Inmate 1577 (32 page)

“Throw us off, how?” Friedberg asked.

“Reading this, you might think he doesn’t appear to be too bright, with all the grammatical and spelling errors and run-on sentences. But hints of his intelligence come through when he makes his point, however circular and pontificatory he made it sound.”

“Pontificatory?” Burden said.

“Yeah,” Vail said, “pontificatory. You got a problem with that?”

“Go on,” Dixon said.

“There appears to be a cogent message beneath the surface, if we read between the lines. I said before that he’s angry. He’s pissed about something that happened in prison. It might be a rape, but I think it’s more than that. Sounds like he got out of prison and tried to make it work, but he couldn’t survive in society.

“This is also a recurring theme with criminals—they do their time or get paroled, and then get released—and are completely unprepared for how society functions. They can’t get jobs, or they get one and can’t relate to people and they get into trouble, get fired—and then have no money and no way to get another job. So they turn to what they know, or what they learned in the joint, and that’s robbery, or theft, or drugs. And they get caught and tossed back in prison again.” Vail slid closer to the letter, took another look at it, and said, “There’s more here, but that’s a start.”

“So what do we do with this?” Friedberg asked. “He didn’t give us a way of responding.”

“But he did,” Vail said. “He wants the attention. So if we want to reply, and we do, we have to do it publicly.”

“And what reply do we ‘want’ to send?” Burden asked.

“Appeal to his grandiosity. We should make it all about him. He’s the ultimate, super important. All our efforts are focused on him. We’re blown away by his intelligence. But at the same time, we have to challenge him so he doesn’t get bored with us.”

“Bored with us?” Burden asked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Psychopaths get bored. It’s a part of who they are, their personalities. We’re finding they’ll even vary their crimes just to keep it interesting and different. That could explain why the new crime scenes are slightly different.”

“But if he gets bored with us,” Friedberg said, “and stops communicating, then what?”

“Nothing good from our perspective. Unless we handle it right, he could quickly lose interest in me. I have to let him think he’s in control. Some detectives who had a dialogue with a serial killer want to talk to them after they’re caught. They think they’ve got some kind of ‘special’ relationship with this killer, but the killer doesn’t give a shit about them. It’s all about how the serial killer thinks he can manipulate and use the detective. And then he spits them out.

“If I go to visit an offender in prison, someone I’ve spoken with a number of times in the past, he won’t have warm, fuzzy memories of talking with me—even if we did have productive chats. These assholes don’t form a bond with me or anyone else. There’s just no loyalty there because they’re not capable of it. Our UNSUB’s contacting us—me—because it’s exciting to contact ‘his’ profiler. But I could lose him really fast if I don’t handle it right.”

“I say we just tell him to fuck off,” Burden said.

“First of all,” Friedberg said, “other than quotes in an article that we plant, we have no way of reaching him.”

Vail said, “He’s set this up as a one-way conversation, which fits—his opinion is all that matters.”

“What about TV? Would that be better than a newspaper or website post?” Dixon asked.

Vail cringed. “TV’s bigger, more grandiose. We definitely don’t want to go there unless he forces us to. So far that hasn’t been an issue.”

“So we build up his ego,” Dixon said. “How would we simultaneously challenge him to keep his interest?”

Vail rose from her chair and walked over to the murder board where the photos were displayed. “We ask him to help us out, because we’re not getting what he’s trying to tell us. We understand he had a tough time in prison, but we sense there’s a bigger picture, that there’s a message here we’re not capable of seeing without his help.”

Burden slapped a hand on the table; the pencil jumped. “So you’re saying we should play dumb and ask this fuckwad, who’s murdered several people, to help us out because we’re incompetent and we can’t catch him?”

Vail tilted her head. “Do you see him behind bars, Burden? Because I sure don’t. So check your ego at the goddamn door so we can do what we need to do to keep this guy contacting us. Sooner or later, if we play it right, he’s gonna tell us something that will give us a direct line to him. Get it?”

Burden tightened his jaw. “Whatever.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“Karen,” Dixon said, then gave her a slight shake of her head.

Cut it out.
Vail took a deep breath.
You’re letting the offender get to you.
She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. When she opened them, she realized her team was looking at her. “All right. I don’t see where we have a choice. This asshole wants to play.” She shrugged. “Let’s play.”

AT VAIL’S URGING, BURDEN CALLED Allman and told him to meet them at the Tadich Grill, a four minute ride from the station. They hadn’t eaten in several hours, and with Burden looking to avoid his lieutenant’s overtime budgetary wrath, they decided to extend their day by meeting, unofficially, offsite.

“Tadich is the oldest restaurant in the city,” Friedberg said. “It may even be the oldest business, period. Dates all the way back to the Gold Rush days, 1849.”

The neon sign that protruded perpendicularly from the emerald-toned building front confirmed Friedberg’s information. Apparently, the establishment was proud of their heritage, as it was also emblazoned across the transom over the doorway. And on the glass storefront.

Vail pointed to the text. “Actually, it says they’re the oldest in the state, not just the city.”

Friedberg hiked his brow. “Whaddya know. I’ll have to remember that.”

“Please do,” Vail said. She leaned back and looked accusingly at Friedberg. “Is the rest of your info that faulty?”

“Did you notice the name of this building?” Burden asked. He pointed to the sign above the Tadich entrance. “The Bitch Building. Guess it’s only fitting that you’re eating here.”

“It’s B-u-i-c-h,” Friedberg said, spelling it out. “I’m not sure I’d pronounce it ‘bitch.’”

“Karen might,” Burden said.

Vail jutted her chin back and looked admiringly at Burden. “Good one.”

Dixon pulled open the polished copper door and they filed in. Ahead of them stood an expansive bar that dominated the right side of the long and narrow restaurant. A silver-haired man in a white jacket and black pants greeted them and led them across the white tile and paneled walls to a series of private booths that lined the left side of the interior. Quarter loaves of round sourdough bread sat on a plate on each empty table, along with a bowl of sliced lemons.

“In a few minutes this place is gonna be packed,” Burden said.

“Food’s that good?” Vail asked.

Burden bobbed his head from side to side. “It’s more...the experience of eating here.”

“The
experience
,” Vail repeated. She turned to Dixon. “I think we’re in trouble.”

The waiter gave Vail an unsavory twist of his face, set down the cardstock menus, and pushed his way toward the front of the restaurant, where more diners were entering.

Their table was separated by a tall wood divider that gave them a sense of isolation. Stacks of white linens were piled atop each of the dividers, which extended into the distance.

“I figured this would be the best place to discuss serial killers without pissing off the customers,” Burden said.

Dixon pulled out her wood chair, then nodded at the front door. “There’s our guest.”

Clay Allman followed the same path the others had a moment earlier, then pulled over an extra chair and placed it at the end of the table. “I haven’t eaten here in years.”

“I hear it’s quite the experience,” Vail said.

Allman pursed his lips as he snagged an extra napkin from the divider and unfurled it with a flick of his wrist. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

“So remember we talked about helping each other out?” Burden said.

“That’s what I do, Birdie. And have done, for twenty-five years. You know that—what’s this about?”

“We’ve got something that needs to appear in tomorrow’s paper.”

Allman stole a look at his watch. “You did say, tomorrow, right?”

“I did.”

Allman sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. “We missed the 5-star deadline, but I can probably make the 8:30 ‘1-dot’ edition. What’s so urgent that it has to get into the paper?”

Burden looked at Vail, who picked up the conversation.

“We got a letter from the offender.”

“What’s it say?”

Vail glanced at her task force colleagues, then said, “It reads like a manifesto. Off the record, it seems like he’s done time in prison.”

“And that’s off the record? Give me a break, Karen.” Allman leaned closer. “Can I call you Karen?”

“Call me whatever you want. But we need you to print something for us.”

“How ’bout I print that for you and you let me see this manifesto—and let me mention that prison thing in the article?” Allman twitched his brow.

“How ’bout we buy you dinner,” Vail said. “And you mention that we received a letter from the offender.”

Allman tilted his head in thought. “How ’bout—”

“Clay,” Burden said. “We’re up against the wall here and we need you to do this.” He looked at Allman, his gaze steady—and intense.

“Evening everyone,” the waiter said. “May I take your order?”

They pulled the menus up to their face, selected quickly—Pasta and Clams for Burden, White Branzino Sea Bass for Friedberg, Bay Shrimp Diablo for Vail, and Pacific Oysters Rockefeller for Dixon.

“You’re buying?” Allman asked.

“If we’ve got a deal,” Vail said, “we’re buying.”

Allman groaned. “Fine.” He looked up at the waiter. “Lobster thermidor.” He glanced again at his watch. “Not that I’ll have much time to eat it...”

The server collected the menus and left.

Allman pulled out a spiral notepad from his leather bomber jacket. “So what do you want this to say?”

Vail looked off at the rapidly filling restaurant. The scent of fresh fish sat heavily on the air, the sizzle of frying food off somewhere in the distance.
Appeal to his superior intellect.
“Try this: A letter was received today by the investigating detective on the Bay Killer case. The task force is awed by the killer’s intellect, and by his insights on the rules of society.”
We have to challenge him.
“But I’m asking him to be more forthcoming about what his intent is, and what it all means, because even with the mistakes he’s made, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

Allman stopped writing, then looked up. “You want this personal. You used the first person. Is that the way you want it? A direct quote?”

“I want him knowing it came from my mouth, yeah.”

“Want to clarify what you mean by ‘the mistakes’ he’s made?”

“Just go with what I gave you, Clay. But don’t post it online tonight. Let it hit the paper in the morning. I want to control when he sees it in case he feels the need to act. I’d rather it be daylight.”

Allman again consulted his watch. “If I’m going to make tomorrow’s edition, I’ll have to leave here in fifteen, twenty at the most.”

He began jotting notes on his pad and had filled the third page when their food arrived. Allman ate quickly, periodically checking the time. Finally, he asked the waiter to box up the remaining food on his plate, then left.

“You think that’ll get a reaction from the offender?” Dixon asked.

“I know it will,” Vail said. “He’s shown a pattern of monitoring the media for information dealing with his handiwork. We’re going to hear from him. I just hope it’s not in the form of more bodies.”

Friedberg scooped the last forkful of his sea bass and held it in front of his mouth. “Amen to that.”

Vail crunched on her shrimp, wondering what the connection was to her past... How the killer could know about what she had done in New York... How he had managed to get inside her head—not to mention her hotel room last night. But he had. And somehow he knew the right button to push that would prevent her from sharing this key piece of evidence with her colleagues. It was a brilliant move on his part. But what did it mean?

“What’s on your mind?” Burden asked.

Lots.
“Nothing.”

He regarded her a moment, then nodded slightly and directed his attention back to his food.

It was clear that Burden knew something was up with her, but didn’t know what it was. And, unfortunately, Vail found herself rowing in those same shark-infested waters.

MacNally tied the rake head to his line and began windmilling his arm to send it soaring into the darkness—and hopefully over the wall. He did not have a watch, but his internal clock told him that Rucker had abandoned him about twenty minutes ago. It was a head start that would likely make it impossible to catch him. Because if he did, he would—

Stop. He focused his thoughts. First he needed to get his tool to catch on the other side of the masonry. Then he needed to climb over the wall. Then he could let his anger boil and entertain thoughts about what he would do to Rucker should he find him.

The rake clanged against the wall and came flying back down at him. It struck the dirt and buried itself an inch deep. It was heavier and larger than the cleat, and that meant it was more difficult to arc forty feet into the air. He pulled it from the ground and tried again.

On the fourth attempt, it cleared the top. MacNally pulled and brought tension to the rope. He started to laugh—a nervous, anxious energy that told him he was confident he would get out of there.

He gave it a firm tug to test its viability, and using the knots as grab points, he began the climb. His injured hand still ached, and each grasp-and-pull maneuver sent pain shooting up his arm. But he’d have plenty of time to worry about that once he was en route to Henry.