Inmate 1577

68

Vail and Burden left Friedberg at the entrance to the Saint Francis Memorial Hospital emergency room. Dixon, following in the Taurus, swung by and rolled down her window. “Get in-we’ve got something.”

She didn’t need to say it twice. The moment Burden hit the backseat and Vail the front, Dixon accelerated.

“Yeung got Hartman’s cell phone logs. He’s working on it with our guys at Bryant Street, but I can tell you one name stood out like a bullet hole in the forehead.”

“Someone we know?” Burden asked.

“Stephen Scheer.”

Vail’s mouth dropped open. She immediately held up her hands. “Hold on. Let’s think this through before we pull the trigger. They both live in San Francisco, Hartman handled major crimes and Scheer’s a police reporter for a major newspaper. Maybe Hartman had a case Scheer was covering.”

Dixon, driving twice the speed limit and weaving through the light traffic, was nodding at each of Vail’s suggestions. But then she said, “Certainly possible, and very logical. But it doesn’t appear to be the case. The calls all came within the last few days. And all of them were before you got that note from the offender.”

That’s not good.

“As if that’s not enough, his last call was tonight. While we were at Alcatraz.”

Burden grabbed the front seat and pulled himself forward. “That’s who called Hartman when he left the cellhouse?”

“Looks like it.”

Can that be? Was I standing right next to the offender and didn’t see it? Is that possible? No. Yes.

“Where’s he now?” Burden asked.

“Funny you should ask,” Dixon said, blaring her horn at a truck that pulled in front of her. “Yeung and Carondolet are on their way to Scheer’s house right now. And, coincidentally, so are we.”

THEY ARRIVED AT THE NARROW two-story home on College Avenue in Berkeley twenty minutes later. A Ford was double-parked haphazardly, blocking the narrow street.

“So they’re here,” Burden said as they got out of the Taurus.

They marched up to the door and were about to knock when Yeung pulled it open. “We woke his wife and sons. She went to put the younger one back to bed.”

Vail, Burden, and Dixon walked into the entryway. It was a modest home with spartan furnishings. Children’s toys littered the floor in front of an old tube television. Framed newspaper clippings of what were presumably Scheer’s early articles hung over the couch.

A woman in her late forties walked in, pulling her auburn hair back in a bun. She stopped when she saw another three cops standing in her home.

Vail, Burden, and Dixon identified themselves. Vail asked, “Ms. Scheer, do you know where your husband is?”

“You can call me Kathleen.” She bent down and began picking up the mess of toys strewn across the weathered wood floor. “What’s Stephen done now? Drunk in public again? Peeing on some homeless guy?” She uttered a pathetic laugh. “He did that once.” She stopped and put a hand to her forehead. “So embarrassing. I met the editor of the paper down at the police station and had to watch while he called in a favor so they didn’t charge him. Just a misdemeanor, but it’d be humiliating to the paper.”

“Kathleen,” Burden said. “It’s not like that. We think he can help us with a case he’s been working on.”

“Must be important if it can’t wait till morning.”

They stared at her, feeling their explanation was sufficient.

Finally, Kathleen straightened up and said, “I don’t know what you want from me. Have you checked his apartment?”

“We weren’t aware he had one,” Yeung said.

“We separated last month. I’d had enough.”

Burden asked, “Did he…abuse you?”

“He had an addiction problem, Inspector. Mostly alcohol, some drugs. He’d go through rehab, then start drinking and we were off and running all over again. It was a never-ending cycle. I finally played the only card I had. I told him I didn’t want him around our boys if he couldn’t keep himself straight. I changed the locks. He got the apartment, and hasn’t stopped calling and apologizing.”

“Can we have the address?” Dixon asked.

“It’s in Rockridge,” Kathleen said, then gave them the street and number. “Is he really a witness? Or a suspect?”

“We think he has answers to a case we’re working and we really need his help,” Vail said. The truth.

“Have you noticed any strange behavior the past couple of weeks?” Dixon asked.

She set both hands on her hips. “Now that doesn’t sound like a question you’d ask about a witness now, does it?”

Carondolet checked his watch. “Please, Ms. Sch-Kathleen. Just answer the question.”

“His behavior’s always a bit strange. I mean, people with addictions aren’t normal, are they?”

Depends on your definition. “Behavior that you’d consider outside Stephen’s norm,” Vail said.

“No. But I also have been trying to avoid him, so I’m not sure I can answer that.”

And that could’ve been his trigger. “Is he an empathetic person? Does he socialize well, form bonds?”

“Stephen does what he needs to do his job well. So he socializes when he needs to. But it’s an effort for him because he’s always been a pretty closed person. Sometimes it’s hard to get close to him. He shuts me out. And that was another source of frustration for me.”

She’s holding something back. Vail took a step closer. “Kathleen. Is there something else you’d like to tell us?” Vail held her gaze. Talk to me.

Kathleen looked beyond Vail at the men. They apparently got the message because Burden said, “We’ll wait outside.”

When the door clicked shut, Vail led her over to the couch. Dixon remained standing.

“There’s more to it than Stephen just being antisocial, isn’t there?”

Kathleen looked down and waited a moment before speaking. “Stephen has a dark side. That’s really why I left him. I mean the addiction was a big part, but…” She bit her lip. “He’s always been a little secretive, and when I’d call him on it, he’d explain it away. He’s a reporter, he’d tell me, and reporters sometimes work all hours, and go away for days at a time while they’re researching a story.

“I figured he was having an affair, but I found some…things in his locked drawer. He was in the shower and I grabbed his keys and looked. He had photos of naked women, as if he’d taken them with a telephoto lens. It looked to me like he was some kind of peeping tom. And then I found a ring. A diamond ring, from the looks of it. It could be fake, I don’t know. But it wasn’t mine, I can tell you that.”

A trophy? Or nothing?

“I put it all back then found a divorce lawyer. He doesn’t know about the lawyer, I just said I needed some time.”

“Does he know what you found?”

“I haven’t told him. I was afraid…I just didn’t even want to know what it meant. I’d been hurt enough. Once I made the decision, it really didn’t matter.”

“Thank you,” Vail said. “I know it wasn’t easy telling us that. We appreciate it.” She stood up. “Call us if you hear from him.” She handed her a card, then walked out with Dixon.

They congregated outside in front of Burden’s Taurus and Vail filled them in on Kathleen’s disclosure.

“What do you make of that?” Dixon asked.

“Maybe nothing, maybe something. The voyeurism could go with the addictive personality, or it could be more significant. Some psychopaths are substance abusers. But here’s where it’s important. Their psychopathy becomes more pronounced and they become more aggressive when under the influence. That said, what we see most of are psychopaths using drugs and alcohol to manipulate and compromise their victims-like slipping Rohypnol into their drink at a bar. Either way, given what we now know, we’ve gotta look hard at Scheer.”

“What about MacNally?” Carondolet asked. “We should have some stuff on him very soon, but I don’t think we should eliminate him.”

“Absolutely. We look hard at MacNally too.” Vail grinned. “From no suspects to two in a space of a couple hours. This is a good problem to have.”

“Let’s go by Scheer’s apartment, see what we find,” Carondolet said.

Yeung’s phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and said, “Mike Hartman’s section chief.” He stepped away and answered it.

“We don’t have enough for a warrant,” Burden said. “If he’s not home…”

“We may be able to get one,” Dixon said. “If we get a judge who’s willing to stick his neck out a bit.”

Vail tapped Yeung on the shoulder, and then explained that they needed a warrant. Hopefully, the section chief had enough juice to get it for them.

Burden glanced around the quiet street. “At the very least, we should go over to Scheer’s place and see what we can stir up, talk to his neighbors.”

“A canvass at this time of night?” Dixon asked.

Yeung turned to face them. “His section chief said Mike had a personal phone. If we can’t find his Bureau-issue BlackBerry, his other cell may have something. I’ve got his carrier. Why don’t you three go to Scheer’s apartment and we’ll try to track down Mike’s BuCar in case his phone’s in there.”

“And the warrant?”

“Chief said he’d make a call. No promises.”

“We’ll be in touch when we know something,” Burden said.

They got in their vehicles and headed off.

As Dixon locked in her seatbelt, she said, “If Scheer’s the offender, does that make sense? Does he have a connection to Alcatraz?”

“Send it over to the interns,” Burden said to Dixon. “See what they can dig up.”

“Does he fit the profile?” she asked as she thumbed her iPhone.

Vail grabbed the door handle as Burden swung out into traffic. “Before we had that hit on MacNally, I was thinking we were dealing with a middle-aged man. That matches up. He’s educated and, based on what we saw of his workspace, it appeared to be neat. I didn’t get a sense that he’s psychopathic, but they can be very good at disguising it. His wife said he’s a closed person, that it takes effort for him to socialize. That could be pathognomonic of psychopathology. But it can also just be that he’s an introvert.”

“So you don’t know,” Burden said.

“Off the top of my head, no. I mean, the offender’s played it brilliantly. He kept us busy, he took our minds off the ball, processing and evaluating multiple vics, chasing cryptic clues that he kept feeding us, dealing with Friedberg’s disappearance. He totally knew how to work us. And unless something stands out, unless you pick up on some warning sign, you don’t think to look at the people around you.

“If it is Scheer, that’s a very bold strategy because we’ve had a lot of contact with him. Shit, Burden, you’ve known him for years. Not well, but if he is the UNSUB, he’s been killing in your backyard and you didn’t know it. That’d certainly fit his ego, to be around us at the height of a crisis and we’re still not seeing him. But I need time to look everything over, all the crime scenes, all the vics, and think things through. I’m a little overloaded with facts and the UNSUB’s subterfuge. I’ve gotta cut through all the shit and boil it down to an offender profile.”

“Is it even possible?” Dixon asked. “We were with him while those texts were coming in and we were running all over the city.”

Vail considered that, working those incidents through her mind. “He wasn’t with us the whole time. And when he was, how hard is it to pull your phone and type out a short text? If he already knew what he was going to write, why not? None of us was watching him. I’m not saying that nails it, but it is possible.”

Moments later, Dixon pointed out the window. “This is it.”

Burden swung the car into a hydrant space at the curb.

As they were getting out, Vail’s phone buzzed. While climbing the steps to the brownstone-style apartment building, Vail stole a look at the display. “Carondolet got a tech to pull Hartman’s phone logs. We’ve got the dates and times that his calls and texts were made and received. Scheer’s number’s there. Nine times during the past three days.”

“Let’s go see what we can find out,” Burden said.

Visible through the exterior glass door was a small entryway that contained a telephone handset and a series of mailboxes with their corresponding buzzers.

Dixon set her hands on her hips. “Why is it that security measures don’t have any effect on a crook but they stop us dead?”

“I think we’re good,” Burden said.

A man in his late twenties was approaching the building and fiddling with his keys. He excused himself and tried to walk between them.

But Vail blocked his way. “FBI. We need entry to your building.” Before the man could object or pose a question, Vail asked her own. “Do you know Stephen Scheer?”

The man, still fixated on Vail’s badge, met her eyes. “He’s my roommate. Why?”

“Is he home?” Burden asked.

“I was bartending. I’m just getting back myself. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen isn’t home. He’s gone a lot, working stories.”

“Can we take a look around your place?”

The man squinted and leaned backwards. “Uhh…”

“Not a big deal,” Vail said, pulling her BlackBerry. “We can camp outside your door and get a warrant. Or you can let us in. You got drugs in there, whatever, we don’t care. Stephen is working a case with us, and he may have some info that he meant to give us.”

The man bobbed his head, then finally nodded. “If he meant to give it to you, then why-”

“We have reason to believe he may be in danger,” Burden said. “And we don’t have a lot of time.”

The roommate’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you just say that? Come on up.” He unlocked the door and led them inside.

Burden winked at Vail and they ascended the stairs, which creaked with each step. Inside, there were boxes stacked along one of the walls.

“Stephen hasn’t finished unpacking. I think he’s still hoping he’ll get back together with his wife.”

“How do you know him?” Vail asked as Dixon and Burden began looking around.

“I was a journalism major. I’ve hooked on with the Register and Stephen helped me get the gig. He needed a place to crash, and I had a study, so…”

A moment later, Burden emerged from a small adjacent room holding up a thin cellphone. Vail nodded, acknowledging the significance of the find, while Dixon completed her sweep.

“How’s it going with you guys?”

“Stephen’s an awesome writer. I’ve learned a lot from him. I mean, you can’t overestimate the value of all the experience he’s got under his belt.”

Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but this guy may have a whole lot of other experiences hidden under his belt you probably don’t want to know about.

Dixon and Burden entered the living room, signaling they were done.

“Well. Thanks for all your help.”

“Did you get what you needed?”

Burden pursed his lips and nodded. “I sure hope so.”

OUT IN THE CAR, BURDEN SET aside materials he had taken, and bagged, from Scheer’s room: items that were likely to carry his DNA and fingerprints, should they be needed. He handed the phone over to Dixon, who said she was familiar with the operating system.

“What’d you see?” Vail asked, settling herself in the front passenger seat. “Anything obviously incriminating?”

“Things were pretty neat. It’s a small room, so I’m guessing most of his stuff is still in the boxes. No bloody clothing in the closet, no trophies, nothing that appeared to have any connection to Alcatraz or any of the vics.”

“If he is the UNSUB,” Vail said, “I’d expect him to have some kind of secret location where he keeps his stuff. Not in an open apartment he’s sharing with someone. He’s a smart SOB. Maybe a storage locker. And I wouldn’t expect it to be registered under his name.”

Dixon held up the phone. “Got his text messages. And whoa-okay, here we go. Several exchanges with Mike Hartman.”

Burden turned around to face the backseat. “Read ’em out loud.”

“Scheer was looking for info on Karen. Hartman responded, ‘Why me?’ and Scheer wrote back, ‘You used to be her partner.’ To Hartman’s credit, he said, ‘nothing to say to you.’ And then it went back and forth: ‘I think you do,’ ‘fuck off’…” Dixon scrolled and flicked her finger, then said, “Oh, here’s a good one. Scheer: ‘I’m a reporter, asshole. You’re gonna tell me what I want to know or certain facts will come out about Candace.’”

“Who the hell is Candace?” Burden asked.

Vail said, “Mistress? Who knows-someone who knows things Hartman wouldn’t want to be made public.” She gestured to the phone. “Go on.”

“Right. Next one is ‘Meet me at the Starbucks at Market and Fell, 1:00.’”

“Any reply?”

“No. But I think we should assume he went.”

“Why?” Burden asked. “Why not arrest the guy for extortion?”

“He’s not asking for money,” Vail said. “And there’s no way for Hartman to know if Scheer’s set the info to be released automatically, or by some accomplice, unless he cancels it. Best move is to meet with the guy and see what he’s about. It’s a public place, so it’s relatively safe. I’d go, find out what his angle is. You can always try to bust the asshole later.”

“There’s a phone call,” Dixon said, “which I think is-yeah, that’s the one he made while we were on Alcatraz.”

“How long did it last?” Vail asked.

“Three minutes.”

“Long enough for him to lure him outside and blindside him,” Burden said.

Dixon slipped the phone in her pocket. “Could be.”

“Any record of those texts the UNSUB was sending us before? The clues?”

“No,” Dixon said. “But those came from different numbers-untraceable disposables.”

Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. “What do you think-good news or bad?” She looked at the display. “Yeung says Hartman’s car was clean. No phone. But Carondolet got hold of MacNally’s inmate file. Or, at least, part of it.”

“Impressive for this time of night,” Burden said.

Vail yawned. “Sorry. Speaking of this time of night.” She shook off the fatigue and said, “Let’s meet them. They’re back at Pier 33.”

Burden turned over the engine. “On our way.”

WHILE EN ROUTE, VAIL DIALED Clay Allman. He answered with a groggy grunt.

“Clay, Karen Vail.” Another grunt. “Sorry to wake you-”

“Wake me, yeah. What the hell time is-are you out of your mind? It’s…3am?”

“Sounds about right. Listen, we’ve got a question for you. You happen to know where Scheer is?”

“Let me get this straight,” Allman said. “You call me up at three in the morning, looking for the last guy in the world I’d want to talk to. And you’re wondering if I know where he is?”

“Again, that sounds about right.”

“Can I go back to sleep?”

“I take it you haven’t seen or spoken to him.”

Allman groaned. “Not since you dropped him off after our…hang on a minute. If you’re asking about Scheer at this time of night, something’s gotta be up. Where are you?”

“Thanks, Clay. You’ve answered my question.” Vail pressed END.

“You really thought he might know where Scheer was?” Dixon asked.

“No freaking idea, Roxx. I took a shot they were throwing back beers in a bar somewhere in the city. You know, friends become enemies, then enemies become friends again after we bring them together like brothers who’ve had an argument.”

Burden chuckled. “What drug have you been smoking?”

“Like I said, I took a shot.” Vail’s phone began ringing-Allman calling her right back, the diligent reporter taking a shot to pry info from her. She ignored it. Instead, Vail dialed the task force, which, she was told, had thinned since Friedberg’s rescue. But many were still in the office despite the hour, toiling away with several interns who were likely aiming to score points with the inspectors while devouring the thrill of the investigation.

Vail asked them to delve into Stephen Scheer’s background. No detail was too insignificant: she wanted an unfiltered dossier of who this man was, where he came from, what college he attended, and what he did in the years after graduating.

While the volume of information would be less robust than usual because numerous agencies had closed several hours ago, there was still a fair number of online databases and external resources they could access.

Fifteen minutes later, as Burden was pulling up to the parking lot for Pier 33-with signs advertising Alcatraz Cruises-Vail received a return call.

“Karen, it’s Robert.”

“Robert,” she said, sharing a look with Burden. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the station, working with the task force. It wasn’t as bad as they thought-once they pumped in fluids and stitched me up, I was able to get back on my feet. Sort of. I had one of the interns come get me. As long as I don’t get up from the chair too fast, or go chasing our UNSUB down the street, I can function.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” She paused. “I guess that goes for us, too.”

“You asked them to put together a backgrounder on Scheer. They called his wife and got his social and such-which, I gotta tell you, she wasn’t too happy we woke her again-but it was worth it. We hit some interesting stuff, but we just found it and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Go on.” She placed her BlackBerry on speaker.

“So Scheer was born and raised in San Mateo. First thing we did was log onto vital records, to start at the beginning and see where it led us. And it stopped us dead.”

“How so?” Burden asked.

“Birdie!” The smile was evident in Friedberg’s tone. “Good to hear your voice. Okay, so the problem is that we found two birth certificates. We’re not sure what to-”

“He was adopted,” Vail said. “When you’re adopted, they assign the adopting parents’ names. Then they destroy the old certificate. But once in a while, the original hangs around. What’s the name on the original one?”

“Baby Markley. Markley would be the mother’s maiden name if she wasn’t married-which might be why she put the kid up for adoption.”

“What does that get us?” Dixon asked.

Burden shrugged. “Not much.”

Vail asked, “Can you pull the court records and see if the mother was married? That’d get us a last name-”

“Already checked,” Friedberg said, the rhythmic tap of a keyboard coming through the speaker. “The records only go back to 1950. I think I might-hang on a second. Yeah. Here’s something.” More clicks. “Hmm. He’s got a sealed juvie record.”

Vail sat forward in her seat. “This is starting to sound interesting. Except that we’ve hit another roadblock.”

“Maybe not,” Burden said. “Sealed file-but there’s no gag order on the investigating detective. Track down the guy who handled that case and we may get an answer as to what Scheer did to land his young ass in jail.”

“I’ll get on it. Call you as soon as we have something.”

They met Carondolet and Yeung in front of the hood of their car. Yeung had his laptop open, and a warden information card filled the screen. A mug shot showed a man wearing a red, white, and black placard around his neck, identifying him as ALCATRAZ 1577. Walton MacNally.

“So this is our guy,” Burden said.

Vail placed both hands on the car’s hood and leaned closer to the PC. The screen’s brightness, amidst the dark parking lot, played harshly across her face. “One of them.”

“You’ve had time to look this over,” Dixon said. “What’s the big picture?”

Carondolet folded his arms across his chest. “They had MacNally pegged as a very bright guy, scored a 135 on a prison IQ test. Resourceful, motivated, hard worker. Did fifteen months at Leavenworth but was involved in two escape attempts and was suspected in the violent assault of two cons. After the second attempt, he was transferred here, where his history of violence continued. His intake card said he was considered a ‘serious escape risk.’”

“What was the original offense?” Burden asked.

“Convicted of two counts of armed robbery and one of kidnapping. Oh, and he’s listed as widowed. Get this-he was arrested and tried for murdering his wife but was ultimately found not guilty.”

Vail pursed her lips. “Well, that’s certainly…an impressive record. We’d be silly not to consider this guy a prime suspect.”

“I thought we already did,” Yeung said.

“We did. But we’ve been running all over the place tonight looking at Stephen Scheer.”

“And?” Carondolet asked.

Dixon bent over the laptop beside Vail and scrolled down. “And he’s looking guilty. Of what, it’s hard to say. But something isn’t right with him.”

“How old is the guy?” Vail asked. “MacNally.”

“Apparently,” Dixon said, paging down a document, “a spry and fit 79.”

“A few other things you should know,” Yeung said. “He was involved in a number of violent altercations. One with a guy you’re familiar with: one of our vics, Harlan Rucker, who he apparently had some bad blood with dating back to Leavenworth. Rucker and an accomplice attacked MacNally in Industries with a knife.”

“I’m liking MacNally more with each passing minute,” Burden said. “What else?”

Yeung cocked his head. “There was a clergyman at Alcatraz by the name of Finelli. He tried to pass a letter from MacNally to his son, but it apparently got returned unopened. The kicker is that there’s a warden’s note saying that Finelli tipped off prison officials about MacNally’s plans to escape, and the attempt ended very badly.”

“Badly for who?” Dixon asked.

“Everyone. An officer was killed, and an inmate who was in on the escape with MacNally also got killed.”

“Who killed the CO and inmate?” Vail asked.

“The reports of the incident are sketchy,” Carondolet said. “The file says it was unknown who killed the officer, MacNally or the other inmate. It also says MacNally fell down the rockbed during his escape attempt and the responding officers rescued him from drowning.”

“But?”

“But when I was a ranger we were told that rumors were rampant at the time among the inmate population that MacNally killed both the guard and the prisoner. And that revenge was dished out by one of the guards who found MacNally in back of the Powerhouse, on the Old North Caponier. Tuned up MacNally pretty badly. The doc, according to the rumor, covered for the CO and wrote a bogus report.”

“Let me guess,” Vail said. “The doctor’s name was Martin Tumaco.”

“Give that lady a pat on the ass,” Carondolet said. “And the officers involved were-ready for this? Russell Ilg and Raymond Strayhan.”

“Holy shit,” Burden said. “We’ve got our guy. MacNally is our fucking UNSUB.” He looked at Vail. “Right?”

Vail pushed up from the hood. “Maybe.” Something’s still not adding up. “It looks that way. But…a couple of things are bugging me. MacNally is a violent criminal, I get that. But I’m not seeing convincing evidence he’s a psychopath. The behaviors we’ve observed at the crime scenes, particularly what he did to the women… It doesn’t fit, at least not given the information we’ve got.”

Burden sighed. His frown telegraphed the disappointment that was now burnished on his face. “You said there were two things bothering you.”

“Scheer. He threatened Hartman to get dirt on me, and when Hartman was all too happy to give it to him, that information ended up in my hotel room along with the type of key that the offender left at crime scenes.”

“You’re wondering,” Dixon said, “what the connection is between a deadbeat journalist with a shady past-and present-and a former Alcatraz con.”

“Shady past?” Yeung asked.

“Scheer’s got a sealed juvie record,” Dixon said. “And remember, his wife didn’t exactly paint a Man of the Year portrait for us.”

“Scheer’s his son,” Vail said softly.

“What?” Burden asked.

Vail curled some hair behind her ear. “MacNally had a son. Maybe it’s Scheer.”

“But I thought Scheer was adopted.”

Vail shook her head. “We don’t know that. It’s a likely explanation for the two birth certificates. But it’s just a guess.”

“Even so,” Dixon said, “big deal. MacNally’s son could’ve been adopted.”

“Could Scheer be a psychopath?” Bledsoe asked.

Vail sighed deeply. “Psychopaths are very skilled at deception, so it’d be possible for us not to pick up on it. Not to mention he had us running all over the goddamn city, keeping us busy while he readied his grand show: killing John Anglin and placing him in his original cell for us to find. Everything he’s done has been planned, calculated. But he also works off what we do and shifts strategy on the run if he needs to.” Vail massaged her forehead. “So yeah, it’s possible. I need something to eat. And some coffee.” And some sleep. “I’m having a hard time thinking straight.”

“What happened to MacNally?” Burden asked. “Where is he now?”

Carondolet moved in front of his laptop and clicked, then scrolled. “Here it is.” He read a moment, then said, “That head injury was pretty bad. He had brain damage to-”

“Brain damage?” Vail nearly shouted. “That could change everything. You numb nuts didn’t think to tell us that earlier?”

“Excuse me,” Yeung said. “You’re not the only one who’s been up all night. Back off.”

Vail held up a hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. My ASAC wants me to play nice with you guys out here because I may be making more trips out to California. So let me rephrase. You numb nuts didn’t think to tell us that earlier?”

Carondolet and Yeung looked at Burden, who was merely studying the ground, shaking his head. And doing his best to stifle a laugh.

“His injury was to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe,” Yeung said with a tight jaw. “According to the doc’s report in the file, that means he-”

“Suffered from severe impairments in judgment, insight, and foresight,” Vail said. “My colleague’s done a lot of research on brain trauma and violent crime, and this kind of frontal disinhibition syndrome was something he briefed us on a few months ago. If that’s what MacNally has, that might explain a lot. I can dial him up, see if he can shed some more light on it.”

“So where’s MacNally now?” Dixon asked.

“After Alcatraz closed in ’63, he was transferred to Atlanta, then to the new max pen at Marion when it opened a few months later. He served another fifteen years and was released in ’77.”

“Released,” Burden said. “That’s freaking great.”

“We all know that’s common,” Yeung said. “Last known whereabouts, he was in Chicago. But that was back in ’78. He fell off the radar after that.”

“Please tell me one of you guys put out a BOLO,” Vail said.

Yeung closed the lid of his laptop. “Done.”

“All right, look,” Burden said, rubbing his hands together as if trying to generate warmth. “We can’t stand out here all night. Let’s go back to Bryant. Get some food and coffee, give ourselves time to clear our heads, then attack it fresh.”

It was approaching 4:15 AM when they walked into Homicide with several coffees and a selection of pastries from Sparky’s all night diner.

Vail, Burden, and Dixon greeted Friedberg, who looked pallid and drawn, but otherwise appeared to be holding his own.

While the others settled in for an all-staff conference to review the latest developments and relevant case points, Vail called the profiler at the BAU who had written a number of research papers on brain injuries and their impact on violent behavior: her new partner, Frank Del Monaco.

“Frank,” Vail said, moving away from the commotion of gathering inspectors and interns. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“You mean you need something from me,” Del Monaco said. “Admit it and I’ll be more than happy to help you. Well, I’ll help you. Let’s leave it at that.”

Vail rolled her eyes. “Yes, Frank. I need your help.”

“Isn’t it like the middle of the night in California?”

“Now there’s the perceptive man I’ve come to know and loathe.”

“Karen, I know you have a hard time with this. But when you call someone to ask a favor, you shouldn’t start the conversation with an insult.”

“Goes to my point, doesn’t it? Your perceptive powers are truly exceptional. So. My question pertains to the research you’ve done on brain injuries. We’ve got a suspect we really like who suffered substantial head trauma that resulted in damage to the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe. I remember you telling us about the inhibitory effects-”

“Wait, wait. Hang on. You mean you were actually paying attention to what I was saying?”

“I know,” Vail said, “as hard to believe as that may be, sometimes you say something intelligent. So I have to be on my toes for that rare moment. Now, can you help me or not?”

“You know we’re going to be working together, right?”

“If you’re trying to piss me off by bringing that up, you’ve succeeded. Now, your research.”

“There’s actually a new study out of Israel that I’m incorporating into a paper I’ve been working on. I won’t bore you with the details of the trial, but the bottom line is that the impairment patterns we see in the personalities of psychopaths are mimicked in individuals who’ve sustained frontal lobe damage. Very aggressive and highly impulsive and uninhibited violence.”

“You’re shitting me. You wouldn’t joke about that, right? I’m serious-this could be huge.”

“First of all, the frontal lobe symptoms they observed in the study were a bit different from the typical psychopath’s instrumental, cold-blooded, and predatory violence. Second, just because such an injury can cause psychopathic-like behaviors, doesn’t mean it has to. Third, no. I’m not yanking your chain. The study was conducted out of the University of Haifa and-”

“Was it good research? I mean, do you trust it?”

“The sampling’s smaller than I’d like, but the study’s sound, Karen. I think you can take this to the bank.”

“All right, listen up, Frank, because you’re not going to hear this often: Thank you.”

Before Del Monaco could come back with a sharp retort, she disconnected the call and shoved the BlackBerry in its holster. She rejoined the group, related the information, and explained the implications of the new research. “I’m thinking this changes our focus. Or at least my assessment. It seems that MacNally could very well be exhibiting psychopathic-type behaviors.”

“So you think he’s our guy?” Friedberg asked.

Vail hesitated. “Could be, Robert. It’s not a definite. But I’m fairly certain he’s involved. Is he the offender? He fits the profile. I would’ve pegged the UNSUB to be a younger guy, no later than his mid-fifties. But given his long history of incarceration and everything that happened to him, the age can be adjusted.”

“Adjusted how?” Carondolet asked.

“First of all, incarceration retards social growth, so even though we’re looking at a seventy-nine year old, given that he spent almost twenty years in prison, that takes us down to the late fifties. And if we consider that the first murder we might attribute to him occurred in ’82, I think we are definitely in the ballpark.”

“Can a seventy-nine year old do the murders we’ve seen?” Dixon asked.

“Depends on the person,” Burden said. “Some guys that old are frail, others are fit and pretty freaking spry. Done right, he can control the victim with a gun or a knife or even his words. The only question would be the way he’s gotten the males tied to the columns and poles. But the rope and pulley setup he used could explain that.”

“And he could’ve had help,” Yeung said.

“Karen,” Dixon said, “you mentioned Scheer could be his son. If so-”

“Negatory on that,” Carondolet said. “I kept reading the file on the way back here. His son was placed in an orphanage in ’59, committed suicide in ’63. Jumped from a suspension bridge in upstate New York.”

Friedberg said, “Another son, then? A nephew? Maybe on his wife’s side of the family. Or he had a son by another woman and he didn’t find out till later in life.”

“See what you can find out,” Burden said.

Friedberg conferred with an intern, who began tapping away on the inspector’s keyboard.

Forty minutes later, they informed the others that there was no record of other children fathered by Walton MacNally. “At least, none in the available databases that can be traced to MacNally.”

“So we’re back to our two suspects, MacNally and Scheer,” Burden said.

Carondolet’s phone rang. He slid off the worktable and, forcing down a yawn, answered the call. A moment later, he said, “The teams are leaving the island. They just wrapped up their search. It’s clean. Our guy’s not there.”

“No surprise there,” Dixon said. “He killed a federal agent… He’s gotta know the heat’s been jacked up to the max. Why the hell would he stick around?”

“We had to check,” Yeung said. “Now we know for sure.”

“Here we go,” Friedberg said. “Just got an email from the cop I asked to track down the detective who handled Scheer’s case. The sealed juvie record.”

“And?” Burden asked.

“And he was more than pissed we woke him in the middle of the night. But he remembered the case, even though it was thirty-something years ago.” Friedberg scrolled down with the keyboard. “Scheer was sixteen when he raped a girl.” He swung his eyes over to Vail.

“Two teens having a good time and then she said no and he didn’t listen?”

Friedberg read a bit, then said, “Well, the detective didn’t so much as remember the details of the rape as much as what the kid did to him. Guy said Scheer went into a rage when they arrested him, kicked him pretty badly trying to get away, and broke his wrist. Had to get it pinned and was on medical disability for a year before he was able to fire a handgun.”

Dixon poured another cup of coffee, then set the pot down. “I think we’ve got a decent view of who Stephen Scheer was-and is. Between the rape and what his wife told us, he’s not exactly the kind of guy you want to bring home to your mother.”

“But is he the kind of guy who could torture and murder several women and men?” Friedberg asked. “Is he the Bay Killer?”

“We’ve got that video of our UNSUB from the Palace of Fine Arts,” Burden said. “Now that we’ve narrowed our suspect pool, how about we take another look at the tape?”

Fifteen minutes later, Friedberg had called up the footage on his PC and was scrolling slowly through the dark and grainy image of their hooded offender. Carondolet and Burden felt it could be Scheer; Yeung, Vail, and Dixon thought it was impossible to reach a conclusive determination. The others either shrugged or walked away without rendering an opinion. Friedberg kept looping the excerpt. Finally, ten minutes later, he pressed Stop and buried his face on his desk.

THEY SPENT ANOTHER TWO HOURS reviewing the files, discussing the timeline and the victimologies. With the morning sun hiding behind thick, low-hanging fog, and the first support personnel beginning to filter into the office, Vail pulled her feet off the worktable and sat up straight. She felt like crap, and thought she probably looked like it, too.

Just as she was entertaining the thought that they had not heard from the offender-nor had they been able to find any trace of Stephen Scheer or Walton MacNally-her phone began vibrating. Vail yawned and reached for the BlackBerry at the same moment. But what she saw on the screen nearly knocked her back into the chair.

“Hartman’s phone.” She looked at Dixon, then brought it to her ear. “Vail.”

But she realized it was a text, and instantly pulled it away from her face. Jesus. I really need some sleep.

did you miss me

oh yes you did

because im still doing my thing

“That’s it?” Vail stared at the screen. “What the hell do we do with that?”

Burden, Friedberg, Carondolet, and Yeung had joined Dixon at Vail’s side. The phone began trembling yet again.

time has come to purge the evil

meet me where the devil still resides

“Devil’s Island,” Friedberg said. “A nickname for The Rock. What else could he mean?”

“He who,” Burden said. “Gotta be Scheer. Hartman’s phone was missing when we found him tied to the smokestack, and Scheer was the one who left that note for Karen-”

“But if we’re convinced it’s Scheer,” Yeung said, “what’s his connection to MacNally?”

“Without more facts,” Vail said, “we can fall back on the kindred-souls-find-each-other scenario. Whatever the reason, we’ve got to find him-them-fast. If we can believe his text, our offender’s back on Alcatraz.”

Burden swung around. “Robert, get us a helicopter. Faster than taking that Zodiac and we can land somewhere central, like maybe the cellhouse roof.”

“Bureau’s Regional Aviation Assets might have a chopper,” Vail said, “but I’m not sure if San Fran-”

“We just got one,” Yeung said. “A Bell 407, all tricked out. Staged at Crissy Field.”

“Perfect,” Burden said. “Get it hot. We’re on our way.”

Dixon rose from her chair. “So what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Burden harrumphed. “We don’t have a plan.”

Vail tucked in her blouse as she moved for the door. “Sure we do. And I can sum it up in three words: Catch this asshole.”

Dixon grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair. “Works for me.”

THE BELL MOTORED OVER THE fog-socked Bay. Visibility was almost nil, with white enveloping the helicopter’s windows and increasing the confining feel of the chopper’s modest compartment. Vail closed her eyes and tried to calm the anxiety, focusing instead on what their next steps would be.

Dixon, Burden, Carondolet, and Yeung sat alone with their thoughts until Vail tapped Carondolet on the knee. They were all outfitted with headsets tuned to the same channel.

“Any agents still there from last night?” Vail asked.

Carondolet shook his head. “They left on a cutter this morning. Around four or five, if I remember. Soon as they cleared the island.”

“How many armed LEOs are normally on the island?”

“None. There was a law enforcement ranger there for a few months once, but it wasn’t a permanent position. Just no money for it. Park Service has got the same problem Bureau of Prisons had with Alcatraz-costs a goddamn mint to maintain the buildings and keep that place in one piece. The salt air’s a killer. And cops just haven’t been necessary.”

“Until today,” Vail said.

Carondolet, seated beside the pilot, shrugged: What do you want me to say? “Park Police and FBI’s got people en route. I’ll get an ETA.” He twisted the radio dial and began speaking into his mike. A moment later, he tuned back to their channel and then turned his torso to face his task force members. “Backup should arrive about ten to fifteen minutes after we do. But you’re not gonna like this. It’s Alumni Day.”

Vail leaned closer. “What the hell’s Alumni Day?”

“Once a year deal. Former correctional officers and their families-and ex-inmates-go to the island. Have meals, reminisce, give talks for the tourists.”

“Inmates and officers, socializing?” Vail asked. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Burden said, “And that’s today?”

Carondolet nodded. “And tomorrow. It’s not publicized. The tourists who come this weekend just luck out.”

“I don’t think ‘luck’ is the right word,” Vail said. “Call it off, turn the ferry around-”

“They’re already there. Probably in the hospital by now. That’s where they eat and hang out. They close off the whole floor from the public.”

The helicopter swung left, circling from over what Vail presumed was choppy Bay water, inward toward the island.

“I’m gonna land us on the fresh-water cistern,” the pilot said. “Better access to all the buildings than the roof. Assuming I can see it.”

Vail nudged Dixon. “This guy’s got a sense of humor.”

The FBI pilot swept around in a tight arc, then hovered and slowly descended, as if the agent was holding out a hand and feeling around for the ground. A moment later, with a slight jolt, he brought them to rest on a large, flat, cement area just north of the cellhouse and water tower-both of which were barely visible in the fog. Dozens of seagulls scattered, vacating the improvised landing pad for a much larger bird.

Carondolet pointed as he spoke. “We’re near the north tip of the island. Industries building and the Golden Gate are to our right.” Their heads swung in that direction. “Trust me, behind that wall of fog, they’re both there. Cellhouse and rec yard’s in front of us, which you can kind of make out. Powerhouse is to our left, down the hill.”

“There’s the smokestack,” Vail said. “Or, part of it.” Looks a bit different without a dead body tied to it.

“How do you want to handle this?” Yeung asked.

“First question to ask is why Scheer brought us here,” Burden said. “We figure that out, we’ll have a course of action.”

“Another body?” Dixon asked.

Vail shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe more than one. I think everything he’s been doing, it’s all been leading up to this. He chose today, and this place, for a reason. He wanted all the ex-officers and inmates on the island. And this Alumni Day gives him what he wants.”

“Why?” Burden asked.

“I can guess, but I’m sure we’ll find out.” Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. “Apparently sooner rather than later.”

welcome

“He knows we’re here,” Dixon said.

Vail frowned. “We flew in on a goddamn helicopter, Roxx. Fog or not, everyone knows we’re here.”

They jumped out of the Bell and pivoted, taking in what they could see of the structures Carondolet had mentioned.

Dixon put her hands on her hips. “He could be anywhere. We should get everyone off the island until we get things under control.”

“The ferry’s back at Pier 33,” Carondolet said. “It’s loading up. They’d have to get everyone off, then it’d take at least twelve minutes to get here, and then another ten to fifteen to load it.”

Yeung, who was peering into the thick soup, swung around and said, “We should leave everyone where they are, in the hospital. Soon as backup gets here, we put an agent at each entrance. Right now keeping things simple will keep everyone safe.”

“Fine. We need to focus on finding Scheer,” Vail said. “You were him, where would you be?” Just then, her phone vibrated. “Here we go.”

i would give you a clue but

ur time is running out

go to the diesel tank

Vail turned to Carondolet. “What diesel tank?”

“There are several tanks on the island, some of them hold fuel and others water, so it’s har-” He stopped and swung around, then peered into the fog in the direction of the smokestack. “Wait a minute. There is a diesel tank.” He walked to the furthest edge of the landing pad, then held out an index finger and settled on a location. “There.”

Carondolet took off along the left side of the helicopter, leading them toward the water tower. Just before they hit its stanchion, he hung a left down a series of cement stairs. The steps ended at a lengthy, deeply sloping sidewalk that paralleled the cistern where the chopper had set down.

As they ran along the path, to their right, the Powerhouse and Quartermaster warehouse rose from below the adjacent East Road.

Carondolet led them up East Road and through a cyclone fence sally port, just past the end of the Powerhouse building. A chain-link gate, its lock forced open, blocked the entrance to a steeply sloped steel gangplank that spanned a gully below. The metal footway led down to a sizable cement slab that contained pipes of varying sizes and stainless steel hatches. A white, black and red warning sign stood sentry where the bridge ended:

DANGER

COMBUSTIBLE LIQUIDS

DIESEL FUEL

A large cylindrical tank the color of a fire engine and marked Diesel Fuel stood on wide rails at the far edge of the concrete base, seemingly at the edge of the island. Barely visible beyond the red tank was…nothingness. Regardless of the fog, Vail still heard it: crashing waves of the ocean.

“There,” Carondolet said.

Vail pulled open the gate and grabbed the railings of the narrow gangway, then headed down, followed by Burden and Dixon.

She stood in front of the massive tank, hands on her hips. “Now what?” She pulled her phone to make sure she had not missed a text from the offender. Nothing-but with the crappy cell reception on the island, she wondered what he would do if his messages weren’t getting through. How would he react? Not well.

“Anything?” Yeung called out, standing watch with Carondolet at the gate, handguns at the ready.

Dixon jumped down to the ground about five feet below the concrete support base, which stood beside the Powerhouse’s exterior wall. A moment later, she called up to Vail from the other side of the tank. “You wanted to find Scheer, right?”

Vail looked down in Dixon’s direction, though she couldn’t see her. “Uh, that’d be affirmative.”

“Well, we found him.”

Vail and Burden jumped off the foundation, then climbed over a series of yellow pipes that protruded from the cement base. Dixon was standing on the other side of the tank…where Stephen Scheer was seated.

“Is he-”

“No,” Dixon said. “He’s alive. Unconscious, but breathing. Drugged, maybe.”

Burden craned his neck and reached across the top of the base. “He’s chained to the tank.” He leaned in closer, then said, “And not to dampen the spirit, but we’ve got another problem.” He leaned against the edge of the foundation and pointed at a box to Scheer’s left.

“Yeung,” Vail yelled. “We’ve got an IED!” A bomb. A goddamn bomb-

Yeung, standing behind the cyclone fencing thirty feet away, pulled his phone and began dialing.

Vail climbed atop the cement base and knelt next to the device. “Timer-set for…holy Jesus-three minutes.”

“Active?”

“Two minutes fifty-eight seconds. Yeah, it’s active.”

Carondolet ran halfway down the gangplank. “Get out, we need to get away from here!”

“Can you raise EOD-maybe they can talk us through deactiv-”

“Karen, that’s a bomb attached to a diesel tank. And the slab you’re standing on? It’s a storage receptacle filled with fuel. Not only that, see that yellow piping?” Carondolet gestured at the tubes that snaked up the side of the Powerhouse building. “It runs the entire length of the island. All the way to the dock. This bomb goes off, it’ll take half the island with it.”

And that’s the offender’s plan. Kill all the former guards and cons. Vail rose and, among the many valves protruding from the back of the tank, chose one that was perched above a coupling pipe.

“What are you doing?” Dixon asked. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

Vail began turning the burled knob. “Burden-try to reach someone on the dock, have ’em find a valve on the yellow pipe and open it full bore.”

Burden pulled his phone and ran up the metal bridge with Carondolet.

“Karen,” Dixon said. “We’ve gotta go.”

“We leave, Scheer dies-”

“If we don’t leave, we all die.” Dixon grabbed Vail’s arm, but she shrugged it off.

“See if you can get him free,” Vail said as she continued cranking the knobbed wheel atop the valve. “We’ve still got time.”

Dixon moved to Scheer’s body and began inspecting the bindings. “I can’t-chain’s tight. We need a hacksaw or bolt cutter-”

A loud hiss, indicating tremendous pressure-blew back at Vail. She yanked her hand away at the instant a thick stream of diesel fuel blasted outwards, cascading out of the mouth of the coupling pipe in a downward arc toward the ocean below.

The acrid odor constricted her throat. She twisted away and buried her nose in the crook of her elbow.

Dixon, her face likewise shielded, asked, “What good is that?”

“Emptying the tank,” Vail shouted. “Concrete slab might dampen the explosion. Maybe it won’t ignite the fuel underneath us.”

“Now can we leave?” She leaned in close. “Ninety seconds left.”

“What about Scheer?”

“Not happening. He’s chained down. Unless you have a bolt cutter in your back pocket, there’s nothing we can do.”

Shit.

“Karen,” Burden yelled from above. “Let’s go-now!”

Dropping her arm and holding her breath, Vail climbed around the tank to leave-but gave one last look back at Scheer’s chain.

But she suddenly found herself hefted up onto Dixon’s shoulder.

“Roxx, what are you doing? Put me down!”

Dixon made it onto the gangway and did her best to run uphill. As strong as she was, moving up a narrow path on a steep incline with a grown woman over her shoulder was difficult even for her.

“Put me down, I’ll go-I’ll go!”

Dixon lowered her to the metal bridge’s surface, and then gave her a shove. Vail made it through the fence and continued across East Road, following Burden up the sidewalk they had come down earlier, toward the landing pad/cistern and cellhouse.

“Did you reach someone on the dock?” Vail asked.

“They found a valve and opened it up. Whether it’s too little, too late-”

The explosion was concussive, an eardrum-pounding blast that shook the bedrock and sent the three of them sprawling to the ground. Vail lifted her head and saw, through the dusty fog, daylight showing through the left portion of the Powerhouse. From what she could see, the remainder of the island was largely intact.

As they glanced around, surveying the damage, Dixon gave Vail’s shoulder a shove. “That was brilliant. Brilliant, but incredibly stupid.”

“Thanks, Roxx. I think.”

Carondolet and Yeung came running down the sidewalk toward them, sidearms and cell phones in hand.

“You all right?” Yeung asked.

“We’re fine,” Vail said as they got to their feet. “Everyone safe?”

“Scheer’s obviously toast-uh, literally. Everyone else seems okay. We’ve got a fire running the length of the pipe,” he said, gesturing to the east side of the island.

Flames licked skyward from behind the foliage and brush along the coastline, extending past the vacant Officer’s Club, and beyond.

“Backup saw the explosion and called the Coast Guard. We’re heading down to the dock to help with deployment.”

“If we’ve got service,” Burden said, “we’ll keep you posted.”

The two men moved off. And Vail, Burden, and Dixon looked at one another. Now what?

They didn’t have to ponder that too long, as another text arrived:

Probly confused abowt nowe

you weakish speller;-)

i can see clearly now

im on top of the world

“What’s the deal with the misspelled words?” Vail asked.

“Who cares about-”

“No, Roxx-it’s significant. He did this once before, in the-”

“That manifesto,” Burden said. He pointed at her BlackBerry. “You have it on there?”

“I got it,” Dixon said. She brought it up on her iPhone, and Burden and Vail crowded around the small screen.

Burden reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pad and pen, then began scribbling. “Shit…” he whispered. And then his face went ashen, his skin instantly pimpled in sweat.

“What’s wrong?” Vail asked, reexamining the document.

“This sentence. It’s an anagram, a classic example. And I missed it.”

“What sentence?” she said firmly.

Burden jabbed a finger at the screen. “He wrote, ‘I am a weakish speller.’ And then he just wrote it again. Do you see it?”

“I’ve played enough word games, Burden. Just tell me.”

“Puzzles, right? I do number puzzles, but I started out doing word pattern games. Palindromes, metonyms, pangrams, all that shit. But I got bored with them, and then a buddy turned me on to Sudoku. I didn’t get those clues before because they were cryptic riddles. But this one was so goddamn simple, I should’ve gotten it. It was right in front of my eyes. ‘I am a weakish speller’ is a classic anagram. Rearrange the letters and you get William Shakespeare.”

“So?” Dixon asked. “What’s Shakespeare got to do with this? The answer’s in one of his plays?”

“No,” Vail said, “maybe he left other anagrams or word patterns for us. And we missed them.” She wiggled her fingers at the pad. “Let me see that.”

“Give me your BlackBerry,” Dixon said. “I’ll pull up all those texts he sent us.”

Vail handed it over and started writing down possible clues from memory. “No, this isn’t right.” She looked at the phone in Dixon’s hands. “It’d be something more significant. The ‘weakish speller’ thing was aimed at you, Burden. To clue us in, a slap in the face to pay attention. But it wasn’t the answer. And I don’t think the answer’s in those messages he sent us. Maybe…”

Burden looked at the pad, then the BlackBerry. “Maybe what?”

Vail wrote on her pad, Walton MacNally. “MacNally’s our prime suspect-with Scheer dead, our only suspect. What if…” She started drawing slashes across the name and writing something below it. But then she stopped. “Doesn’t work. Not enough letters.”

“What doesn’t work?” Dixon asked. “What are you thinking?”

Burden brought a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my god.”

Vail looked at him. “If you’ve got something-”

“Yeah, I’ve got something. It’s been there, right under our noses.” Burden kicked at a rock and sent it skidding down the sidewalk. “Son of a bitch! For me. It was meant for me.”

He turned away from them, but Vail grabbed his shirt. “Burden, so help me god. Tell us what you’re talking about or I’m gonna wring your neck.”

Staring into the fog’s suffocating cover of homogeneity, he said, “I know who the killer is.”