Alan Jacobson: Inmate 1577

You framed Scheer. And you ran us ragged because you knew we couldn’t help ourselves. Texting us right under our noses, a dozen, two dozen feet away. Fuck you, asshole. She wanted to say that-but held her tongue. Instead, she pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “I have to give it to you Clay, you got us good. Even faked your own death. That was particularly astute-for a kid, that’s impressive.” Actually, it’s goddamn scary.

“I still remember that day, when I figured it out. What an awesome feeling, to know I could set things in motion and then observe the cause and effect. That’s when I realized the power of the media. I could make people do things, lots of people, all by myself. So I acted distraught for a few days. Didn’t talk to anyone. Then I told a couple kids I was gonna jump off the bridge, where and how. Then that night I snuck out of the orphanage, and waited. They went ape-shit looking for me. They finally must’ve questioned those kids, because they swarmed the bridge and the water. Pretty funny to watch.”

“I don’t think they found it funny,” Vail said.

Allman contorted his face as if she had just spoken gibberish. “They didn’t give a shit about me. I was a bastard of a kid, no one liked me. But people did come. I watched what happened, how the cops showed up, how the reporters came, too, scribbling on their notepads, taking photos. And the article in the newspaper the next day. The town, coming out and laying flowers on the bridge. The power! What a fucking rush. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Vail nodded. “Yeah, Clay. I get it.”

“Do you really? The media ruled. A journalist-he writes something and people believe it. Right? I mean, now we have the Internet and blogs and anybody can write shit and the idiots of this country think these ‘experts’ know what they’re talking about. But!” he said, raising the knife as if to make a point, “until a few years ago, the journalist-the real journalist-interpreted. Analyzed. Composed-and controlled the news.

“I knew then, back in 1963, that I could do what I wanted. I dreamed of working alongside the police and killing people-and laughing at the cops’ ignorance. And then to have the ability to legally return to the crime scenes and see everyone’s reaction, to objectively view my work-and then write about it afterwards for hundreds of thousands of people to read. How fucking awesome would that be?”

Allman held up the hand with the stiletto. “Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. Very awesome. It’s what I’ve lived for. It’s what’s kept me going, day after day, year after year…plotting, waiting, planning.” He grinned slyly. “But it turned out to be even better than I’d fantasized. Having drinks with the detectives the same night that I killed someone.” He chuckled and locked eyes with Burden. “And they had no fucking clue! No one would suspect me; I had the perfect cover.” He looked up at the sky. “I get goosebumps even now, just thinking about doing it again.”

Vail heard Burden’s shoes crunch against the roof’s loose gravel. She extended her left arm and held him back.

Allman canted his head in mock sympathy. “Sorry if that hurts your feelings, Birdie. You know how many times I walked into Homicide after murdering someone? And not one of you had a clue. You and I sat down over lunch an hour after I killed Billy Duncan in ’90. Remember that? When I told you I was late because I got tied up? I thought you’d key in on that when I sent the text at Inspiration Point about Friedberg. But you disappointed me. I thought you were a better detective than that.”

“That’s what happens when people we care about are involved,” Burden said, his voice tight, intense restraint evident. “We don’t think clearly. We don’t suspect those close to us because we don’t want to think they’re monsters.”

“Aww,” Allman said, tilting his head in mock sympathy. “I understand. But…actually, I don’t. I don’t know love. Or friendship. Or guilt. I realized a long time ago I’m not like other people-how they feel things, how they get hurt by things, how they love things. I know what they’re saying, but I don’t understand it.”

So true. The failings of a psychopath. No emotions other than periodic anger and rage.

“No emotional attachments, no bonds, with anyone.” Allman looked off for a second, as if pondering his own self. Then he turned back to Vail.

“You can fake it, but you can’t feel it,” Vail said. “So why’d you do it? Why kill all these people, Clay? Or should I call you Henry?”

A loud banging noise-from behind Allman.

“What’s that?” Burden asked.

Allman looked over his shoulder, behind the large skylight several feet behind him. “Oh, someone’s awake. Let me show you.”

Vail raised her Glock, but Allman did the same as he backed away.

“I’ve got someone here you’re gonna want to meet.”

Vail, Dixon, and Burden shared a quick glance.

Another officer? Another con…or another…con?

Allman reached behind the skylight, grabbed hold of something, and dragged a man toward him, in front of the outcropping. His hands were fastened behind him and his mouth was stuffed with a rag.

Allman grasped the end of the duct tape and yanked it off his mouth, pulling out the gag.

The elderly man moaned.

Using the stiletto, Allman sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. “Hey, gang. I want you to meet my father. Walton MacNally.”

Of course.

MacNally rolled to his knees, then, unsteadily, stood up and faced his son. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why? Why?” Allman tilted his head, as if MacNally was a child who could not understand that which should have been a simple concept. “All these years, I’ve been showing you what you haven’t had the guts to do. I was showing you how to be a fucking man.”

MacNally squinted anger; his face reddened.

“But you haven’t been paying attention,” Allman shouted. “Have you? Have you been following it in the newspapers? I sent you all the articles!”

MacNally blinked and recoiled his head at Allman’s raised voice. “I didn’t-I didn’t know who they were from,” he said quickly. “It didn’t have your name on them. I didn’t understand.”

“Then you’re as stupid as the people who imprisoned you. As stupid as the cops who were my best buddies while they were investigating-and I was writing about-the people I’d just killed.”

MacNally shook his head, as if doing so would jar something and bring things into focus. “I don’t think as well as I used to-my brains were scrambled, I’m-”

“Pathetic, that’s what you are,” Allman said. “If you were a real man, you’d have taken care of all these jerkoffs yourself. They wronged you, they abused you. They beat you, they threw you in a goddamn sensory deprivation cell and drained your soul. Total darkness, never seeing the sun, twenty-four hours a day. Day, after day, after day.”

“And how would you know about that, Clay?” Burden asked.

“I read the goddamn books. All of ’em. And I’ve watched the interviews with the guards and the cons. And I read the warden’s records in the San Bruno Archives. It’s all spelled out there in detail. What a fucking wimp my father was. What an embarrassment.” He turned back to MacNally. “But what did I expect? If you’d been a man when I was young, you wouldn’t have ended up in jail on some stupid plan to rob banks. Banks! What a pathetic excuse you were for a father. You couldn’t even do that right.”