of the wall and tower six sits on the southwest perimeter of the prison. And it's not attached to the wall. You see what I’m saying?”
Rucker’s eyes moved back and forth a few times, then he said, “Makes it easier for us to get out without being seen.”
“Exactly.”
The two men discussed it a while longer, at which point Rucker gave his approval—and appeared to be energized by the prospect of breaking out.
MacNally was now committed.
The plan had merit on paper, and John Anglin had vouched for Rucker. The only remaining questions required careful consideration: when they should do it—and whether or not they could pull it off.
Vail wearily sat down at the long table where their case files were arranged. She had spent the afternoon pouring through them, looking for commonalities, hoping she could find linkage in one or more of them. Although there were some promising possibilities, it wasn’t anything definitive.
Complicating the task was that she was not working with full homicide case files—it was a mishmash of a journalist’s musings, unofficial and substandard crime scene photos, and excerpts from interpretive writings. It was so far from the objective summaries, analyses, and formal reports she was accustomed to reviewing on cases that she concluded the exercise carried only limited validity.
An hour ago, one of the inspectors had come by to report that he had obtained and executed a search warrant for Stephen Scheer’s cell phone logs, and that the anonymous texts in question originated from two different throwaway phones.
At that point, Vail made a point of noting that she was tired—tired of getting nowhere in identifying the Bay Killer.
“Agent Vail.”
She looked up with bleary eyes. Clay Allman was standing there, hand in a pocket, leaning against the doorjamb.
“You look beat,” he said. “Wanna join me for some coffee downstairs in the café? A little caffeine could do your brain some good.”
Vail made no effort to stifle a wide yawn. “Yeah, fine.”
“Burden or Detective Dixon want to join us?”
Vail glanced back at the room. “They’re with the CSI. You just get me.”
They took the elevator down in silence, Vail too tired to object and too tired to climb the stairs. They grabbed two coffees—which Allman insisted on paying for—and started toward a table.
“Let’s walk. You okay with that? It’ll help get my blood moving.”
“So what’s it like?” Allman asked as they headed toward the stairwell. “Being a profiler.”
“Is this on the record?” Vail asked as she adjusted the corrugated jacket surrounding her hot cup.
“Nothing’s on the record here. In fact, there is no record. We’re just two people talking. Actually—to be honest, I came up because I wanted to apologize. I didn’t realize mentioning you in the article would upset you.”
“It’s not that it upset me,” Vail said as she pushed against the fire door. “There are certain ways you handle a serial offender. And certain ways you don’t, depending on the type of killer you’re dealing with. Mentioning my name and my position was not the best way to deal with this guy.”
Allman kept his gaze ahead as they climbed the steps. “And what is?”
Vail hesitated. Off the record or not, she did not feel that chatting idly with a reporter was good form. Despite Burden’s vouching for him, nothing good could come from it, and more likely than not, bad would result. “Clay, no offense, but I’m not accustomed to talking about active cases with anyone, friend of the department or not.”
Allman faced her with a wide grin. “Can’t blame a veteran reporter for trying. No worries. I get it. I’ve been around this block—around this building—a really long time. I didn’t expect a pro like you to actually give me an answer.” He grabbed the handrail as they turned to ascend the next flight of stairs. “Can you at least tell me what the killer missed—what mistake he made?”
“No. Did it make it into your article?”
“Story’s filed, already up on the website.” Keeping his eyes focused ahead, he said, “You know, I was serious. About the apology. Sorry if I put you in a tough spot.”
“Tell me about yourself.” Vail patted herself on the back. A classic—and effective—tactic for switching gears, even if he was keenly aware of what she was doing.
“Myself.” He chuckled. “I’m usually probing others for information. Very few people ask me questions about...me.”
“I’m not like most people.”
Allman hiked both brows. “Yeah, no shit.” They reached their floor and he pulled open the door. Vail stepped through and Allman followed.
After a long pause, she said, “Married?”
“Nope. Never. No kids.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“One of each. They’re back east. We Skype. My sister’s got a teenager. My nephew’s a pretty good writer, actually.” He chuckled. “He emails me stuff to edit at least once a week.”
“And you?”
“I think I’m a pretty good writer, too.”
Vail couldn’t help but smile. “I meant you, tell me about you.”
Allman was grinning, as well. “Well. I’ve always loved English. I went to a small college in Washington—the state, not the district—and was editor-in-chief of the school paper. Wish I could say it was a life-altering experience, but I just liked the idea of digging to find the story behind the story. I graduated, nothing special—no honors or anything like that—but I landed a job here, in the city. In the
Chronicle
’s mailroom.” He chuckled. “Four years of college so I could sort mail. At least I was sorting mail at the
Chronicle
. And I actually picked up a lot of stuff just by hanging out with the reporters. But six months later I hooked on with the
Tribune
.”
“And what was the
Trib’
s mailroom like?” Vail asked with a grin.
“I didn’t realize profilers had a sense of humor.” He took a drink. “I was writing articles. At first, it wasn’t anything earth-shattering, but I kept flooding the city editor with story ideas. I got shot down a lot—I was just a cub reporter, what the hell did I know—but he liked me, I guess, and he ended up teaching me how to pitch in the morning sessions. Pretty cool stuff.”
“When did you meet Scheer?”
Allman glanced sideways at her, then took a sip of his coffee. “How’d we get on this topic?”
“I asked.”
“Yeah, right.” He tipped the cup back again. “I had a knack for crime reporting, so my editor paired me up with Stephen. He’d been covering the crime beat for about three years, so the feeling was Stephen’d teach me the ropes.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Oh, no. He did.”
Rather than walking back into Homicide, Vail continued down the hallway. “I’m sensing there’s more to this.”
Allman drank again. He thought a moment, then said, “Stephen was great. He taught me a lot of stuff. Got me into places I never would’ve gotten into. Like SFPD. Back when I started, things were more relaxed than they are now. Reporters had better access to people and things. Made our jobs a whole lot easier. We lunched with the dicks, we made their coffee in the break room. Things were good.”
“But,” Vail said. “There’s a but.”
Allman chuckled sardonically. “There is, in fact, a but.” They passed the photography lab on the left, white-collar crime on the right. “My editor liked my style better. And he kind of didn’t hide the fact he really dug my writing. Somewhere along the line I learned how to tell a story. Not just the typical journalistic pyramidal structure, but an actual story. Anyway, I got a line on a case in ’82, and I sold my editor on it. He trusted me. Led with it, in fact, and put it on page one. Turned out I was right. And we beat the
Chronicle
. In my editor’s eyes, I looked like a freaking genius, even though Stephen and I co-wrote it. Couple months later, I was promoted. Stephen got nothing. Actually, he got angry. Big time. And he bolted.”
“That was the case in San Bruno?”
“Yep.”
They reached the end of the hall, turned back and headed for Homicide.
“And you haven’t spoken to him since then?”
“Kind of. A thing here or there if we met up at a crime scene. Occasionally at a bar around town. But we’ve kept our distance. He’s still got a lot of animosity, all these years later.”
“Long time to hold a grudge.” Vail realized she had hardly drunk her coffee. She took a sip. “You really have no clue who his source is on that story?”
“Not even a suspicion.” Allman nodded at an inspector who was hurrying down the hall in the opposite direction. “Do you really have a line into the killer?”
Vail smiled, then sipped her drink.
“Hey, can’t blame me for trying. I’m on deadline.”
They arrived at Homicide. “You’ve got enough to run with. Give me some time, maybe I’ll be able to give you more. Just not yet.” Vail placed a hand on the door.
“Fair enough. Catch you later.”
Allman backed away, leaving Vail alone as she pushed through the entrance. Dixon was visible in the back room.
“Anything?”
Dixon turned. “Lab’s still working shit up. They’re backed up big time. You get anywhere?”
Vail set the coffee down on the table. “Nothing earth shattering. If we had actual case files, maybe I’d have a shot at something. There’s just not enough info to link these cases together. There are some similarities. But to do it right, we need to look into the victims.”
Burden came up behind them. “I think I’ve got a way for us to do that. Budget’s a disaster, but I’ve got a line into some college students, criminology majors. I spoke to their class a couple months ago. If I can get my lieutenant to sign off on having them do some Internet and microfiche work for us, they may be able to put together your victimologies much faster than we could.”
“That’d be extremely helpful.”
“That’s what I thought. Wish me luck.” He moved past them and headed for his boss’s office.
Friedberg leaned back in his seat and called across the room. “Karen. I picked up a disk from Rex with the crime scene photos, all the way through this morning. You wanna look through ’em?”
Vail pushed up from her seat. “Don’t have to ask twice.” She walked over and snatched up the CD. “Nothing else is working. Wading knee deep in the blood and guts may just get the juices flowing.”
“Anyone ever tell you,” Friedberg said, “that you’ve got a way with words?”
October 1, 1960
Leavenworth
MacNally and Rucker had spent the better part of the next four weeks working through each step of their plan. During that time, MacNally had been told that John Anglin had been transferred out of Leavenworth—where, no one knew. But MacNally did not concern himself with those details: he was planning to be far away from this place, with the likes of Gormack and Wharton and the Anglin brothers, and even Voorhees, a distant part of his past.
As to the escape, it turned out that Rucker’s three years worth of varied experiences at Leavenworth proved invaluable because he knew details about the penitentiary and hack procedures, work schedules, and yard layout that MacNally had only been able to surmise based on what he had observed.
Their plan would begin in the same manner that Anglin had outlined—but that was where the similarities ended.
When all of the prison departments closed for the evening and the cellhouse officers made preparations for shutting the institution down for the night, MacNally and Rucker dressed up their beds with “impostors”: they positioned jeans and shirts beneath the bed covers in their bunks in the shapes of legs and torsos, then overstuffed underwear into a sock, giving a fair approximation of a head—with the covers drawn high and assuming the guard did not scrutinize their “bodies” as he passed the cell.
They then made their way to the chaplain’s office, in the second floor recreation area, where they hid out until the staff left at 9:00 pm. With some difficulty, they forced their thinned-down bodies through a barred window and then proceeded towards the laundry. There, they waited until 10:00pm before continuing on to the west wall.
As Rucker told MacNally, 10:00pm counts were conducted by the evening watch officers. The men coming on at midnight did an immediate tally and then assumed their graveyard shift duties. If the guards did not detect anything untoward, the count was declared “clear” and all supplementary staff went home.
“That leaves two officers per cellhouse,” Rucker had said during their earlier discussions. “One officer each on the west yard, the east yard, the Centerhall, and in Control. Best odds we’ll have in a twenty-four hour cycle.”
“How do we know the guards won’t decide to do another pass of the cellhouse?” MacNally asked.