Inmate 1577 (35 page)

“I’m calling Friedberg,” Vail said.
I have a feeling I know exactly what’s going on, and it ain’t good.
“Call your department, get every fucking cop mobilized in the city looking for his car. And see if they can get a fix on his cell signal.”

Seconds later, Vail gave up. “Went right to voicemail.”

Burden hung up, then began pacing. “All right, let’s clear our heads. Think this through. He was stopping at Verizon on the way in, to see about those text messages Scheer got.” He looked over at the reporter, who was standing a few paces from Allman, beyond the crime scene tape.

“We know what’s going on,” Vail said. “Our UNSUB’s got Friedberg.”

“Let me get this straight,” Carondolet said. “The killer’s got an SFPD Inspector?”

“You got it,” Dixon said. To Burden: “Call Verizon and see if he made it there, and if he did, what time he left.”

Burden pulled out his phone and made the call.

A text hit Vail’s BlackBerry. She still had the device in her palm when it began vibrating. She rotated her hand and read the message. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Dixon asked.

Vail showed her the display.

lotsa bodies werent motivation enuf
need one of ur own on the line
want to know what this is all about
pay attention u have ten mins
think history
ur answers in the place where
violence and sleep come under watchful eyes

Burden ended his call abruptly and joined the huddle. His brow hardened. “What the hell does it mean?”

“You’re the puzzle guy.”

“Sudoku,” Burden said. “Numbers. Not goddamn riddles.”

Dixon stepped to the left and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Clay! Bring your colleague over here. Now.”

“What are you doing?” Vail asked.

“We’ve got two guys fifty feet away who ply their trade using words,” Dixon said. “And they also happen to know the city inside and out. Got nothing to lose by using their brain power. Friedberg’s life’s on the line—do we really care what the press knows?”

“Worry about it later,” Burden said.

“Exactly.”

“You’re bringing two reporters into the crime scene?” Carondolet said. “Are you crazy?”

Allman and Scheer slipped under the tape and ran through the parking lot.

“What’s going on?” Allman asked as he approached.

“Let’s also see if we can get a fix on those texts,” Vail said. “One was from Friedberg’s but the other was from a different handset. I’ll send you the number. See what they can do with it. Every carrier’s different, but even if they can’t localize it better than a few miles, we’ll at least know if he’s in the city.”

“Got it,” Burden said. He started to make the call.

“So here’s the deal,” Vail said to Allman and Scheer as she played with her BlackBerry keypad to send the phone number to Burden. “Killer’s got Inspector Friedberg. He just used Friedberg’s phone—and then what I’m guessing is a disposable—to send us messages.”

Scheer and Allman both reached for their pads.

“Fuck the story,” Burden said, rotating the phone away from his mouth. “We need your help. He sent us a riddle.”

“Is this on or off the record?” Scheer asked.

Carondolet shook his head “I can’t believe you’re involving these guys.”

“Don’t make us sorry we brought you over here,” Dixon said to Scheer. “Put that shit away. And don’t ask again.”

Both journalists reluctantly shoved their pads and pens into their jackets.

“How can we help?” Allman asked.

Vail stole a look at her BlackBerry, “The text says, ‘Think history. Your answer’s in the place where violence and sleep come under watchful eyes.”

“Isn’t Friedberg the historian?” Scheer asked.

Vail’s gaze flicked over to Father Finelli, then back to Scheer. “That’s right, dipshit. And he’s not here. So what does it mean? Any thoughts?”

No one answered, as all stared off in various directions, working it through.

“What kind of place comes under watchful eyes?” Vail asked.

“A police department,” Burden said.

“Surveillance would qualify as watchful eyes,” Allman said.

Dixon snapped her fingers. “So that’d bring us back to law enforcement. A stakeout. Violence, sleep.”

“Hopefully little of each,” Burden said. “But what do we do with that? Too general.”

Scheer looked up. “Wait a minute. I wrote something like that once. In one of my features, years ago. Something about violence and sleep and watchful eyes.”

Vail stepped forward. “Are you saying this text is a quote from your article?”

Scheer bit his lip, his eyes moving left, right, up and down as he thought. “I can’t remember. Something like that.”

Burden combed through his hair with his fingers. “C’mon, man. We’ve only got eight minutes. Think.”

“I am thinking,” Scheer said slowly, emphasizing each word. “I just—it was a long time ago. It seems like it’s... Yeah, that’s what I wrote. Close.”

“We know the UNSUB’s from around here,” Dixon said. “And if this is the guy who’s killed repeatedly in the Bay Area, as Clay thinks, then he’s likely followed all the newspaper articles on murders and violent crime in the city. Maybe he saw Scheer’s article.”

“What was it about?” Vail asked.

“A bank robbery,” Scheer said. “The robber shot and killed a security guard.”

“What’s sleep got to do with it?”

“The guard had fallen asleep in a back room where they had the surveillance cameras. The gunshot woke him up and he hit the silent alarm, but it was too late. They got away.” Scheer rubbed a hand across his cheek, then continued. “The long delay between the robbers entering the bank and the trip of the alarm was a big problem. The FBI investigated the guard. Like, maybe it was an inside job. They leaned on him pretty hard. He finally admitted he’d fallen asleep. And that was that. No inside job, just—gross incompetence. And they never caught the robbers.” He shrugged. “So, whether it’s an exact quote or not, violence and sleep came under watchful eyes.”

There was quiet. Finally, Vail said, “That’s not exciting me.”

“Me either,” Burden said. “Clay, you got anything?”

“I’m thinking.”

Dixon checked her watch. “Think faster. We’ve only got five minutes.”

“Fuck me,” Burden said, kicking a rock into the slate wall. “How the hell can we figure this shit out under pressure?”

“A sleep lab,” Allman said. “You know, they hook you up to sensors so they can diagnose sleep disorders. Sleep under watchful eyes.”

“No violence,” Dixon said.

“The bank’s not far away,” Scheer said. “A few blocks. Maybe we should go check it out. We can think on the way.”

“I’m with Karen here,” Allman said. “I think that’s a waste of time.”

Burden worked his jaw, then said, “We’ve got four minutes left. Let’s go. If we think of something better on the way, nothing lost.”

“You coming?” Vail asked Carondolet.

“I’ll finish with this DB, you go on ahead and...solve your riddle.”

They ran to Burden’s car and piled in. “Where we going?”

Scheer leaned forward in his seat. “Corner of—” He put his head down.

“Scheer,” Burden yelled. “Now’s not the time to have a brain fart.”

“Presidio and Sacramento. Yeah, that’s it—”

Burden accelerated and spun rubber, then the Taurus rocketed forward, briefly losing grip in its rear wheels on a slick surface before once again grabbing pavement and jolting them on their way. Burden hung a sharp left onto Jackson Street as Vail slapped the flashing light atop the car. “We should be there right at the deadline. Anyone else got any better ideas?”

Vail tried to concentrate, but watching Burden swerve his way down Jackson, she found it hard to think about anything other than surviving the ride. She did not want to close her eyes—but that was the only way she could get her mind to focus.

How’s the offender gonna react if we’re wrong? How will he know? He gave us a ten-minute window to find this place. Wherever it was he wanted us to go, he knew where we were starting out. It had to be in a ten-minute radius. In a city, what is that? A mile?
“Not sure this helps, but the place he sent us had to be in a ten-minute radius of Inspiration Point.”

“It doesn’t help,” Allman said. “That’s a shitload of potential places in a city like this.”

“It’s the bank,” Scheer said. “Has to be.”

“Wish I could be so sure,” Burden said under his breath. He screeched the Ford to a stop in front of Sutter Savings Bank. They jumped out and headed toward the corner building.

“Now what?” Dixon asked, rotating her body in a circle.

Vail stood back and took in the entire location. “No idea. Look around. Anything that seems like it might be meant for us—”

“I’m going in,” Burden said. He pushed through the front doors. Dixon followed, leaving Vail with the two journalists.

“See anything?”

“No,” Scheer said. He looked over at Allman and pointed an index finger. “Don’t give me that.”

Allman spread his arms. “Give you what?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“The only reason you know what I’m thinking, Stephen, is because I already told you this was a waste of time.”

“You didn’t offer anything better. So just—just shut the fuck up.”

Allman shook his head, then waved a hand. “Whatever.”

Scheer walked off, down the block.

Maybe involving these guys wasn’t such a great idea.
Vail headed into the bank and locked gazes with Dixon and Burden, who shook their heads. A man in a suit standing with them looked puzzled by all the attention, while several customers at the teller window looked on with concern.

“We got nothing,” Burden said.

Vail’s phone vibrated.
I don’t want to look.
She pulled it from her belt. Dixon and Burden huddled around her.

no nono
ur friends life depends on it but ur clueless
those intended to heal
may give life but drown truth
cant sink or swim can float
mission st
clocks ticking
figure it out or im done with you

“No.” Burden shook his head. “I’m done playing games.”

“Burden,” Vail said in a low voice. “We talked about this. Psychopaths get off on feeling superior. And they get bored easily. This is a game to him, to prove to us—and to himself—how much smarter he is. By tricking us, he’s able to gloat. It builds him up and knocks us down. At the same time, we’ve gotta make some headway in these clues to hold his interest. If we don’t prove a worthy challenge, we’ll lose him. And if we lose contact with him, we lose any shot at finding Robert.”

“C’mon,” Dixon said, then led the way outside.

Burden slammed the door with his hands and it flew open. He let it swing closed behind him, nearly striking Vail in the face. “Asshole better realize I’m losing patience, too.”

“What’s on Mission?” Vail asked.

Allman and Scheer came jogging over from opposite directions.

Burden threw open his car door. “Lots of things are on Mission.”

“Let’s take a minute, break it down.”

“We get another message?” Allman asked.

Vail held it up for the two reporters to read.

“What’s ‘intended to heal’?” Dixon asked. “A medical clinic? A doctor? Surgeon? Acupuncturist? Chiropractor?”

Burden shook his head. “Probably all of that on Mission. It’s a long freaking street. You’ve got businesses, seedy areas, banks, office buildings, a BART station—”

“Then let’s go to the next clue,” Vail said. “May give life but drown truth. Doctors give life. We’re back to doctors.”

“God gives life,” Allman said. “Strictly speaking. If you’re a religious sort.”

“A church?” Dixon asked. “Doesn’t fit with drowning the truth.”

“Now there’s a whole other philosophical question,” Allman said.

“Hell with philosophy,” Burden said. “Forget religion. None of that fits. Read the rest. What’s it say? Can’t sink or swim, but you can float?”

“A bath tub,” Scheer said. “Too small to sink or swim in. But you can float.”

Burden gave him a dirty look.

“Hey, I was wrong about the bank. I get that. But what do you want from me? I’m just trying to help.”

Vail held up a hand. “Let’s go with that.” She checked her watch. How much time they had left, she had no idea. “A mud bath. You can’t sink, you can’t swim in it, but you can float in it.”

“No mud baths around here that I know of,” Dixon said. “Back home in Calistoga, but nothing here in the city. You guys know of any?”

Allman, Burden and Scheer shook their heads.

“Wait a minute,” Dixon said. “Float. You can’t sink in a flotation tank. And you can’t swim in it, but you do float because of the salts.”

“Come again?” Vail said.

“Alternative medicine clinics. There are a couple on Mission, I think. They put you in sensory deprivation tanks. You float in heavily salted water for hours.”

Vail shuddered while thumbing her BlackBerry. “That would definitely creep me out. Why would someone want to do that?”

“Didn’t the
Trib
do a story on that once?” Burden asked.

“A few years back,” Allman said. “When that sort of thing was big.”

Dixon held up her iPhone. “It’s supposed to reduce the levels of stress hormones in the body, according to Wikipedia.”

“There’s the medical angle,” Vail said.

Dixon tapped and scrolled. “We’ve got one on Mission. SDL Incorporated—Sensory Deprivation Lab, 2944 Mission.”

“Let’s go.” Burden got into the car, twisted the key and turned over the engine.

SENSORY DEPRIVATION LAB’S FACILITY STOOD in a nondescript brick building that looked like it had been a remnant from decades past. They entered through worn wood doors and consulted a posted sign that directed them to Suite 201.

Vail held out a hand. “Why don’t you two wait down here.”

Allman tilted his head. “But—”

“There’s no reason for you to come up. This is still an investigation. If we’re on the right track, we’ll let you know. If not, we’ll be back down in a couple minutes because we—and Inspector Friedberg—will be in deep shit.”

Neither Allman nor Scheer appeared pleased with this arrangement—or they were not happy with the prospect of having to keep one another company while they waited.