Inmate 1577

29

Vail and Dixon arrived at the San Francisco Register on Mission Street. It was a four-story brick building, built about ten years ago during more optimistic times, before the newspaper industry started crumbling due to declining readership and subscriptions and the attendant slide in advertising revenue. Now the Register, like most other dailies in major US cities, was under intense economic pressure to survive.

Vail got out of Dixon’s car, then said, “Hold it. What are you wearing under that jacket?”

“Tank top. Why?”

“Good. Lose the jacket.”

“It’s freezing,” Dixon said.

“Exactly.”

Then she got it. Blonde, with a body she shaped in the gym several days a week, Dixon often had a predictable effect on male suspects and sources. It was a tactic she and Vail had used once before during the Crush Killer case.

“Not this again,” Dixon said. “I thought we’re professional women who are proud of our accomplishments and don’t have to resort to sleeping around and behaving like sluts to get where we’ve gotten. We’ve earned it on merit.”

“Yeah. We are. And we did. But we need to use all assets at our disposal. And let’s face it, you have nice assets. Honestly, I’m freaking jealous. Now lose the jacket.”

Dixon rolled her eyes, then did as Vail requested.

As Dixon was tossing it into the backseat, a text arrived from Burden:

rumors right. dui ’09 and dom vio this year. in custody battle over 9 & 13 yo boys. not hard to guess job’s in jeopardy. complaints never made public.

Vail read the info to Dixon, and then they walked through the Register’s front doors. They both badged the receptionist, who sat behind bulletproof glass, with surveillance cameras trained on them fore and aft.

“Guess it’s dangerous being a reporter these days,” Dixon quipped. “Tight security.”

Vail covered her eyes in mock concern. She gestured at Dixon’s detective’s shield. “Jesus, Roxx. Scuff it up or something. It’s so shiny and new, you nearly blinded me with the reflection.”

“I’m very proud of this hunk of metal.”

“You should be. But it’s so pristine it makes you look like a rookie.”

Dixon pawed the mirrored surface, covering it with fingerprints. “There. Happy?”

Vail playfully revealed one eye, then the other. “Much better.”

“You can go on up,” the receptionist said, shoving two visitor tags into the pass-through slot. “Third floor.”

They clipped the laminated cards, which bore a large red V, onto their belts, and then turned toward the elevator. But as the doors opened and revealed a tiny car, Vail turned away. “Stairs?”

“It’s only three floors,” Dixon said.

“I don’t want to tempt fate. It hits at inopportune times.”

They ran up the three flights, then exited at the newsroom floor where a man of about sixty was standing, waiting for the elevator doors to part.

“Just a guess,” Vail said. “Mr. Scheer?”

The man turned and his eyes immediately found Roxxann Dixon as if his pupils were made of iron and Dixon had a magnet embedded beneath her chest.

That’s it. Look. Enjoy. Then tell us what we want to know.

“Yes.” He extended a hand, but his gaze slid left and right, from Dixon to Vail…but they always came back to Dixon.

“We have some questions for you,” Vail said.

Scheer pulled his eyes over to Vail. “Come on back to my cubicle.” He led them through a maze of low-walled dividers. Computer screens, stacks of papers, and file folders covered all available horizontal surfaces. The workspaces looked similar, the only variations being how neatly the materials were stacked, and how many photos the reporters and columnists had pinned to their walls.

Scheer stole two rolling chairs from adjacent, abandoned cubicles and moved them over to his workspace. Vail and Dixon took seats as Scheer fussed with clearing a stack of papers from his workspace.

Vail scanned the photos on display: one of a boy and a young teen, another of Scheer and the same children-presumably his sons-and pictures of what looked like his parents and maybe a sister. Off to the side, there was a snapshot of Scheer dressed in an Elvis costume at some kind of holiday party. There were no pictures of his wife.

Dixon elbowed Vail and nodded at a Tribune article pinned to his wall. A handwritten note scrawled below it read, “Wrong again, asshole. Fuck you.” Off to the right, two bullet casings hung in a Ziploc bag, skewered by pushpins.

Vail and Dixon shared a perturbed look.

“What can I help you with?” Scheer asked.

Vail wiggled a finger at his wall. “What’s up with that?”

Scheer swung his head over. “The article or the casings?”

“Both,” Dixon said.

“We get those kinds of notes and emails literally every week, and most of us keep a few hanging around the office as examples of how batshit the readers can be.”

“Batshit,” Vail repeated.

“And those bullets,” he said, waving a hand in their direction, “are from a murder in the Tenderloin. Transit reporters have toy trains on their desks, cop reporters have toy cop cars. I’ve got those bullets-and the Orgy Room key from the Mustang Ranch.” He opened a drawer and pushed a few items aside. “It’s here somewhere… Anyway, they’re mementos of the stories I’ve written.” He shoved the drawer closed. “Just a guess here, but you didn’t come over to discuss my office décor.”

“We saw your article this morning on the case you’ve dubbed the ‘Bay Killer,’” Vail said.

Scheer moved back in his seat. A subconscious but telling action. “Did you like it?”

“Can’t say we did,” Vail said. “See, you printed details about the case that no one knows. And that concerns us.”

Dixon added, “If you can just tell us where you got some of that information, we’ll be out of your hair.” She sat up straight, bringing her shoulders back.

Scheer noticed. He turned his head toward Vail, but his eyes followed a split second later. “I can’t-I can’t disclose my sources. I’m sorry.”

“We figured you’d say that,” Vail said.

“But see, what you did, well, it’s irresponsible,” Dixon said, maintaining a pleasing and reasonable tone. “Because you printed some things that weren’t right. And strategically, the things you wrote were downright dangerous. It’s putting the lives of a lot of elderly women in the city at extreme risk. And we certainly don’t want to do that-and I’m sure you don’t want to, either.”

“What can I do about that? I’m sorry if that’s what happened. But I can’t retract the article. What’s done is done. You can’t unring-”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “The bell. We know. But I’m gonna be blunt with you. We have a hole at the department. We need to plug that hole before more information finds its way into other people’s hands. Unscrupulous hands.”

Scheer shifted in his seat. “Well, I-I don’t want anything bad to happen, but I’ve got a job to do, and my job is to find credible information on a case and report on it. And since you’re here, I’ve obviously found credible information.”

“We’ve all got jobs to do,” Vail said. “And my job is to make sure more elderly women and men don’t get killed. Tortured. Raped. And sodomized.”

“I understand. But-”

“Is that your parents?” Vail asked. She pointed to the photo.

Scheer did not turn around. His face hardened. “Get to the point.”

“They’re around the age of the couples who’ve been murdered. Would you like to walk into a crime scene tomorrow and find your mother tortured, raped, and sodomized? As you were so apt to point out in your article, the killer uses an umbrella, and he shoves it up the woman’s rectum. Very hard. He tears her up inside. I don’t think I have to tell you it’s a very, very unpleasant death.”

Scheer’s eyes narrowed. His jaw jutted out. “Is this about Friedberg? Is that why you’re hassling me? Why didn’t he come here himself?”

“You’re not getting it,” Vail said. “This isn’t about Friedberg. It’s about the old woman who was brutalized and killed because of you.”

He rose from his chair. “We’re done here.”

Vail and Dixon did not move. “I don’t think so,” Vail said. “We know about your…personal problems. And we know you’ve somehow managed to keep them under the radar. Maybe you’ve got friends where it counts. But, see, we do, too. And all it takes is one phone call.”

Scheer’s face reddened. “Go to hell,” he said, then walked away at a brisk pace.

Vail sat back in her chair. “Well, that didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. Definitely not as planned.”

“Definitely not.”

Vail watched him yank open the stairwell door, and then disappear inside. She eyed his desk, the papers strewn across it. The files likely contained information that could be material to their case. But she swiveled her seat away from Scheer’s workspace. I’ve crossed the line too many times the past few months. I’ll get the info some other way. Somehow.

Dixon rose from her chair. “Just a guess. But I don’t think he’s coming back until we leave.”

Vail stood up as well, then pretended to notice Dixon’s outfit for the first time. “Jesus, Roxx. You don’t look very professional. Put your jacket on, will you?”

VAIL AND DIXON WALKED BACK to their car in silence, until they exited the building. Then Vail asked, “What do you think?”

“Not to be Captain Obvious, but he’s protecting his sources.”

“But what source could it be? Remember when we were looking at the wine cave murder a few months ago? I kept saying it was all about access. Who had access to the cave? Let’s approach this the same way. Who had access to the information found in Scheer’s article?”

“You, Burden, and Friedberg. The people who handle the files-the file room clerk and the guys at evidence storage. The crime lab. The ME. Potentially other inspectors. The lieutenant.”

“And the killer,” Vail said.

“And the killer.” Dixon chirped her car remote and the doors unlocked. They stood outside it. Dixon reached into the backseat and grabbed her jacket, shoved her arms through the sleeves.

“So…what do we do, start questioning all the people involved in this case?”

Vail thought a moment. “Who would have a reason to disclose the information?”

“Unless it’s something obvious, figuring that out could take a long time.”

“True,” Vail said. “Then how about a shortcut? Let’s look at the phone LUDs and see who’s been talking with Stephen Scheer.”

“If you can make that happen, it’d definitely save us some time.”

Vail pulled open the car door. “If they used their work phones, or department-issued cells, not a problem. If they use their personal cells for work, too, then that makes our job easier. We get everything at once. I’ll send Burden a text, let him know we struck out and see what we can get.”

She sat down, and as she hit Send, her phone buzzed. A text stared back at her. “Gotta be kidding me.”

“What?”

Vail let her head fall back against the seat. “Another vic.”