Inmate 1577

64

November 9, 1962

Alcatraz

Consciousness came in increments but remained far off and dream-like. Initially, MacNally became aware of lying faceup on a table, staring at a light green ceiling. His lids were heavy; his thoughts as foggy as the Bay weather. His eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off to a semiaware state.

two voices

far off

but nearby

“Dr. Tumaco’s on his way,” a woman said.

“Finelli warned us he was going to escape,” a male voice said with a Boston inflection. “We were supposed to keep a close watch over him. But someone screwed up and approved kitchen duty…”

footsteps

fast

coming closer

And then, a second male voice: “What have we got?”

The Boston man: “Inmate Walton MacNally. He was attempting to escape and injured himself out behind the Powerhouse.”

“Vitals?”

The woman: “Stable, but pulse is rapid and he appears to have suffered substantial head trauma.”

“Start an IV, saline drip.”

Fiddling, metal clinking…movement. Air brushing by his face.

fading into sleep

far off

nothingness

then a voice

The doctor: “And you are?”

“Ray Strayhan.”

“So, Officer Strayhan. What happened?”

“Like I said, doc, he was involved in an escape attempt. Killed Jack Taylor.”

“I meant what happened to the patient, not Officer Taylor.”

fingers probing-

stomach

neck

head-

pain!

pain!

“What’s it matter?”

“Officer, I’m not going to ask you again. I need to know what type of trauma the patient sustained so I can properly diagnose his condition.”

eyelid pulled open

penlight flicked across face

pain!

hand on wrist

pinprick

pain!

“He resisted, got violent, tried to punch Russ-Officer Ilg. I’m not sure what happened. We did what we had to do to restrain him. It was dark, we didn’t know what weapons he had. Taylor was stabbed and his.38 was missing. We couldn’t take a chance MacNally was gonna shoot or stab us. We weren’t gonna show him mercy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything. I know you men have a tough job and these…these inmates here are the dregs of society. But right now this dreg is my patient. So I’m going to ask you again: what was done to this man?”

“He was kicked. A few times.”

hands around neck holding it

body turned to the side

body flat down on table

“This is…my god. This is quite severe. I- Thank you, Officer Strayhan. You can go. Nurse, wheel him into x-ray and get me a skull series, stat.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Dr. Tumaco,” Strayhan said. He cleared his throat. “I- We-Officer Ilg and me-we’d appreciate if you would be…careful with how you word things in your report. Hopefully MacNally’ll be okay. But we both have families to support. And if the captain reads that our use of force was excessive, it could be our careers. The rocks-so you know, our official story is that while trying to escape, MacNally fell down the rock bed, banged himself up pretty badly. Nearly ended up in the water. Officer Ilg and me…we saved him from drowning.”

bumps

rolling

movement

pain swelling bulging

pain!

The voices faded further into the distance.

“Thank you, Officer. I understand your concern. I’ll take it from here. Rest assured…”

A FOGHORN BLEW IN THE DISTANCE. MacNally opened his eyes. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head and an IV snaked from his right hand. Moaning, he heard moaning. It was him. Pain.

“Pain!”

A man rushed to his side. “Okay, Mr. MacNally. Okay. I’ll take care of it…”

Darkness muted his vision, and seconds later, he heard nothing.

“MR. MACNALLY. WAKE UP.”

A hand rocked his shoulder and he struggled to pry his eyes open. Standing beside his bed was a man in a white coat.

“I’m Dr. Martin Tumaco. I operated on you. You were in pretty bad shape. Do you remember anything?”

MacNally opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue felt thick and parched.

Tumaco held a cup to his lips and he sipped water from a straw.

“That’s enough,” Tumaco said, then withdrew the drink.

MacNally turned his head toward the doctor. His neck was stiff. “Am I going to be okay?”

Tumaco turned around, grabbed a chair, and moved it to the bedside. “We had to do emergency surgery, but you’ve made an extraordinary recovery. A month ago, you were brought in with significant head trauma. You’d apparently had an accident, and you sustained damage to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe areas of your brain. I don’t want to get too technical on you, but-”

“I’d rather you say it. Be honest with me.”

“Right. Honest. Okay.” Tumaco paused, nodded silently, and then said, “In a normal brain, those areas provide self-control. If it’s damaged, you have less control and increased desire. It feels better for you to act than to stop yourself from acting, even if it’s a bad idea or if it’s likely to get you into trouble. And if you succeed-meaning you don’t get caught-you want to do it again. The longer the reward is delayed, the more the brain produces the hormone testosterone, which-” The doctor stopped and frowned. “That’s probably more than enough for now.”

MacNally glanced around his hospital room: two large adjacent-barred-windows on the wall to his right, a radiator squatting below it. Gray light streamed in and fell across a table fan that sat atop a glass cabinet to his right. “Go on. What does all this mean?”

“There will be certain deficits, that much I’m certain of. But I’m afraid I don’t know yet what they’ll be.”

“But you have a pretty good idea. My brain will want me to do things without me being able to stop it. Right?”

Tumaco hesitated. “You’re in the right ballpark. Bottom line is that aggression and violence may be a problem. But-we’ll see how things go. I wouldn’t worry about it now. Just get your strength back so you can-”

“So I can go back downstairs to my cell. And live with violent men who do violent things. Like me. Sounds like a recipe for success.” MacNally closed his eyes, then turned away from the doctor.

A moment later, Tumaco rose from his chair and left the room.