Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  And it suited me.

  At the far end of the room stood the door to the small, enclosed furnace room. Thick heat poured from the ceiling vents. I peeled off my long-sleeved t-shirt and attacked the bag, throwing combinations until my arms ached. Though usually I put something loud and propulsive on the CD player when I worked out, this time all I wanted to hear was the rasp of my own breathing and the slap of my taped, gloved hands against leather.

  Pounding the bag, again and again.

  Sometimes, I thought, you just have to hit something.

  ***

  At six thirty, after a second shower and another cup of black coffee, I padded over to the landline and called Angie at home. She answered after the fifth ring.

  “I got your message,” I said.

  “I figured that. But I didn’t expect to hear back from you so soon. Aren’t you on loan to the FBI?”

  “Boy, security’s tight as a drum at the department, isn’t it?”

  “Look, Danny, I have breakfast with the assistant chief at least once a week. He told me the FBI Director himself called and asked for you. Some retired profiler’s wigging out or something, right? And since Dr. Phil is busy, the bureau called you in.”

  “Jesus, Angie.”

  “Don’t get all indignant on me, okay? I haven’t even had my coffee yet. Besides, the assistant chief tells me everything. Maybe he has a thing for middle-aged Italian women with big asses. Anyway, thanks to him, I always hear the best gossip. Speaking of which, you wanna know how Stu Biegler and his wife’s marriage counseling sessions are going? From what I hear, they don’t need a therapist, they need a Fight Club referee.”

  Last summer, Lieutenant Biegler’s wife discovered he’d secretly fallen off the fidelity wagon. The couple had been warring about it ever since.

  “Fascinating, but you still haven’t told me why you called. In fact, I get the feeling you’re stalling.”

  “You have a suspicious mind, Danny. It’s not your most attractive quality.”

  “Uh-huh. So talk. Are you making a referral?”

  Her voice grew sober. “Yes I am. A woman about my age, who’s in a really bad way. She knew about you and called the department switchboard downtown, who routed her to me.”

  “Local woman?”

  “Not exactly.” Her tone shifted. Hedging again. “But close enough. I spoke with her yesterday, for almost an hour, and I think she needs serious help. She can’t eat, can’t sleep. Severe panic attacks. The works. Right up your alley, God help you.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Well, it didn’t exactly happen to her. It happened to a member of her family. In fact, it’s still happening. And she’s having a helluva time coping with it. You’ve gotta help her, Danny. Especially since it sounds like you’re not working with the FBI anymore.”

  “Not at the moment, no. I’m sorta on call.”

  “Fine. Let me phone the woman back and tell her you’ll see her today. She just got into town last night, staying in a motel not far from your office in Oakland. Just give me a time when you can see her and I’ll make sure she gets there.”

  “Wait a minute, Angie. I still don’t get it. She needs help because of something that’s happening with a family member?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who’s the family member? What’s happening?”

  She hesitated again. “It’s her son. He’s in jail. Under arrest for murder. And I don’t think this poor woman can cope with the stress anymore. I mean, she’s really on the edge.”

  “Damn it, Angie, who is she? What’s this all about?”

  “Her name’s Maggie Currim. Wesley Currim’s mother.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I don’t know why I said yes.

  Especially since there were so many reasons to say no. For one thing, I’d agreed to keep my schedule clear, so that I could respond at a moment’s notice if the FBI found Lyle Barnes. For another, I’d accompanied Wesley Currim and the Wheeling, West Virginia, police when he led them to the body of his victim. I’d stood right next to Wes as he casually, almost jokingly, displayed his gruesome handiwork, the mutilated remains of local businessman Ed Meachem. While this hardly constituted a clinical relationship, it did blur the boundaries a bit when it came to considering treating his mother.

  Not to mention my own personal feelings of revulsion and outrage at Wes Currim’s brutal actions. Could I keep these feelings in check enough to tend appropriately to his mother’s distress? To help her manage her own undoubtedly tortured, tumultuous emotions? At least this was what I imagined she was going through. I certainly couldn’t imagine anything else. Maggie Currim’s son was a monster.

  Which, in retrospect, was finally why I consented to seeing her. Like any parent would be, she was probably traumatized by the reality of what her son had done, as well as by terror at what presumably lay ahead for him. Life in prison, probably without hope of parole.

  Was it right, then, for me to turn my back on the woman because of the sins of her offspring?

  Though I did have one question left for Angie.

  “What makes you so interested in Mrs. Currim?” I asked her. “You work for the city. For the Pittsburgh police. The Meachem murder is Wheeling PD’s case. I assume that’s where she lives, right? There are plenty of therapists down there you could have put her in touch with.”

  “But not any that do what you do, Danny. Besides, it’s not my fault you’ve been all over the news for the past couple years. You want the fame, you take the blame.”

  “You know that’s never what I wanted.”

  “Sure, I know that. But it’s what you got.” Her tone softened again. “Truth is, I kept puttin’ myself in Maggie’s shoes the whole time we talked on the phone. How I’d feel if one of my kids did something like hers did.”

  We went back and forth a few more times, but we both knew I was going to see Maggie Currim. Our phone call ended with my agreement to meet her at my office at eleven.

  ***

  I’d just finished dressing when my cell rang. To my surprise, it was Special Agent Neal Alcott.

  “You awake, Rinaldi?”

  “More or less. I’m standing in my bedroom, adjusting my tie in the mirror. So I’m upright. Beyond that, it’s anybody’s guess. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Almost eight. So you got a couple hours’ sleep. Which is more than I can say.”

  “Any luck finding your runaway agent?”

  “None so far. I have my people—plus every uniform Pittsburgh PD can spare—checking the airport, bus terminals, and train station. We’re also combing through cab company records for the past twelve hours.”

  “Hotels, motels?”

  “What do you think? Though it’s unclear how much cash he has on him. We’ve frozen his credit cards, and have a GPS on his cell. No signal, so he probably tossed it.”

  Alcott suddenly sneezed, loudly. Definitely getting a cold. I waited while he discreetly blew his nose.

  “What about hospitals?” I said at last. “Free clinics, homeless shelters? Places that might take him in.”

  “Yeah, we thought of those, too.” A healthy sniff. “But there are so many just within city limits, let alone the county, it’ll take a while to check them all out.”

  I paused. “Funny, you’re talking about Barnes as though he were a suspect on the run. Correct me if I’m wrong, but he’s under no obligation to stay under FBI protection. I mean, as a free citizen, he can go anywhere he wants, right?”

  It was Alcott’s turn to pause.

  “Sure, officially speaking he’s a free man.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “He’s an uncooperative former government employee with a connection to an ongoing investigation.”

  “Plus, as you pointed out, if he does get killed while
on your watch…”

  “Screw you, Rinaldi. Ya know, my personal take on all this is that it was you who spooked him. If the director hadn’t insisted on bringing you in, making Barnes feel even more like some kinda nutcase than he already did, he might still be eating room service at the Marriott.”

  “Nice try, Neal. Now you wanna tell me why you called before I forget how to tie a Windsor?”

  Again, a pause. Longer this time. I could sense his annoyance, even embarrassment. Alcott needed something from me, and I could tell this was not a position the agent enjoyed finding himself in. Finally, he spoke.

  “We’ve got the rest of the other potential victims under wraps. At least we think so. The two cops who arrested John Jessup in Cleveland and held him until Barnes and his team picked him up. The jury foreman from the trial itself. And Jessup’s public defender.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah. Like you, we figure if the killer is blaming everyone he thinks is responsible for what happened to Jessup, the lawyer who failed to keep him out of jail is probably high on the list.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “It’s Claire Cobb. The Cleveland ADA who has the crush on you.”

  “Yeah, right. What about her?”

  “She’s scared shitless, that’s what. Plus, she doesn’t trust us. Doesn’t believe we’ll keep her safe. She wants to get a flight out of the country.”

  “Can’t say I blame her.”

  “Well, I can. I was told she’s a rising star in the Cleveland DA’s office. Does a bang-up job sending bad guys to jail. So all of a sudden she’s fallin’ apart?”

  “It happens, Neal. To the best of us. I remember the first time somebody took a shot at me. Takes a lot of air out of your tires, believe me.”

  “I don’t care. We need all the potential victims in one place. Or at least in safe houses within the tri-state area. So we can co-ordinate their protection. Keep the killer’s sphere of operation contained. You get me?”

  I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see it over the phone. “I get you, Neal. So what do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to her. You two made a connection, even I could see that. She’ll listen to you.”

  “You want me to convince her to stay in town?”

  “It’s crucial to the investigation. The director wants this case wrapped up fast, as in now. Before the story leaks—and it will, trust me. Thing is, we’re getting new forensics on the letters our guy sent to Jessup in prison. You know what those lab geeks can do nowadays. Plus there’s that witness from the Cranshaw shooting. With any luck, we can nail this crazy bastard in a couple more days.”

  “What if I can’t convince Claire to stay put?”

  A hollow laugh, tinny and mirthless coming through the cell’s speaker.

  “Then Ms. Cobb flies off to parts unknown, and we pray to God the killer doesn’t hack into the airline’s computer for her travel plans. This guy’s no dummy, Rinaldi.”

  “At least there we can agree.” I took a breath. “Okay, I’ll talk with her. Is she still at the Marriott?”

  “No. She insisted we move her to a Hilton downtown. I guess she figures it’s better to be a moving target. Who the hell knows with this one?”

  “Text me the Hilton address and I’ll be there around one thirty.”

  “Hey, you’re on call to us, Rinaldi. What if I needed you to come down now?”

  “Then you’d be shit outta luck.”

  I hung up.

  ***

  Two hours later, I drove down to the city from Mt. Washington into a clear, almost sparkling morning. The sun was a suffused blur, offering light without warmth. No new snow had fallen, though what had already piled up along the streets and lay in sheets upon the hills still remained. Frozen into place by an unrelenting, windless cold.

  I’d felt its greedy bite on my skin even on the short walk from my front door to my car. Once behind the wheel, it took a full five minutes for the Mustang’s engine to come to life. And even now, as I wove in and out of downtown traffic on my way to Oakland, the dashboard heater proved no match for what one weather forecaster called “a typical midwinter chill.”

  Chill, my ass. The Steel City was shivering under a cloak of icy, unrepentant cold, and her poor citizens were going to spend the day blowing warm breath into their chafed, cupped hands. As it had been during most Pittsburgh winters since I was a boy. As it would probably always be.

  I’d just put a Sonny Rollins CD into my dashboard deck when my cell rang again. It was Eleanor Lowrey, calling from the Old County Building. Police headquarters.

  “How’d the briefing go with Biegler and the assistant chief?” I remembered the meeting they’d set for nine.

  “Woulda gone better if Alcott hadn’t invited himself. And pretty much taken over.” Her voice was thick with fatigue. “Hell, we’re not even finished yet. Alcott called a seventh-inning stretch to take a call from the director. At least it gives me time to grab another coffee.”

  “I’m guessing you never got to go home last night.”

  “Nope. Which means Luthor’s probably looking for a new roommate by now.”

  Luthor was her Doberman.

  “You do sound beat to shit.”

  “Thanks. You sure know how to charm a lady. But at least I’m doing better than Harry. He almost nodded off right in the middle of the meeting.”

  “Feel up to giving me the broad strokes?”

  “Maybe I’m just sleepy, but that sounds kinda dirty.”

  “I was talking about the meeting, but I’m open to whatever you have in mind.”

  Somehow her chuckle was both wary and warm.

  “Just keep your mind on the road, and I’ll fill you in on what we have. In fact, maybe you oughtta pull over.”

  “Good idea.”

  It was. Though the roads were plowed, some of the older cobblestone streets were still slick enough to require more focus than I was giving them. Not to mention navigating the traffic on Liberty Avenue, a stop-and-start phalanx of angry commuters, hulking semis, and city buses.

  At the first available intersection, I made a right onto a side street and pulled to the curb. My wheels locked and I felt a slight shudder as the Mustang’s front fender made an impression on a low-slung wall of plowed snow.

  I cut the engine and put the cell to my ear.

  “Next time you talk to the mayor, tell him to make sure they salt the side roads, too.”

  “Sure. I’ll mention it at one of our weekly sleepovers. Now you want to hear what we have or not?”

  “You called me, Detective. Remember?”

  “True. But I’m so wiped out I can’t remember why.”

  “Maybe you missed the sound of my voice.”

  “Nah, that isn’t it. But don’t worry, it’ll come to me.” I could hear her stifling a yawn. “Anyway, stuff is just starting to trickle in, but we’re making progress. The hardest thing about the whole investigation is coordinating evidence from three different police departments. Which means dealing with the egos of murder dicks in Cleveland and Steubenville PD, as well as our own.”

  “Sounds like fun. So what do you have so far?”

  “Ballistics, for one thing. The bullets that killed Earl Cranshaw and Judge Loftus, and wounded Claire Cobb, all came from the same gun. A revolver, the Taurus 44M Tracker. Which Biegler insists means that we’re looking at just one shooter.”

  “Probably, but not necessarily.”

  “Agreed. But it’s the most likely scenario. Especially when you add in the M.O. of using a stolen vehicle for each hit. Indicates a consistent approach, a pattern.”

  “Makes sense. Psychologically, a guy working down a list would probably be invested in consistency, in sticking to a method. Particularly one that’s working.”

  I heard Eleanor r
ustling some papers. “Then there’s the eyewitness to the Cranshaw shooting. Some delivery guy named Vincent Beck. He was unloading groceries at a house three doors down when he saw the prison guard get shot. Saw the perp take off in his vehicle, too. Chevy sedan.”

  “Took Beck long enough to come forward.”

  “He claims he was afraid to get involved. But he felt so guilty about it, he told his story to his parish priest in confession. It was the priest who insisted that Beck call the Steubenville PD.” She paused. “We have Beck’s statement from the detective who took it down, but nobody here’s too happy with it. Biegler’s sending Harry to Ohio this afternoon to have another talk with the guy.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s Harry been lately? I mean, the divorce…the drinking…”

  “Still divorced, so still drinking.” A heavy sigh. “You know Harry. Though he doesn’t even mention Maddie anymore…so maybe that’s progress.”

  I took a measured pause.

  “How about you, Eleanor? We haven’t talked in a while, so I was wondering about your brother…”

  I heard the hesitation in her voice. Then:

  “Teddy’s okay. Back in rehab, but doing better, I think. I’ve been helping out on the weekends. With his kids. So it doesn’t all land on our mom.”

  Her brother’s addiction was one of a number of sudden and unexpected family-related problems she’d been dealing with since last summer. Though I had only a superficial knowledge of what she’d been going through. Whenever I broached the subject the few times we’d spoken since then, she politely but firmly backed me off.

  Which was why that one intense, passionate kiss we’d shared all those months ago had never led to anything more.

  And perhaps never would.

  “Look, Eleanor…”

  She quickly cut me off. “Not a good time, Danny. Besides, Biegler just stuck his head out of the conference room door. Looks like we’re resuming the briefing.”

  “Okay. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.”

  It wasn’t until after we hung up that I realized she never did tell me why she’d called.