“Based on the bruising and capillary bleeding, I’d have to say he raped her first, then sodomized her, then he kicked her, then he burned and shocked her with the wires.”
“Jesus Christ,” Burden mumbled. “This guy…when we catch him…if there ever was a guy who could serve as the poster child for the death penalty, this one’d be it.”
Vail could not pull her eyes from the corpse. “Couldn’t have put it better, Burden.”
The three of them stood there a moment before the inspector’s cell phone began vibrating. He answered it, listened, and then said, “We’ll be right there.” He hung up and turned to Vail. “My partner found the husband.”
9
Walton MacNally felt the glass door behind him close, springing against his buttocks. It nudged him forward, as if it were the survival portion of his brain urging him on, telling him that if he did not complete this act, he and his son would go without food.
Could it really be that simple? Was the money in Township Community Savings there for his taking?
Yes. Sometimes society provided for those who were less fortunate. Wasn’t that in the Bible? It had to be. It made so much sense.
MacNally let his eyes roam around the bank’s interior. Women with reading glasses perched on their noses and coifed beehive hairstyles counted money, stamped slips, and chatted politely with their customers. It was a small institution, with wooden desks to his right and doors along the far wall ahead of him.
MacNally walked in slowly, glancing around, looking for security guards. Were they armed? He had no idea. He realized now that he had not thought this through very well. He had been so focused on how he would get away-and preparing Henry for driving the car-that he hadn’t devoted any time to figuring out how he would even get the money. Could he merely go up and demand it? Can it be that simple?
He walked over to a desk that stood thirty feet from the wall of tellers. The nameplate read G. Yaeger, but Mr. or Mrs. Yaeger was apparently on a break at the moment. Next to a blotter that sported messages and notes along its edges sat a flyer that read, Introducing New Rates for 1958, with the text below urging customers to place their money in a certificate of deposit. At the edge of the blotter in front of him lay a gold Cross ballpoint pen. He picked it up, turned the advertisement over, and scrawled, in nervous caps:
THIS BANK IS BEING ROBBED. I DON’T WANT TO SHOOT ANYONE BUT I WILL IF I HAVE TO. PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN A BAG. DO IT QUICKLY AND DON’T SAY A WORD.
MacNally looked around again. There-about a hundred feet away, an overweight man with graying hair wearing a uniform and octagonal cap stood near the end of the line of tellers. His head was down, reading what appeared to be a newspaper. From this angle, MacNally couldn’t tell if he had a sidearm.
He turned back to his note and reread it. The threat of shooting them was good. MacNally did not have a gun-he had never even held one-but the woman with the money didn’t know that. Still, to “sell it,” he had to convince her with the look on his face. Anger was the key. He needed to channel the pain he felt most nights as he lay awake in bed picturing his wife lying on the floor of his home, murdered. He closed his eyes and thought of the man who had killed her, who had turned his life upside down.
His heart raced. Perspiration prickled his scalp.
He really did not want to do this. He had never taken anything from anyone that didn’t belong to him. Yet so much had been taken from him, and Henry, what was a little money? Money was replaceable. Doris was not.
But they needed food and shelter, and MacNally had to take care of it. He didn’t see a choice.
He opened his eyes, tightened his lips, tensed his hands.
MacNally scooped up the note and marched over toward the other customers and took his place in line. As he stood there waiting, he realized he didn’t have anything to wrap across his face. Did that matter? He was going to leave town right away. Still… He should’ve thought of this. What if the teller described him to police?
His eyes darted around for something-a hat, a kerchief, anything that would cover all or a portion of his face.
“Next,” called a smiling woman in her late fifties. She was ten feet away. All he had to do was hand over the note.
MacNally clenched his jaw, put his head down, and walked forward.
10
Burden pulled his gray Ford Taurus into the parking lot that served the Exploratorium and Palace of Fine Arts entrance. Vail swung her legs out of the car and rose, then craned her head skyward. Ahead of her were groupings of thick, Corinthian columns that stretched more than thirty feet into the sky.
“What is this place?”
“The Palace of Fine Arts. Part of an exposition the city had in 1915.”
Vail knew that voice. She turned and saw a man in a black overcoat sporting a crew cut, a Marlboro dangling from his lips. “Inspector…Friedberg, right?”
The man grinned and approached with his right hand extended.
Vail took it and shook. “My personal historian.”
Burden came around the vehicle. “You two know each other?”
“I was out here a couple of months ago on another case. Friedberg helped out on a cold case of his.”
“More like frozen. And she cleared it for me. Ain’t that a goddamn kick?” He pulled the cigarette out and expelled a wisp of smoke from the side of his mouth. “A dozen years working the case, I got a big goose egg. Then she blows into town and in a week, she solves it.”
“The task force solved it,” Vail said. “I was just part of the team. But let’s hope we clear this one just as fast.”
“Speaking of which,” Burden said, “what’s the deal with the husband? Where is he?”
“Follow me.” Friedberg led the way through the path between the two large stands of columns.
“You said this place was the Palace of…what?”
“Fine Arts,” Friedberg said.
“What’s it for?” Vail asked. “And don’t say ‘fine arts,’ or I’ll have to kick you where it hurts.”
Friedberg glanced at her over his shoulder. “The way you say it, I think you’re capable of doing just that.”
“Ten of these buildings were built to celebrate the rebirth of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake. They weren’t supposed to be up more than a year, so they made ’em out of wood, plaster, and burlap. But people really liked them. I mean, they were freaking gorgeous, right? So they raised money and
