Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  When I finally got a clerk on the line, I identified myself as Sergeant Harry Polk, Pittsburgh PD, and gave the detective’s badge number. Luckily, the clerk was too young, bored, and incompetent to question my authority.

  “I’m lookin’ to find out the status of Lily Greer’s passport application,” I said, making my voice as gruff as possible. “I understand she applied some years back.”

  “You got a date of birth, social security number, date of filing?”

  “Listen, buddy, I got a shield and twelve years on the force. I also got a computer and can watch videos on YouTube. Maybe you can, too?”

  I could practically hear him thinking on the other end of the line.

  “Wait a minute…Lily Greer’s that girl in the video, right? Went missing? Her parents cryin’ and moanin’ about it on YouTube?”

  “Her distraught parents, you unfeeling moron, who have friends in high places. I happen to be one of ’em.”

  “Meanin’ what?”

  “Meanin’ I think all of us involved in lookin’ for Lily deserve some cooperation. For Christ’s sake, she’s a Wheeling girl.”

  “Yeah, I know. Buddy o’ mine went to Montcliff High with her. We were just talkin’ about it the other day.”

  “Okay, so here’s what you do. I’ll hold on the line and you call Montcliff High. Identify yourself and have them look up Lily Greer’s DOB and social. Tell ’em you’re transferring records to digital or something like that. They’ll give you what you need if you tell ’em you’re calling from City Hall. Then come back to me.”

  “And this is a police thing, right?”

  “Do we gotta go through that again, or should I just call one o’ my friends at Wheeling PD and make sure you get ticketed every time you drive your fuckin’ car?”

  “Okay, okay. Give me a minute.”

  The kid put me on hold, which was just as well, since my Harry Polk impersonation was making my throat hurt. Not that I really needed to sound like him for my little trick to work, but for some reason it added verisimilitude. Or at least I thought it did.

  Five minutes later, the clerk came back on the line.

  “All right, I got the stats on Lily Greer.”

  “Now use ’em to pull up her passport application.”

  Another minute went by, and then he was back.

  “Well, I got what you wanted, Sergeant, but it don’t make any sense.”

  “Don’t strain your brain, junior. Just tell me what you got.”

  “Lily’s application was approved, and her completed passport arrived here at the office. According to the records, when she didn’t show up on the appointed date to collect the passport, somebody from the office called her. Left a message on her answering machine. But she never came by to pick it up.”

  “You mean, the passport’s still there?”

  “I’m sittin’ here, lookin’ at it. Damn, she takes a nice photo. Ain’t easy to do for a passport picture.”

  “But why would someone go to the trouble of applying for a passport and then not come get it?”

  “Don’t ask me, man. You’re the detective.”

  He was still chuckling at his own wit when I hung up.

  At the same time, I heard Barnes coming down the hallway from the bedroom.

  As I waited to greet him, I thought briefly about the phone call. Why hadn’t Lily Greer picked up her passport?

  When I’d learned she’d applied for one, I assumed that her lover, Jack Currim, already had his, and that she would need one too if they were to run away together.

  Overseas, that is.

  But what if they decided against that? Maggie Currim had decribed her husband as a conventional, small town, blue-collar guy. Hard to imagine he’d be that comfortable spending the rest of his life in some busy European metropolis, or even some isolated country village. Lily was also a Wheeling native, and, by all accounts, another typical small town type. Would she be willing to give up the country she knew, with its familiar habits and culture, to live in some foreign land?

  Suddenly, I didn’t think so. In fact, I was convinced otherwise.

  Jack Currim and Lily Greer, I now felt with a strange, unaccountable certainty, were still here. In the USA.

  But where?

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Newly shaved and scrubbed, and somewhat swallowed up in a Pitt sweatshirt and jeans belted tight at the waist, Lyle Barnes came into the front room and sat opposite me on the sofa. With a pair of my thickest woolen socks completing the ensemble, he at least looked warm. If not happy.

  “I couldn’t find any adult clothes that even came close to fitting.” He tugged at the sweatshirt’s sleeve. “A man of your stature ought to have a closet full of dress suits. Christ, you wouldn’t last two days in the bureau.”

  “I’d have to agree. But probably not because of my clothes.”

  He grunted sourly, then sat back against the sofa.

  “Okay, Doc, you’ve had time to think while I was in the shower. Are you gonna turn me in to Alcott?”

  “Nope. But that option’s still open.”

  “Good man. Now, get me up to speed on where things stand. First of all, I assume the powers-that-be have had enough sense to shut down the tri-state Internet grid?”

  “They just did. What made you assume that?”

  “Logic. So far, the killer has been one step ahead of the task force. He knew where Claire Cobb was being held, and when she was being transferred. He knows when witnesses are about to be interviewed—”

  “You mean, Vincent Beck? In Steubenville? His murder made the news, too.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t get the coverage Claire Cobb’s death did. Probably because she was one of the killer’s potential targets.”

  “Tell me. The media’s having a field day guessing the names of those on the shooter’s hitlist. Not to mention all the amateur crime junkies online.”

  Barnes frowned. “Forget about those rubes. And the goddam media. The point is, it’s clear that the killer has access to task force intel. And if he’s getting it from the tri-state interface, that means—”

  “The killer is a cop. Or FBI.”

  “Not necessarily. Lotta people have access to the interface. Cops and agents, sure, but also administrative staff, communications, tech support, civil authorities. That’s federal and local.”

  “Besides,” I added, “there’s a chance it’s not even the killer himself. Maybe someone who has access to the grid is working with the killer, supplying him the intel.”

  Barnes scratched his chin, pink from being freshly shaved. “My gut says otherwise, Doc. The guy who wrote those letters—the guy methodically working down his hitlist—doesn’t strike me as a team player. He’s a loner.”

  Like you? I thought, but didn’t say.

  “Well, I’m no profiler,” I did reply, “but I’m inclined to agree with you. We’re looking for someone plugged into the grid himself. Or at least he was. It’s probably been completely shut down by now.”

  “Which means he’s working blind.”

  I nodded. “Plus, Alcott has all the potential targets in a bureau safe house somewhere in Ohio. I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but I assume he’s not talking about some hotel.”

  “No, we have a number of underground facilities across the country. More like bunkers than anything else. Way off the proverbial radar.”

  As if on cue, my cell rang. I gave Barnes a puzzled look, then picked it up. It was Neal Alcott.

  “Thought you might like to know, all the potential targets are sequestered. Even your buddy Dave Parnelli.”

  He coughed roughly, clearing phlegm. Sounded like his cold had migrated to his chest.

  “I’m betting Dave didn’t go quietly.”

  “You got that right. And he’s pretty unhappy with the
accomodations, too. He asked for you to send him a cake with a bottle of good whiskey hidden inside.”

  “Tell him I’m baking it as we speak.”

  He hesitated. “Look, Doc…over the past few days, I’ve…well, I sorta changed my mind about you. You’re okay. So I don’t want you to think this is personal.”

  “What are we talking about, Neal?”

  “Well, now that the search for Lyle Barnes has been called off, your services won’t be needed. You’re out of this thing, as of now.”

  “What about the director? Isn’t he still worried about his old Academy buddy?”

  “Sure, but right now his feelings about Barnes are not a priority. He’s signed off on letting you go, Doc.”

  “Agent Barnes might still turn up some day, right?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Since Ms. Cobb’s murder, this thing has gone supernova. Every available local cop and federal agent not working some other major case has been added to the task force. The media is killing us on this, which means the pressure is coming down hard on the director and Pittsburgh PD. From the mayor, the governor. Not to mention Ohio’s governor. Which means it’s coming down hard on me. Hell, I may be gone before the end of today.”

  “Sorry about that, Neal. Really.” And I meant it. “You’ve busted your ass.”

  He sniffed mightily, then coughed again. “Whatever. Anyway, thank your lucky stars that you’re outta this shitstorm. Maybe I’ll see ya someday on the other side.”

  We hung up. I could tell Barnes had heard enough of the conversation from my end to fill in the rest.

  “And they still don’t have squat, do they?” he said without preamble.

  “My guess is, not much.”

  “Figures.” He stretched out some kinks. “That’s ’cause they rely too much on procedure and modern forensics.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Instead of answering, Barnes got up and went into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with the files, now squared into a tidy stack once more.

  “It’s the files.” He re-took his seat on the sofa. “All the new forensics on the letters Jessup received in prison, presumably from the shooter. The ones signed ‘Your Biggest Fan.’ No fingerprints, of course, but the tech guys have identified the make and weave of the paper, the color and make of the typewriter ink. What kinda typewriter was used. They’ve even done algorythmic studies of the writer’s sentence structure, vocabulary, syntax. Then there are the standard psych evals of the shooter himself. Ya know, like trying to dope out someone who’d be both grandiose and sycophantic enough to call himself Jessup’s ‘biggest fan.’ Plus reams of psychometrics and personality assessments.”

  “And…?”

  “And it all adds up to nothing. Because they didn’t make use of their most valuable asset.”

  “Which is…?”

  “They forgot to show the letters to old, gray-beard profilers like myself. See, I recognize the style of the letters. I remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “The guy…the shooter…sending letters to a serial killer? Doc, he’s done it before.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  We’d exchanged places. Now I was on the sofa, while Lyle Barnes sat at the desk. Working at my laptop. To my surprise, he’d asked to use it to log onto the FBI data base at Quantico.

  His lean frame bent over the keyboard, I had no choice but to speak to the back of his head.

  “How are you going to get in? Won’t they have locked out your password by now?”

  “I wouldn’t,” he answered without turning. “They have to hope I’d be stupid enough to log on, so they can trace it. Which is what I’m being stupid enough to do right now. But I have to risk it.”

  He sat back and turned finally, rubbing his eyes.

  “This could take a while, since I gotta figure out how to get past any new firewalls they installed. They probably know I can do it, but figure it’ll take me enough time for them to start a trace. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.”

  He jerked his thumb toward the bathroom. “Meanwhile, the shower’s free, and I didn’t use up all the towels.”

  “Damned considerate.” I got to my feet. “But I’m counting the silverware when I get back.”

  ***

  I’d left my cell on the bathroom counter, and it was ringing as I stepped out of the shower. I snatched it up.

  “Eleanor? What’s up?”

  “We just got out of the latest strategy meeting. We had both the director and Chief Logan on Skype and speaker, while junior G-men passed out FBI murder books on the case. Not like the department’s murder books, Danny. These suckers were color-coded.”

  “Our tax dollars at work.”

  “Anyway, I’m sure you know the kinda heat this thing has now. Every piece of evidence is being re-examined and re-evaluated. Fresh boots are on the ground, canvassing all the crime scenes again. Cranshaw’s neighborhood in Steubenville, the warehouse where Beck was killed, the Hilton where Judge Loftus was shot…”

  “And, I’m sure, the Majestic Motel, where they’d had Claire Cobb before attempting a transfer out of town.”

  “Especially there. They’re trying to run down and question anyone inside the task force who knew about the transfer. Who’d arranged the vehicles, booked the B&B in Sewickley. They’re checking every call, every email.”

  “I hope they come up with something.”

  “Me, too. Seems like Claire’s death has hit everyone particularly hard. Both in the media and here inside the investigation. God knows, I still feel like hell about it.”

  “Luckily, thanks to my years of clinical training, I tried to drown how badly I felt about it in alcohol.”

  A pained sigh. “I know, I was right there with you. I have the hangover to prove it.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “Any regrets, Eleanor? About last night?”

  “Not yet. You?”

  I smiled into the phone. “Not yet.”

  A mute moment between us. Then: “Okay, Danny, I gotta go help catch this prick. First, Biegler wants me to call Harry and make sure he understands that he’s on the bench for now. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Polk is back in town?”

  “And home in bed. At least, that’s the last report from the uniform who supposedly tucked him in. Biegler’s worried that Harry will fly the coop the first chance he gets, and only injure himself worse.”

  “I’m surprised Biegler cares.”

  “He doesn’t. But he doesn’t want the department exposed to any liability claims if Harry gets hurt.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  Though I could well imagine Harry’s obscenity-laced response, I asked Eleanor to give him my best wishes anyway. Then we hung up.

  A moment later, Barnes called in from the front room.

  “Hey, Doc, finish jerkin’ off in there and get out here. I found what I was lookin’ for.”

  ***

  I dressed quickly, but still gingerly, in jeans and a pullover sweater and joined Barnes at the rolltop desk. By now, the midmorning sun was streaming coldly through narrow openings in the broad window curtains.

  “Told ya, Doc.” He pointed proudly at the computer screen. “The techs didn’t cross reference the Jessup letters with this batch because these were handwritten. I remember reading these six, seven years ago. Though they were transcribed and scanned into the data base, the originals were written in ink with a ballpoint pen on lined paper. That fact misdirected the software.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But what am I looking at?”

  Barnes scrolled up some scanned transcripts of short, single-sentence-paragraph letters. My hand on the chair back, I leaned over his shoulder.

  “These were sent to a felon named Gary Squires,” he said, “in a prison in Ohio
. Not Markham Correctional, where Jessup was, but a place called Hawkfield.”

  “Was this Squires guy a serial killer?”

  “Sure was. He was convicted on multiple counts of rape and murder. Victims all prostitutes. Just like John Jessup. Only Squires managed to kill seven women before he was caught. Jessup was believed to have killed just four.”

  “That we know about.”

  Barnes nodded grimly. “That’s the way it always is, Doc. Most of the time, with serials, the real number of their victims isn’t revealed until years later. If at all.”

  “So this Squires guy got letters like the ones sent to Jessup?”

  “Yes. Here’s an example.” He squinted at the screen and read aloud. “‘You don’t belong in prison, you should be celebrated. It’s the system that has failed. But I hope you know that you have a faithful fan in me.’”

  “It’s like an earlier version of the kind of language he would use with Jessup. I notice he doesn’t even sign it ‘Your Biggest Fan.’”

  “That’s right. Remember, these were written in block letters in ink, with a pen. More like notes than letters. As though he was just beginning to organize his thoughts, develop his concepts. He hadn’t yet honed his message.”

  “What happened to Squires?”

  “Died in prison some years ago. Heart attack.”

  “But I don’t understand,” I said. “After Squires died, why didn’t the letter writer go after all the people who’d put him in prison? The prosecutor, or Squires’ unsuccessful defense attorney?”

  “Who knows?” Barnes wheeled himself back from the rolltop. “Maybe, at the point in time when he wrote to Squires, he was only fantasizing about it. Or maybe the idea of retribution came later, but he was still too afraid to act. Like I said, I saw those original handwritten letters, and from the depth of the ink marks on the page, and the uneven graph of the lines, I’d say the writer was on the young side. Or else, if older, quite regressed.”

  “Unless that’s what he wanted people to think.”

  “Always a possibility, yes.”

  But I’d had another thought. I pointed to the screen.

  “When did Squires die?”