Inmate 1577 (42 page)

And he now surmised that Anglin had been working with Harlan Rucker in setting him up for getting caught. Rucker had also done time at Raiford—but why Anglin had something against MacNally, he did not know.

As he gathered information, in a subsequent interview with the FBI agents, he learned that the second raft had never been completed—and that the raft they had found was only designed for three men, four if they sacrificed safety. The triangular design described by the agent conflicted with the style the men had discussed constructing; perhaps the Anglins and Morris had never intended to take him along. He might never know for sure, but it did not matter. His best guess said that the Anglin brothers and Frankie were free.

And MacNally was still behind bars.

He was released early from the Hole, for “good behavior,” he was told. After spending three months in segregation, leaving his cell only once a week for a visit to the yard and two showers a week, his only psychological escape was through reading. But it was not much solace to a man who sat in a cement room with only a 25-watt lightbulb and two enemies—that he knew of—close at hand.

He had withdrawn into himself, anger simmering like a frying burger left in a pan too long: well done, charred beyond recognition, and brittle to the touch.

MacNally was setting his new kit of supplies on the shelf when Clarence Carnes rolled the library cart up to his cell. He handed through a new
Popular Mechanics
issue, atop which was a postcard.

“What’s this?” MacNally asked as he took the magazine.

“Can you read that scrawl?” Carnes asked.

“Gone fishin’,” MacNally said. He looked up, his mouth agape. “Son of a bitch. The bastards made it.” It was their prearranged code phrase, a signal that one or more of them had reached land.

“Looks like it.”

Carnes slipped the postcard back in his pocket. “Except maybe Frankie. Word is a body was found floating off the island a week after the escape. Some freighter saw it and said it matched Frankie’s description, down to his clothes.”

MacNally sat down on his bed. “They fucked me over, Clarence.”

“I know that. And I also know they were cons, and cons do shit like that. You’re in goddamn prison, Mac. Accept it.”

“I’m here. I understand that. But I don’t accept it. Someday I’m gonna have my revenge.”

Carnes chuckled loudly. Too loudly. He stifled his outburst, glanced down Broadway, then said, “If it makes you feel better thinking like that, good for you. But you’re here for a long, long time.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Carnes eyed him, then looked off as an officer passed. When it was safe, he said in a low voice, “Don’t do anything stupid. If you drown, or get shot trying to get over the wall, it ain’t gonna do your boy any good, now, is it?”

“It’s not like I’m doing him any good being locked away in here.”

Carnes studied MacNally’s face, then nodded slowly. “You have any idea on how you’re gonna do it?”

The whistle blew, signaling the beginning of music hour.

“I had three months to think about it,” MacNally said. “If there’re two things I’ve got plenty of, it’s time and ideas.”

The sound of horns squealing and blowing echoed in the cavernous cellhouse. MacNally stood and moved close to the bars.

“I know a guy,” Carnes said. “I owe him for something. He’s got a big head start on planning something. And you know I’ve heard a lot of plans over the years. Had some myself, too. But this one...sounds like it could work.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Always consider the other guy’s needs, Mac. He needs a partner. That’s his motivation. Till you get to the water’s edge, you’ll have value to him. I think you’ll be okay.”

“Name?”

“Reese Shoemacher. One of the negroes.”

“I don’t care if he’s purple, as long as he doesn’t screw me. What’s his plan?”

“He’s been assigned to the Culinary Unit for about a year now, so he spends a lot of time down in the kitchen basement. Mostly unsupervised time. Says he’s gonna go out the basement window. Been working on the bars for nine months with string, wax, and scouring powder—”

“A flexible file,” MacNally said. He nodded slowly. The scouring powder acts as an abrasive and when you wrap the cord around the bar, then keep pulling it back and forth, you cut through the steel.

“That’s the idea. Fills in the groove with soap and grease before he gets off his shift to hide it.”

“Why does he need a partner?”

“Most guys don’t escape alone; you need lookouts, help getting over fences, carrying your kit. Shoe was gonna go with another negro, Leonard Williams, but Williams’s supposedly got something else cookin’. I happen to know Shoe’s got a big hole in his plan—like what he’s gonna do once he gets in the water. And you’ve got experience with flotation devices.” Carnes grinned.

“Let him know I’m in.”

“I’ll bring you two together tomorrow, on the yard.” Carnes grabbed the handle of his cart, then winked at MacNally as he pushed off toward the next cell.

“Alcatraz,” Vail said. She sat down in front of Dixon’s laptop and started a search. “There’s been so much written about it that I have to think someone, sometime has listed the inmates that did time there.”

As she began pounding the keys, a male voice yelled, “Birdie!”

Burden turned toward the administrative anteroom, where an inspector was approaching with a notepad in hand. “Got something. Your vic, Martin Tumaco. Found in that flotation tank in ’95. Tumaco was a government doc—a Public Health Service physician—and a surgeon who worked on Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz,” Dixon said. “We just found something, too, that led us there.”

“That’s not all. That other vic, Father Ralph Finelli—he was a seminarian back in ’60.” He consulted his notes. “Finelli unofficially worked at Alcatraz—Father James Raspa of that church you went to this afternoon—San Francisco de Asís—was the registered clergy on The Rock, but he brought along Finelli, his student, to get some experience working with some seriously bad dudes.”

“What happened to Finelli after that?” Vail asked.

“Became a priest down south. He’s done a series of interviews about his work at Alcatraz over the years. Talked about his relationship with”—another glance at his notes—“Jack Pallazo, and his work with two inmates in particular, Leigh Bosworth and Walton MacNally. MacNally is the one that stands out because Finelli considered his work with MacNally such a gross failure that he would’ve left the seminary if Raspa hadn’t talked him out of it.”

“Is Raspa still around?”

“That’s where we got this info. He’s retired, lives in Concord. He was very upset to hear about Finelli.”

“Great work,” Burden said.

“Now that we’ve got a place to look,” the inspector said as he backed out, “hopefully we’ll have more for you soon.”

“Check all the other vics,” Burden called after him. “Find out if there’s an Alcatraz tie-in. Inmates, correctional officers, support staff—anything.”

Dixon swiveled her seat toward Burden. “Before your phone rang, you said you thought you’d figured something out.”

“Yeah,” Burden said. He turned back to the PC and, while alternating his gaze between the screen and his pad, scribbled some notes. He walked over to the murder board and began reordering the male victim photos. “Those numbers, the ones written on the vic’s heads. I figured out what they are.”

Vail’s phone vibrated. She pulled it out and—
Holy shit
. She jumped up from her chair, which careened backward into the worktable. “New message.” She read it aloud: “I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, in the middle of fucking nowhere. You have twenty-nine minutes.”

“The Rock.” Burden turned back to the board. “So those numbers. Putting them in order of kill chronology, they read: 37, 49, 35, 122, 25.” He held up his pad to check his information.

“And?” Dixon said. “I’m still not getting it.”

“Me either,” Vail said as she scanned the photos. “Spit it out, Burden.”

“They’re latitude and longitude readings. Of Alcatraz. I looked it up: 37° 49’ 35” latitude, -122° 25’ 23” longitude.”

Wish we’d seen that before.

“We’re missing a number,” Burden said.

Vail stepped up to the board and jabbed a finger at one of the messages the offender had sent. “He wrote, I’ve given you some latitude, but you’ve come up short.” She faced them. “One number short.”

Dixon looked at the wall clock. “Here’s another number we’re gonna come up short on. We’ve only got twenty-seven minutes to get there.”

AS THEY RAN DOWN THE stairs, Burden called the SFPD Marine Unit and told them they needed the Zodiac ready to rock and roll in ten minutes. They hit the lobby in single file and ran past security, then out the front door into the cold night air.

They dashed left, around the corner, and into the lot where the Taurus was parked. From there, Burden accelerated hard and screeched his tires, headed for Pier 39.

BURDEN SWERVED WIDE ON A turn and his rear fender caught the corner of a
San Francisco Register
street dispenser. Vail and Dixon grabbed for something to hold onto.

“Was the DB Friedberg?” Dixon asked.

“Don’t know,” Burden said. “Should’ve asked. Roxxann—get the goddamn light up there.”

Dixon, riding shotgun, reached down and put the flashing dome atop the roof.

“Guard said it was a male, no ID.”

“That fits the pattern,” Vail said. “Doesn’t get much more high profile than leaving a body on Alcatraz.”

“No kidding,” Burden said. “They get like five thousand visitors a day there. People come from all over the world. It’s like mythic or something. People are fascinated by the place.”

“How long till we get there?”

“We’ll be at the dock in five, if I run some lights.”

“And to the island?”

“No idea. I’ve only gone there by ferry. Fifteen minutes, maybe. I think we can do a lot better in the Zodiac.”

“Either way,” Vail said, “it’s gonna be close.” She thought a moment, then said, “Think back to all the victims. The way they were positioned. They were facing the Bay. But were they all facing Alcatraz?”

Burden thought a long moment, no doubt running the crime scenes and male victims through his memory. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Except for Ilg, who was in the tunnel—the hole—I think they were.”

Vail nodded.
Then we’re right. Alcatraz is the key
. “This guy. Our UNSUB is likely a former prisoner there.”

“And,” Dixon said, “the vics are probably tied to Alcatraz in some way, too.”

“Reasonable assumption,” Vail said. “Other prisoners who wronged him. Or guards.”

“The phone that text came from,” Burden said as he swung a hard right onto Embarcadero. “Send a reply. We’re on our way.”

“He’s not interested in hearing from us. He wants us there, to find what he’s left for us. But I’ll see if they can put a trap on the phone. He’s too smart to get caught like that—but who knows.”

Moments later, the Ford pulled up hard against the curb and they jumped out, making a dash for the small Zodiac inflatable, which was lit with spotlights and moored at the dock. An officer stood in the back, adjusting a setting on the Johnson outboard motor.

“Whoa.” The cop held up a hand as they approached the Zodiac. “Not enough room to bring you all over. One of you’s gonna have to stay behind.”

Vail looked at Burden and Dixon, then said, “We’re all going. Together.” She stepped down into the inflatable gray craft, followed by Burden and Dixon.

“You heard the woman.” Burden, perched on the elevated hump in front, gestured with his chin. “Move it!”

September 16, 1962

Alcatraz

The morning after his discussion with Clarence Carnes, Carnes introduced MacNally to Reese Shoemacher in the recreation yard. They talked about the progress Shoemacher had made in cutting through the bars, then, having finished their business, moved off their separate ways: Shoemacher to play dominoes with the other negroes, and MacNally to sit and think, alone.

MacNally closed his eyes and took a deep breath of salty, damp San Francisco air. The uncharacteristically sunny day gave him much needed light, and an equally uncharacteristic lift to his spirits.

He sat on the top step, his back against the penitentiary wall, symbolic in so many ways that he dared not explore it too deeply.

And then a man called his name. MacNally opened his eyes and saw a short, squat individual he had never before seen. He was not an inmate, as he was dressed in a black suit. As he approached, MacNally saw a roman collar. A priest—and he was now standing in front of him, blocking the sun.

“I was told I should come talk with you.”

“That right?” MacNally said, turning his gaze away, toward the Bay. “And who told you that?”

“Warden Dollison. You apparently made an impression on him. He said he was concerned about you and felt you could use a friend.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“That’s precisely why you could use one.” He extended a hand. “Ralph Finelli.”

MacNally examined the offer but did not accept it.

Rather than walking off, Finelli sat down beside him.

MacNally looked at him, his bewilderment likely showing on his face.

“I’m a seminarian,” Finelli said, “at Mission San Francisco de Asís.”

“You mean, like a sky pilot?”

Finelli smiled. He was obviously familiar with the prison term for a priest. “Not yet. But soon.” He tilted his head and regarded MacNally. “You have a great deal of anger. And heartache. I can see it in your face, the way you hunch your shoulders. It’s tearing you up inside.”

“All due respect, Father. I’m not interested in religious discussions.”

“Call me Ralph. And I’m not here to proselytize or talk with you about religion. I’m just here to listen, lend some advice if that’s what you need, and to guide you through a difficult time.”

“After what’s happened to me the past few years, I can’t say I believe in God.”

“I’m only here to help,” Finelli said, palms out. “That’s it.”

“I need to get out of this place, to see my son. He’s living in some kind of orphanage. Can you help me with that?”