Alan Jacobson: Inmate 1577

Jesus Christ, hurry the hell up!

She grabbed a brown bag that was pushed to the side, removed a container, an apple, and a bottle of Coke. She stuffed the money into the sack, which was bulging from being so full, and attempted to roll the top closed.

“That’s good,” MacNally said. Glance at the guard. He was headed toward him. “Give it to me.”

He snatched it, then took a breath to relax. He didn’t want to look guilty, but he needed to get the hell out of there before Mrs. Wilson flagged the approaching man.

In five long strides MacNally reached the glass door. He pushed through, then continued to the curb, where Henry was sitting and the Chevy was idling. MacNally got in, Henry pressed the accelerator, and the heavy car swiftly left the curb.

Lacking skill, Henry hung a right faster than he was able to control. The rear of the sluggish vehicle swung wide, but he recovered control and seconds later they were speeding down the side street.

MacNally tore open a seam in the bag. “Whoo-hoo! We did it, son.”

“Did we get enough?”

MacNally flipped through the combination of used and new bills, watching the twenties and hundreds as they fluttered by his eyes. “I…I don’t know. Must be like a thousand. Something like that.”

“A thousand dollars ?” Henry asked, turning to steal a glimpse of the money in the remaining strains of twilight.

“Hey, hey,” MacNally said, pointing at the road ahead of them. “Keep your eyes where I taught you.” He shoved the bills back in the bag, then leaned back. “Yes, son. Dollars. Lots of dollars.”

Vail shook her head. “Inspector, forgive me if this is a dumb question. But why the hell didn’t you tell us he was dead?”

Friedberg squished his Marlboro against the outsized cement brick that made up the adjacent wall of the rotunda. “You didn’t ask.”

“It’s not you,” Burden said to Vail. “He sometimes gets like this.”

“I forgot. You like puzzles. Guess you and Robert were made for each other.”

“It does help,” Burden said. He followed Friedberg, who was climbing a semicircular set of stairs that led to the column to which Mr. Anderson was fastened.

“Scene’s yours,” said an SFPD officer as he pushed away from the fifteen-foot concrete urn that he was leaning against. “ME’s en route.”

Behind them, the CSI set down his kit, then brought a Nikon DSLR to his face and began fiddling with the lens.

Vail looked up at the body. “COD?”

“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Friedberg said. “Maybe kicked. But as to what actually killed him, there are bruises on his neck. I’d guess asphyxiation.”

“How’d you find him?” Burden asked.

“One of the ice cream vendors saw him. As he got closer, he realized the guy wasn’t moving. And he was, well, he looked kind of awkward just standing there like this.”

Yeah, no shit.

Mr. Anderson’s back was pressed upright against the square face of the column’s base, his shoulders pinned back and his head erect. His right knee was slightly bent, but the left was locked straight.

Burden took a couple steps closer. “Is that-yeah, he’s tied up with fishing line. Significance to that?”

“Too soon to speculate if there’s a psychological component,” Vail said. “Obvious first thought is that he didn’t want anyone to see the bindings. He wanted it to look like the vic was just standing here.”

“And why would that be?”

Vail shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe he liked the way it looked. Who knows…it could be significant, could mean nothing. If you’re going to tie someone to a pole, or a column, the first thing you reach for is not gonna be fishing line. So, yeah, common sense says there might be something behind that. What it is, we don’t know. Yet.” She turned her body and took in the scene from their elevated perch. “Nice view up here.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Burden asked.

“I’m serious. The view, that could be significant, too. For now, we note it. Could just be that he was posing the vic and this seemed to be an intriguing spot to place him.”

The CSI had taken all his photographs from ground level, and had now joined them near the body. “Did you see the drag marks?” He shifted the camera to his shoulder and shook Vail’s hand. “Jackson. Rex.”

“Vail. Karen. What drag marks?”

“Here, and down there.” He pointed at two streaks in the disturbed loose dirt that lay atop the cement. He then led them to the steps they had climbed. Pointed. “See?”

Vail tilted her head. “Yeah. So he dragged the body.” She walked back over to Mr. Anderson and looked up at it. “How much you think he weighs?”

“He’s an old guy,” Friedberg said. “And only about five-five. I’m guessing he’s 135.”

Burden nodded. “Seems about right. So, fireman’s carry, over the shoulder. Not that big a deal to get him up here. Not the easiest thing in the world. But not impossible.”

“Hold that thought a minute,” Friedberg said. He pointed to something lying behind the column. “Rope.”

Jackson had finished placing markers and a ruler beside, and then shooting photos of, the drag marks. He joined Friedberg, snapped pictures of the coil of yellow rope, and then the inspector gathered it up in gloved hands and examined it.

“Looks like the kind used for climbing, or search-and-rescue,” Jackson said. “Braided nylon sheath, probably over a nylon strand core. And it’s frayed.” He looked around and said, “If you’re going to use a rope, you need a pulley-type system. Or an anchor.”

A moment later, Burden knelt in front of the massive concrete pot. “I think I found that pulley.”

Jackson shot photos of the lower portion of the urn, which was round, slightly ridged, and narrow at its base. “I’m guessing these yellow particles here are nylon fragments.”

They looked at the rope, then at the colored specks dotting the rough surface of the pedestal.

“So,” Friedberg said, “the UNSUB wrapped the rope around this thing and pulled the body up from below. Then what about the drag marks?”

“Sometimes we see what we want to see,” Vail said. “And sometimes we don’t have all the answers to reach a valid conclusion.”

“Right,” Jackson said. “Maybe they’re not drag marks. Document and figure it out later.”

“Pretty ingenious, if that’s what he did,” Burden said.

“Given the type of rope he used,” Friedberg said, “any chance this guy’s a mountain climber?”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “There’s a chance. But I’d say a small one. Without other hobby-specific equipment, like those anchors Jackson mentioned, the kind climbers hammer into the rock face, or footprints from special types of climbing boots, I think we just have to look at this rope as, well, rope-sturdy, reinforced rope. The kind that’d help the offender accomplish his task.”

Vail stood there a moment working the scene through her mind. She swiveled a bit, looking around, then said, “From what I’m seeing here, it’s safe to conclude this offender planned the kill-and the location and positioning of the body. So if he scoped out the place, he’s been here more than once. Maybe someone saw him, a regular-you said an ice cream vendor found him. If the guy’s here a lot, maybe he saw someone looking around, doing things the typical tourist doesn’t do.” She swung back to Burden. “Cameras?”

“I’ll have to check on that. Maybe in the parking lot. Nothing in here, I don’t think.”

Vail stepped over to the body. A large number 37 was scrawled in black marker across the man’s forehead. “Any San Francisco relevance to the number 37?” Vail asked.