Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  Craning my head around, I could just make out—across the wide expanse of the building—a running figure.

  I rolled off the frightened kid, who’d begun weeping copiously, and swiveled in a crouch. Staring hard down the length of the warehouse floor.

  I saw him more clearly now. At a far corner of the building. The shooter. In coat, muffler, and gloves.

  The disguise he’d used to hide in plain sight. To blend in at the warehouse.

  To kill Vincent Beck.

  I fell to my knees. Winded. Frustrated. Done in.

  As though sensing this, the shooter stopped and looked back across the cold, empty distance at me.

  It was then that I noticed he was standing by a metal exit door. Hand resting on the handle.

  Then, slowly, deliberately, as though wanting me to see, he stepped through the door. And disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “What the hell were you thinking, Rinaldi? Going after the shooter like that?”

  Lieutenant Stu Biegler, Pittsburgh Robbery/Homicide, glowered down at me. He was past forty, but with an oddly unlined, youthful face, which made his attempt to project authority difficult to take seriously.

  At least it’s always been difficult for me.

  “I told you, his rifle jammed. So I figured it was safe. Besides, at the moment, I wasn’t exactly thinking—”

  “That’s for goddam sure! What if he had another gun on him? Some pocket piece. That ever occur to you?”

  “Well, sure, now that you point it out…”

  He waved a hand in disgust and glanced over at Eleanor Lowrey, who slumped in a corner chair. Barely listening.

  According to the waiting room wall clock at Steubenville’s All Saints Hospital, it was just after nine p.m.

  Harry Polk had been in surgery for over an hour.

  I sat on an over-stuffed green sofa, sipping bitter vending machine coffee. My winter coat, spackled with blood and gore, had been tagged and bagged by the CSU team still working at the warehouse. Same with my gloves. The leather jacket I’d borrowed from one of the EMT guys on-scene lay folded on the chair next to me.

  Biegler hadn’t bothered to unbutton his own London Fog coat since he’d arrived, and the building’s central heating had layered a sheen of sweat on his smooth brow. Though he didn’t seem aware of it.

  The night outside the stuffy room’s single window hung like a painted backdrop, flat black, starless. I hadn’t paid much attention to my surroundings in the ambulance racing here with Polk, but I got the vague impression of an industrial-park-like monotony. Squat, somber buildings. Mini-malls. Tract houses.

  Since Biegler and Lowrey had driven straight here from Pittsburgh, after getting the report about the warehouse shooting, there hadn’t been much for the three of us to do but wait for the results from Polk’s surgeon. And to go over my description of events. Over and over.

  “Look,” I said now, “I’ve given Steubenville PD my statement. I’ve gone through it a half-dozen times with you two. But like it or not, the details aren’t gonna change.”

  “And neither are you, apparently.”

  It was Eleanor’s first words in quite a while. Though despite the stern look she was aiming in my direction, I detected the concern in her voice. More worry than anger.

  “I mean, Jesus, Danny, this kinda thing is becoming a habit with you. Taking stupid risks, and—”

  “And interfering with proper law enforcement,” Biegler finished for her. “Though I’m just as pissed at Sergeant Polk. No way he shoulda let you take part in his interview with Beck. He shoulda locked your ass in the car.”

  “Hey, don’t blame Polk. He tried.”

  Scowling. “You think this is funny, Rinaldi?”

  “Hell, no. Not with Harry in surgery, at risk of losing use of his arm.” I half rose from my chair. “What I think is that you’re dumping on me because you’re nowhere with finding the killer.”

  Eleanor raised a hand.

  “Whoa, Danny. Chill.” A sidelong glance at Biegler. “We’re all worried about Harry, okay?”

  Biegler looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned away from me and folded himself into a chair a few feet from Lowrey’s. Which left the three of us more or less in separate corners of the room, staring at each other.

  Finally, Eleanor broke the silence.

  “Look, I spoke to the local detectives on-scene on our way here. They’re still piecing things together, but I think we got a pretty good fix on what went down.”

  Without waiting for a response, she withdrew her notebook. “They have statements from all the men working at the warehouse when Beck got shot. Plus the shift foreman, who was in his office at the far end of the building. He claims not to have even known anything had happened till he heard the police sirens.”

  She flipped some pages, then looked at me.

  “Apparently, they’re still questioning the warehouse worker you tackled, but he appears clean. Name’s Jimmy Talbot. He’s been employed there since high school. No sheet. Not even a traffic ticket. According to Talbot, he was terrified when the shooting started. He was in the rear area of the building, so instead of running, he just hid behind some crates. Actually pissed his pants, which he was quick to show the officer taking his statement.”

  “I don’t care how wet his pants were,” Biegler said, “he was also holding a weapon. Came out swinging a crowbar at the doc here.” He turned to me. “By the way, you wanna press charges for assault?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was scared shitless, Lieutenant. Probably thought I was the shooter, sneaking up on him. So he panicked, grabbed the crowbar. Hell, maybe the kid’s got a case against me.”

  Biegler smiled. “Well, if he ever needs a character witness against you, I’m so there…”

  Eleanor put down her notebook and looked at him.

  “Sir, with all due respect…”

  I’ll never know what she was going to say, for at that moment her cell rang. She took the call, listened intently, made a few notes, then clicked off.

  Her boss sat up straighter in his chair. “What is it?”

  “We just got an ID on the rifle the shooter used, and where he got it. It’s a hunting rifle, as Danny guessed. A Remington. Mid-range scope. It was stolen about an hour before Beck was shot. From a gun store two miles away, in a mini-mall.”

  “The shop owner get a look at him?”

  “The shooter got lucky. The place was closed. He just smashed a window, went in and took what he needed. The weapon and some shells.”

  “Closed? At four in the afternoon?”

  “The owner says he’d closed up early to celebrate his birthday. Besides, the weather’s been bad for business.”

  “Did the place have an alarm?”

  “Yes. But the shooter was in and out in a minute.”

  “Tell me there’s video from inside the store.”

  “There is. All you can see is a guy in a winter coat, muffler and gloves. Just like the guy Danny saw go out the exit door in the warehouse.”

  “Gloves,” Biegler repeated, as much to himself. “So no prints on the rifle.”

  “Afraid not, sir.”

  I stirred, which brought their gaze in my direction.

  “So now the killer’s improvising. Off his game. Which could be good for us. No stolen car. Not using his regular weapon of choice, the Taurus 44M.”

  “Which means he had to think on the fly,” Eleanor said. “Make it up as he went along.”

  “Right. Somehow he finds out Pittsburgh PD is sending someone to talk to Vincent Beck, and—”

  “But how would he know that?” Biegler asked.

  “Beats me. But the shooter was worried enough about it to dress like one of the other delivery workers,
break into a gun shop for a rifle, and get to the warehouse. To stop Beck before he spilled something important.”

  I paused. “Which also tells us a couple other things. How could the killer know what the other workers looked like, unless he’d been to the warehouse before? Seen how the guys bundled up against the cold in there. Which means he already knew where Vincent Beck worked. Even before he’d learned that Pittsburgh PD was coming to talk to him.”

  “Good point.” Eleanor made a note.

  Biegler stared at me. “What’s the other thing?”

  “I’m less clear on this, but why didn’t the killer use the revolver he’s been using all this time? The Taurus 44M. If this guy is as methodical as I think he is, he’s not just following an M.O. He’s formed habits.”

  “So?”

  “I think the only reason he didn’t use his usual gun is that he didn’t have it with him at the time. That when he learned about Polk’s trip here, he was away from where he keeps the gun. Maybe he was away from home, on the road or something.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Wherever he is when he finds out about the interview with Beck, there’s no time to go get the Taurus. All he can do is head for the warehouse as fast as possible, stopping only to break into a gun shop and get a weapon. Maybe seeing the rack of hunting rifles gives him the idea of taking a shot at Beck from a safer distance. Which means a better chance of getting away afterwards.”

  “You could be right,” Biegler said officiously. “But then how did he get to the warehouse, and get away again?”

  “If he was in as big a rush as we think, he wouldn’t have time to steal a car. Not without risking being seen.”

  “So what are you saying, Detective?” Biegler’s face darkened. “He took a cab?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “Or just drove his own car.”

  I finished my coffee and got up. Gingerly. Feeling the early aches from my struggle with Jimmy Talbot. The sore muscles, the tender ribs from when we both hit the concrete floor. I knew they’d only intensify as the night wore on.

  I’d be damned if I’d let Biegler see it, though. I stood to my full height, and put some grit in my voice.

  “Now I have a question for you, Lieutenant. Did anyone outside the investigation even know a witness to Cranshaw’s murder had come forward?”

  “Hard to say, given the leaks we’ve been dealing with. Beck’s name never appeared in the media, that’s for sure. Or we’d have known. Other than that…”

  Biegler fell silent.

  “Regardless of how he found out about him,” I went on, “the killer obviously feared Beck knew something. So was he right? Maybe Beck saw the killer’s face the morning of the shooting, but had been too scared to say anything.”

  “So far,” Eleanor said. “But the killer couldn’t take the chance that Beck wouldn’t at some point tell what he knew. He had to get to the warehouse and silence him.”

  “And for a spur-of-the-moment plan,” I added, “it wasn’t bad. Bundled up like the other workers. Everyone scurrying around, loading trucks. Most even with their faces covered by scarves or ski masks. Who’d notice him? From what I saw, the workers just wanted to load their trucks as fast as possible, climb behind the wheel, and get the hell out of the cold.”

  Biegler absorbed this. “But had Vincent Beck seen the killer’s face? Had he seen anything at all?”

  “We’ll never know.” Eleanor’s voice grew soft. “He was just nineteen, poor kid.”

  I thought then of Beck’s story about confessing to his parish priest that he’d witnessed Cranshaw’s murder. And that now the same priest who’d urged him to go to the police would have the sad duty to preside over Beck’s funeral Mass and burial.

  Priest and penitent. Both victims of a higher law.

  The arbitrary, remorseless law of unintended consequences.

  ***

  It was nearing ten when Polk’s surgeon, Dr. Alice Yu, came into the waiting room to update us on his condition.

  She hadn’t taken two steps through the door before Biegler, Eleanor, and I rose to our feet and formed a semicircle around her.

  Dr. Yu was tall, slender, and probably a bit younger than you’d want your surgeon to be. But her solemn eyes and brisk manner conveyed both confidence and maturity, as well as the expected level of impatience with us lesser mortals.

  “Sergeant Polk will make a full recovery,” she announced. “Luckily, there was no nerve damage. The muscle tearing was severe, but he should heal adequately. However, his recuperation will take time.”

  Biegler clucked his tongue. “So he’ll be out of commission for a while?”

  Dr. Yu smiled. “I believe that’s what I said.”

  “But he’ll be fine, right?” Eleanor’s relief was palpable. “Can we go in and see him?”

  “Not until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Even then, he’ll be heavily sedated. And in considerable pain.”

  Eleanor nodded soberly. Then, to my surprise, she reached and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

  “I’m glad he’s okay, too,” I said simply.

  A brief smile. Then, as though suddenly mindful of Biegler’s presence, she slipped her hand from mine.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A fresh, unexpected snowfall sifted down into the night as the police cruiser crossed the Allegheny into mid-town. Pittsburgh in winter, at midnight, and cloaked in seasonal cold, was a study in contrasts. Poised between two very different centuries, it was an amalgam of sleek, light-bejeweled towers and muscular, shadowed structures built low to the ground. Dusted now with soft new snow that fell like a benediction on the sleeping city.

  At least that’s how it felt to me, sitting in the passenger seat of the Steubenville PD black-and-white. Since the rookie uniform assigned to drive me back to town wasn’t much for conversation, I passed the time watching the weather subtly change as we crossed the state line into Pennsylvania.

  Lieutenant Biegler and Eleanor Lowrey had stayed behind in Steubenville, conferring with the local cops about the warehouse shooting. I could tell Biegler had wanted to re-interview Jimmy Talbot, the kid I’d tangled with, and Eleanor wanted to get a personal look at the crime scene. Which meant they’d probably end up staying the night in town. I figured this would be fine with Eleanor. No doubt she was anxious to be at Harry Polk’s bedside the next day when he woke up.

  My taciturn chauffeur dropped me off at the entrance to the Hilton parking lot, then pulled his vehicle around the corner and parked in the fire zone. As I stood under the gently-falling snow, trying to remember where I’d parked my car, I saw him hurry out of the black-and-white and into the hotel’s coffee shop. A caffeine refueling for the hour’s drive back home.

  Shivering in the too-thin borrowed EMT jacket, I jammed my hands in my pockets and trudged across the lot. It took me a full minute to find my Mustang, and another five to get the engine—and me—warmed up enough to drive.

  I slid a Grover Washington CD into the dashboard deck and carefully pulled out into the road.

  As I circled the Point’s mammoth construction site, heading for the Fort Pitt Bridge and home, my cell rang.

  It was Angie Villanova.

  “Well, I hadda call in a few favors, but I did it.”

  Her voice wired, breathless, but tinged with fatigue.

  “Did what?”

  “Got you the interview with Wes Currim. That nutcase who put his victim’s head on the snowman.”

  “Jesus, Angie, I didn’t—”

  “Luckily, the interim DA in Wheeling is kind of a fan of yours. Especially since you cooperated with the cops and accompanied Currim to where the vic’s remains were. She thinks you’re a real standup guy. Or at least she did, before I set her straight.”

  I listened to her hoarse chuckle as I wheeled my car to the curb. I don’t like driving while pissed.

&n
bsp; “Goddam it, Angie, I never agreed to see Wes Currim. I only told his mother that I’d consider it.”

  “I know. Maggie Currim called me right after she saw you. Truth is, you were kind of a disappointment to her.”

  “I got that feeling.”

  “You shoulda heard her cryin’ to me on the phone. She said that you’d been her last hope.”

  “I am sorry for what she’s going through.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I sorta felt responsible, since I’d set up the appointment with you. So I told her I’d do my best to get you in a room with her son.”

  “Without checking with me first?”

  “Sometimes you gotta make a command decision. So I ran it past the assistant chief, who put in a call to Chief Block in Wheeling, who kicked it up to the DA’s office. Then I got on the phone and closed the deal. Me and the DA. Woman to woman, ya know what I mean? Mother to mother.”

  I paused, letting my anger subside.

  “So it’s a done deal?”

  “Done and done, like they say.”

  “What if I don’t go along with it?”

  “Then one of us looks like an asshole, Danny. Guess which one?”

  I sighed loud enough for her to hear it.

  “Shit, don’t even try. I’ve heard tortured sighs from Italian men all my life. I’m immune.”

  Despite myself, I smiled. Imagined her patting her laquered cloud of hair in self-congratulation.

  “Okay, Angie, I give up. When and where do I meet Wes Currim?”

  “Eleven a.m. tomorrow. Wheeling PD’s main lockup. Until they set a trial date, they’re keepin’ Wes outta prison. Probably save him takin’ it up the ass, too. He’s young, skinny, and a freakazoid. Hard-timers love meat like that.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We exchanged a few more playful insults, argued about the next time she could expect me for dinner, and hung up.

  I stayed parked at the curb, engine running, and thought about what it might be like meeting with Wes Currim tomorrow. What, if anything, I could say to persuade him to recant his confession. If, in fact, it wasn’t true.