Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  Of my guilt.

  I felt like a fraud. A failure. What had I told her, just hours before, in answer to her fears? I’d assured her that nothing would happen to her. That she’d be okay.

  “At least,” I’d said, “if I have anything to do with it…”

  Well, I’d had something to do with it, all right. And this was the result.

  The shooter was still at large.

  And Claire Cobb was dead.

  Chapter Thirty

  Agent Green winced as he patted the new bandage covering the side of his head.

  “Sorry about Ms. Cobb, Doc. She was a nice lady.”

  I nodded dumbly. We were still on-scene and sitting across from each other in a city ambulance. The EMT—young, male, and cooly efficient—had just finished with Green and was attending to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said stiffly.

  The EMT clucked his tongue distractedly and went back to checking my vitals. Grunting occasionally with satisfaction. Then he began picking tiny bits of glass from my knuckles with a medical tweezer.

  Through the slitted windows of the ambulance, I could see the flashing lights of patrol cars, CSU techs lugging their equipment, uniforms unspooling crime scene tape across the mouth of the alley. I also made out the M.E’s wagon, in which Claire Cobb’s body lay in a zippered bag.

  Until the EMT none-too-gently took my jaw and turned my head back to face him. Ignoring my grimace of pain, he shone a penlight in my eyes. Another satisfied grunt, and then he was wrapping thin gauze around my hands, securing it with bandages.

  Finally, he swiveled on his haunches and directed his opinion to Agent Neal Alcott, who sat with his back to the driver’s seat. Looking utterly spent.

  “They’re both okay, under the circumstances. Luckily, the shooter just grazed Agent Green. Though he’ll need looking at when we get to the hospital.”

  Alcott barely acknowledged him. The EMT coiled his stethascope around its hook just behind my head and moved smoothly up to the driver’s seat. Started the engine.

  “We’re stretched pretty thin ’cause of the storm,” he announced. “So we’re down to one tech per vehicle.”

  Nobody answered him. Instead, Alcott stared at his junior agent as the EMT pulled the ambulance away from the curb. The traffic had thinned somewhat as the night had lengthened, and we moved slowly but steadily toward town.

  I slumped back against my seat, arms and legs emptied of feeling. Closed my eyes. Welcoming the low growl of the engine, the hum of the tires on snow-carpeted asphalt.

  Abruptly, Agent Green stirred. Spoke to his boss.

  “It was my fault, sir. After the attack, it took me a few minutes to come to. By the time I realized that Claire and the doc were gone, and I was able to find them, she’d already been…she was already dead.” A bitter sigh. “It didn’t help that I went down the wrong goddam alley and had to come around the other way.”

  “It’s not about fault,” Alcott replied. “At least not yours alone. Reese and I got stuck up ahead of your SUV in traffic. So nobody caught sight of the panel truck until it was too late. Between that and the storm…”

  Despite myself, my eyes opened. “But the panel truck came up alongside us as soon as we left the motel parking lot. No question, the shooter knew which car we were in. And when we were leaving.”

  Alcott was grim. “No question, all right.”

  Another thick, uncomfortable silence.

  “I assume the pattern still holds,” I said, “and the panel truck had been stolen.”

  “That’s right. Just got word.”

  Alcott looked off and spoke to the air.

  “She didn’t like me, did she?” Voice subdued. Holding more puzzlement than sorrow. “Claire. She didn’t like me.”

  Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t offer a reply.

  ***

  I was alone at a table in the ground-floor lounge at the Old County Building, flanked on either side by scuffed, mottled vending machines. Spindly cracks spreading out from beneath them on the linoleum.

  I’d just spent the past hour in the ER at Pittsburgh Memorial. While Agent Green was taken for a more thorough exam of his head wound, I was given a checkup by a newly-minted resident. He redressed my bandages, then assessed me for concussion. When I told him about my recent car accident, he gingerly tested my neck and shoulders for whiplash. He didn’t seem sure one way or the other, but prescribed some Vicadin anyway. In case the pain worsened.

  Now, an untouched paper cup of coffee in front of me, I used my cell to check my voice mail. No messages from any of my regular patients, thankfully, but there was one from someone else.

  Maggie Currim.

  “I just wanted to tell you how disappointed I am, Dr. Rinaldi. I counted on you to help me, to convince my poor Wesley to change his story. To take back his confession. Because he didn’t do it. And you…well, as I told Angela Villanova, you were my last hope. Now all I can do is pray to the Lord for His mercy and His justice. And I suggest you do the same.”

  I clicked off, and sat looking at the phone. Though I was genuinely sorry that I’d let Maggie down, it was hard to hear it right now. Not when I was still reeling from the tragedy of Claire Cobb’s death, and what I felt was my own culpability.

  It wasn’t merely guilt. It also flew in the face of my own self-concept. Over time, belief in yourself and your actions becomes a habit. A hard one to break, especially once you’ve allowed yourself to be seen as someone who usually comes through. Once you believe too much in your own skills, your own convictions. Your own publicity.

  Is that what I’d been doing the past few years, involving myself in these police cases? Making promises I couldn’t keep? Turning my desire to help those suffering from trauma into some absurd pseudo-heroics? Mere ego disguised as courage, narcissism disguised as compassion?

  Probably not questions I could ever answer. Not for sure, anyway. No matter how hard I explored my own motives. As the Buddhists say, “The eye cannot see itself.”

  But they were questions worth thinking about, if nothing else. Worth keeping in the forefront of my mind.

  Or else Claire Cobb’s death would be even more obscene, more senseless, than it already seemed.

  I pushed myself back in the chair, plastic legs scraping the linoleum, and got up. I was late for the debriefing upstairs in the main conference room, called by Lieutenant Biegler and Special Agent Alcott.

  And my attendance, I’d been informed, was mandatory.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When I stepped off the elevator on the top floor, I saw Eleanor Lowrey standing in front of the closed double doors of the conference room. I joined her there.

  “I wanted a moment with you alone, Dan.” She gave me a sad smile. “I’m so sorry about Claire Cobb.”

  “Me, too. I can’t help but feel responsible. I really hoped…well, I hoped she’d come through this okay.”

  “We all did.” Her glance fell to my bandaged hands. “But what about you? Are you okay?”

  “Define your terms. At least I’m still in one piece.”

  “Which just means you got lucky. No way you should’ve gone after Claire when she jumped out of the car.”

  “No way I couldn’t have. Not if I wanted to live with myself afterwards.”

  Eleanor sighed. “I figured you’d say something like that. But I had to go on record that it was crazy stupid.”

  “Duly noted. Meanwhile, how’s Harry Polk doing?”

  “The docs are releasing him from the hospital in the morning. Biegler’s having a uniform go pick him up in Steubenville and bring him back.”

  “But he’ll be on leave, right?”

  “At home. Recuperating.”

  “Bet he’s not taking that well.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I just spoke to him on the pho
ne and he’s furious. He hates being sidelined in the middle of all this. I promised to keep him in the loop, but it didn’t do much good. Finally, I told him to chill out before he gave himself a stroke.”

  “Harry? Chill? Not enough pain meds in the world.”

  We shared a brief smile, then, reluctantly, she smoothed her hair back with both hands. Prepping her game face for the meeting.

  “Do me a favor?” Her violet eyes finding mine. “Don’t get yourself killed any time soon. Okay?”

  Then she turned and pulled open the doors.

  ***

  We stepped into the spacious, paneled room just as Lieutenant Stu Biegler was hanging up the phone.

  Along with Neal Alcott, Agents Green, Zarnicki, and Reese looked up expectantly at the lieutenant from their seats at the oval conference table. Taking little notice of Eleanor and me as we each pulled out a chair, though I did catch Gloria Reese peering at my hands.

  “That was the assistant chief,” Biegler announced. “Who’s just conferred with Chief Logan and the mayor.” He looked over at Alcott. “And the director.”

  “I know.” Alcott’s elbows bookended a tidy stack of files. “I debriefed the director an hour ago, and he decided to speak personally with Pittsburgh PD. To clarify the situation for all concerned.”

  Biegler kept his gaze narrowed, skeptical. I could tell this was supposed to unnerve the FBI agent. It didn’t.

  Alcott scanned the room, stopping once to give me a brief, acknowledging smile.

  “I asked that you be included in this meeting because, like it or not, you’ve been significantly involved in this investigation. And so your input may have some value.”

  Biegler scratched his chin. “By ‘significantly involved,’ he means you’ve been shot at. On two separate occasions. Not to mention all the goddam cuts and bruises. Whatever. How valuable that makes your so-called input is open to dispute.”

  Eleanor gave me a sympathetic look, but I pretended I hadn’t seen it. Kept my own eyes on Biegler.

  “You know, Lieutenant, as much as I normally enjoy trading insults with you, I’m not really in the mood right now. A good person was killed just hours ago, right in front of me. A person who was constantly assured by the people in this room—including me—that she’d be safe. Protected.”

  “Yeah, I know. So?”

  “So let me just say, from the bottom of my heart, go fuck yourself.”

  Bristling, Biegler got to his feet. Fists pressing down on the table, knuckles going white.

  “Listen, you arrogant piece of—”

  “Lieutenant!” Alcott had risen, too, squaring his big shoulders. “Shut the hell up! I don’t care what your beef is with him, this isn’t the time or the place.”

  Still fuming, Biegler whirled to face Alcott.

  “Since when did you start kissing Rinaldi’s ass?”

  “Since the director ordered me to cooperate with him. To include him in the investigation.”

  “But he’s a goddam civilian—!”

  “Paid consultant,” I corrected him, turning to Alcott. “Though I don’t think the lieutenant has ever gotten over it. I swear, he brings it up every time we’re in the same room. In my clinical opinion, it’s becoming an obsession.”

  I could sense Eleanor, frozen in her seat, gazing up at me. Whether in alarm or amusement, I had no idea.

  “Like I give a shit,” Alcott snapped. “About either one of you. Especially not now. Understood?”

  I paused only a moment before giving him a slow, solemn nod. Then I glanced at Biegler.

  “How about it, Stu? All good?”

  Even Biegler was smart enough at this point not to take the bait. Instead, he merely shrugged, though he couldn’t resist shaking his head in disgust as he re-took his seat. With a heavy sigh, Alcott did the same.

  Which signaled his three subordinate agents that they, too, could risk taking a breath. I’d noticed how they’d each sat perfectly still, like trained guard dogs on alert, while Alcott and Biegler argued. As though just waiting for the signal to act.

  And do what? I wondered. Join the debate? Toss Biegler out the window? Interagency cooperation, my ass. It was just as I’d first thought. As far as the FBI was concerned, local cops were the enemy. And always would be.

  Alcott sniffed loudly, getting our attention, then opened one of the files in front of him. Sitting opposite him, I could make out the photos paperclipped to the report. Crime scene images of Claire’s bloody corpse.

  “Just so you know,” Alcott began in a quiet tone, “Chief Logan and the mayor are going to hold a joint press conference in the morning. As you can imagine, Ms. Cobb’s death has intensified the scrutiny this investigation will be getting from the media. Not to mention the director.”

  He rubbed his chafed nose. “And, on a personal note, I want to express my outrage and dismay at what happened to Ms. Cobb. And I know I’m not alone in these feelings.”

  Agent Green grunted his assent, fingers distractedly touching his bandaged head. Beside him, Gloria Reese kept her face composed, concealing…what? Guilt? Sorrow?

  Alcott went on. “Moreover, I want to let everyone in this room know what I said to the director. That this joint FBI-police task force will redouble its efforts to nail the sick bastard behind these killings. I want this man caught, people. Hell, I want my hands around his goddam throat.”

  He’d actually lifted his huge, athlete’s hands over the files. They hovered as though having risen of their own volition. Agent Zarnicki, at Alcott’s left, gave his boss a wary look. But Alcott didn’t seem to care.

  “The politics of this case are clear. For the bureau. For Pittsburgh PD. But frankly, I don’t give two shits about any of that. I just want to nail this fucker.”

  Even Agents Green and Reese seemed surprised at his words. I realized they were unaccustomed to both this kind of language and this level of feeling coming from their normally polished, tightly-wound boss.

  I had to admit, it was fascinating to watch the change that had come over Neal Alcott since this case began. As he went from being one of the bureau’s most self-assured, articulate spokesmen—a slick, media-genic rising star—to this frustrated, emotionally exhausted, and bitterly determined law man. In other words, a human being.

  I smiled grimly to myself. Who was I kidding? I’d practically described myself. I was obviously projecting my own feelings. My own grief, regret, exhaustion. My own determination to make sure, if I could, that Claire Cobb’s murder didn’t go unpunished.

  “That said,” Alcott continued, his voice once more assuming its professional tone, “the director and Chief Logan have agreed to a new set of protocols for this investigation. And a new set of priorities.”

  Reese said, “What does that mean, sir?”

  “First, we’ve decided to call off the search for Agent Lyle Barnes. Given the director’s personal relationship with him, this is, of course, a difficult decision for him to make. But we can’t spare the manpower, and have to trust that Agent Barnes, no matter where he’s hiding, has the field experience to keep himself safe. While we believe he’s high up on the shooter’s hit list, it’s no longer feasible to expend Bureau resources looking for him.”

  “About time we let that old fool fend for himself,” Biegler said, to no one in particular.

  I noted Agent Green’s subtle nod of agreement, though my own reaction was decidedly mixed. While Lyle Barnes was ostensibly my patient, I’d never had the time to form a proper clinical bond with the retired FBI profiler. If anything, he’d seemed clearly resistant to the idea of working with me.

  On the other hand, it was obvious he suffered from severe and pervasive night terrors, which affected both his health and his emotional stability. With his whereabouts unknown and a target on his back, his sudden flight had only intensified the risk. As long as the shooter wa
s at large, Barnes was in danger.

  Then there were my personal feelings about the man.

  Which were complicated. While I didn’t exactly like him, I liked him. If that makes any sense.

  Eleanor spoke up then, drawing my thoughts back into the room. And the present. “What about the rest of the potential victims on the killer’s list?”

  Alcott flipped open another file. “I’m getting to them, Detective. As of now, we’re doubling protection on the remaining possibles. Which includes moving the people we have in the Ohio safe house to another undisclosed location. I’m also changing the directive regarding ADA Dave Parnelli. I don’t care what the son-of-a-bitch says, he’s being sequestered there along with the others.”

  He hesitated a moment, and then closed the file. Folded his hands over it.

  “Which brings me to our main concern.”

  “The fact that the killer knows every move we make,” Zarnicki said flatly. “Usually before we make it.”

  “That’s right,” Eleanor agreed. “He knew that Sergeant Polk was going to Steubenville to interview Vincent Beck. And was there waiting.”

  “Just like he knew the motel where we’d placed Claire Cobb,” Green added, “and when we were making the transfer. Even which vehicle we were using.”

  “Which means the killer could be someone fairly high up in the task force,” I said. “Or else has a connection to someone on the inside, who’s funneling information to him.”

  “Great,” said Reese wearily, rubbing her eyes.

  Alcott grew pensive. “Yes. By this point, it’s obvious the investigation has been compromised, perhaps from the outset. And though the director has assigned a special unit to scour all the task force intel—the relevant emails, faxes and phone records—we can’t risk another breach like tonight’s. The chance of another murder.”

  “So what are you saying?” Biegler folded his arms.

  “I’m saying, the tri-state online interface is too vulnerable. Everybody involved in the investigation knows everything. So the only reasonable decision is to shut it down.”