details? Just that Russell and Irene Ilg were found murdered. Nothing about the Cliff House cave, nothing about the brutal torture.”
“You’re assuming your buddy would do that. But besides that, it could piss off the offender, frustrate him,” Vail said. “And if he’s leaving clues for us that we’re not getting, that could make things worse. But like I said before, it could also force him to contact us somehow, set us straight by leaving more clues. Like bread crumbs.”
Friedberg turned around. Allman was approaching.
His face was taut and his lips thin. “I’ve seen a lot of violent shit over the years. But… Jesus Christ, Birdie. What the hell was that?” He turned to Vail.
Burden shook his head slowly. “No fucking idea.”
Allman swung his gaze back to Burden. “Really?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Really.”
Vail held up a hand. “I wouldn’t say that-”
“Well that’s what I’m saying.” Burden’s slumped shoulders spoke louder than his words.
“So can I print that?” Allman asked.
“What do you think?” Friedberg almost yelled. “No, you can’t print that.”
Burden glanced at his friend and gave a slight head shake.
“Birdie. I’m a reporter, remember? We sell newspapers. I write the stories that go in those papers. Give me something I can use.”
Vail turned to Burden. “We need to do it right, in a controlled way, saying what we want it to say.”
“What’s she talking about?” Allman asked.
Burden looked off at the townhouses in front of him. “Fine. Use this: ‘SFPD is investigating the death of a San Francisco woman that appears to involve foul play.’ Good?”
“The idea is to sell newspapers, not bore people to death. That totally sucks.”
“Hey, what can I say? I’m a homicide inspector, not a writer.”
“You sure I can’t use the ‘No fucking idea’ comment? Don’t worry, I’ll leave out the expletive.”
Burden looked at him.
Allman turned away. “How about you give me something, I give you something.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vail asked. “You know something, you’d better not hold out on us.”
“Or what, you’ll have me arrested for obstructing an investigation, and then we get to play a little constitutional game of chess?”
Vail took a step toward Allman, but Burden placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a slight push back.
“We already gave you something,” Vail said. “Access. Remember?”
“What do you have in mind?” Burden asked.
Vail shrugged off the inspector’s hand. “This is not a negotiation, Burden. Besides, he’s bluffing.”
Allman ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. After a moment, he said, “Killer from past returns to haunt city. That’d be the headline. Assuming my editor approves.”
“What killer from the past?” Vail asked.
“Shouldn’t you be telling me?” Allman said. “You’re the crack profiler.”
“And that shows how little you know about what I do, Mr. Crack Reporter. I’m interested in analyzing behaviors a killer engages in with his victims. I’m not a repository of the names of all the killers who’ve ever murdered someone in every city in the world. So. Who’s this killer of the past?”
Allman turned to Burden. “He was never caught. But I saw something in there that reminded me of him. I think it’s the same guy.”
“You’ve got our attention,” Vail said. “Go on.”
“Uh uh,” Allman said with a smirk. “Help me, I’ll help you.”
Vail wanted to plant the bit with the symbolism, but realized they might be able to get more in return if she played it right. She frowned, then turned. “C’mon, Burden. We’ve got a lot to do and we’re wasting time.”
“I’ll have to clear this with my lieutenant,” Burden said. “But you can include the vic’s husband. We found him a little while ago.”
Allman pulled out a pad. “Where?”
“No, no, no. I gave you something. Now…” Burden said, flexing his fingers in front of Allman.
“Fine.” Allman bent down and picked up his messenger bag that was lying on the sidewalk. “There’s a key in the vic’s bedroom.”
Vail blurted a laugh. “A key. Thanks for the tip.” She started to turn away.
“A key,” Allman repeated. “It’s a weird shape, doesn’t fit any of the locks in the house, and it’s not a car key. And, according to Jackson in there, it was not used to inflict injury on Mrs. Ilg. The key’s clean. No blood on it.”
“Meaning?” Friedberg asked.
“Meaning,” Allman said, “the key has no overt purpose for being there. And I believe Agent Vail can tell you that means it has relevance to the killer’s behavior. Isn’t that right, Agent Vail?”
Vail turned back. “Potentially. What kind of key is it? Where was it found?”
Allman held up two fingers about three inches apart. “Brass. Big and wide. It looks old, because the brass is tarnished, but it’s not worn. I don’t know if it’s significant, but something’s been filed off the top. It was on the dresser across from Mrs. Ilg’s body.”
“I saw that,” Friedberg said. “I thought it was just a key.”
“And this ties in to a prior murder, how?” Vail asked.
“Back in ’82,” Burden said. “A key like Clay’s describing was found at the crime scene of a male who’d been murdered, his body dumped in San Bruno, outside the federal building.”
Vail tilted her head. “San Bruno-I’ve seen that. On a sign, I think. Where is it?”
“Near SFO,” Friedberg said. “San Mateo County. Ever hear of Keith Hernandez, the baseball player?”
“Wasn’t he on Seinfeld a couple of times?” Vail
