Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  “I’m often the only other soul they see all day,” she explained, flipping through patient files attached to a clipboard. “The least I can do is give them each a smile.”

  After I’d been directed to this wing of the hospital from the front lobby, I showed the ward nurse my ID and explained I was a friend of the family, paying a condolence call. I felt badly lying to her, but had no choice.

  “I’m so glad Doreen has a visitor,” she was saying now. “You’re the first one she’s had in weeks. Months.”

  “But what about her son Harve? I understand he’s been here many times to see her.”

  “A young man claiming to be her son did visit, but only once. And only for a few minutes. Then he stormed out of the room, cursing out loud. I was so concerned, I went into Doreen’s room to see if she was okay.”

  “Was she?”

  Her shoulders dropped. “Truthfully, sir, it’s hard to tell. Body riddled with cancer. She can’t even raise her head. Nor barely talk, except in a whisper.”

  We’d arrived at the door to Doreen’s room. Unlike the others, hers was closed.

  The nurse leaned toward me, conspiratorily. “Some of the people we get here…like Doreen…Well, in my view, this place is more hospice than hospital. Such a shame, to end your life that way. Alone, and in a place like this.”

  I smiled at her open face.

  “Not totally alone,” I said. “They have you.”

  She flushed under her burnished-gold skin and hurried away, heels clicking on the linoleum, clipboard tucked smartly under her arm.

  I opened the door and went into Doreen’s room. It was unlit, gray walled and sparely furnished, with one window whose blinds were closed against the midday sun. As I stepped softly to her bedside, I was aware of the faint though unmistakeable smell of imminent death.

  I paused at the bed rails, looking down at her pale, wrinkled face. Eyes half-closed. Breathing a slow hiss.

  Her body seemed as small and frail as a child’s under the threadbare blankets, and the skin of her exposed forearm, punctured by an IV drip, was as thin as rice paper.

  “Doreen?” My voice calm, measured. “Are you awake?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. It took an effort for her lips to part, to form words.

  “Who are you?” A soft, hoarse croak.

  “A friend.”

  “Don’t have no friends.”

  “I’m a friend of Harve’s. Your son.”

  “He don’t have no friends, neither. He…”

  Her mouth tightened, as though pulled closed by hidden strings. A thin, milky crust coated her lips.

  I leaned slightly over the bed rails, my face hovering above hers. I hoped my smile was reassuring.

  “Doreen, I just need—”

  “Go away.” Barely audible, mostly air. “Please…”

  “I will. I promise. But if I could just ask you one question…”

  Eyes still lidded, she managed a slow nod.

  I straightened then, hands gripping the bed rails. Drew in a long, uneasy breath.

  “Doreen…that one time, when Harve came to visit… Did you tell him who his father was?”

  Her eyes opened.

  ***

  A half-hour later, I went into the Wheeling precinct and walked across the lobby. Stan, the desk officer, was still on duty.

  “Has Sergeant Randall come back yet, Officer?”

  “Not yet, Dr. Rinaldi. But he should be headin’ back soon. He teaches a class to rookies on Saturdays, ya know, over at the Academy. We’re all real proud.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “By the way, I figure you’d want to know that Wes Currim’s mom was released. Chief Block called me from home, told me to cut her loose.”

  “Thanks, Officer. That’s good news.”

  He shrugged, clearly uninterested. Then the landline on his desk rang and he swiveled in his chair to snatch it up. With his back turned, I was free to do two things.

  First, I leaned over and lifted an empty envelope from a tray on his desk.

  Then I stepped quickly to the rack of coats on the wall. And had my first piece of real luck in a long time.

  Putting what I found in the empty envelope, I called a quick goodbye to Stan as I went out the door. Still facing away from me, phone to his ear, he absently waved his hand in reply.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Five minutes later, I was back in the rental, going as fast as I dared on I-70 West to Pittsburgh. Barely conscious of the now-cleared roads, passing cars and trucks, and frost-tipped rural landscape. Instead, I drove with a mixture of excitement and dread feeding my senses.

  It was time, I knew, to call in the cavalry.

  With my cell on speaker, I made the first call to Stu Biegler, Pittsburgh PD, and was pointedly told that the lieutenant was unavailable. I hesitated only a moment. There was no way I was going to speak to some junior detective or the departmental clearing desk about Harve Randall. Not when all I had was a theory. So I hung up.

  Next I tried Special Agent Neal Alcott at the Federal Building. After a series of maddening delays and transfers, I was finally directed—to my chagrin—to Agent Green.

  I told him I needed to speak to Alcott urgently.

  “Sorry, Doc.” He didn’t sound sorry. “My understanding from Agent Alcott is that you’re not involved anymore. Tell ya what, how ‘bout I take a message?”

  “Okay. Tell him I know who the shooter is. And that if he wants the Bureau to make the collar instead of the cops, he better call me back before Stu Biegler does.”

  “Right.” A terse chuckle. “Give it up, will ya, Doc?”

  He was still chuckling as he hung up.

  So much for trying official channels, I thought.

  Next I called Eleanor’s cell, but got her answering message. My fingers thumping the steering wheel, I waited impatiently for the beep.

  “El, it’s Danny. It’s about the shooter. I think he’s a cop. Sergeant Harve Randall, Wheeling PD. Call me back ASAP. Or try to get a hold of Biegler. Or both.”

  I clicked off, almost howling aloud in frustration. It didn’t help that traffic ahead of me had begun to slow. Leaning up in my seat, I saw that a huge semi was riding its brakes around a long, down-sloping curve of highway.

  Calming myself, I realized what I needed to do. Of course. Get Agent Green back on the phone and tell him about Harve Randall. Or try to contact Agent Reese. Make somebody I knew at the Bureau listen.

  Before I could do so, my own cell rang. Lyle Barnes.

  “Lyle? Aren’t you in protective custody?”

  “Ancient history, Doc. Soon as they locked me up, I had a long heart-to-heart on the phone with the director. He knows damned well I’m not the guy. So I told him, out of deference to our friendship, I’d give him ten minutes to get me released or I leak my arrest to the media.”

  “From inside a guarded room in the Federal Building?”

  “I was on the phone with him, wasn’t I?”

  “Good point. How’d you manage that, by the way?”

  “I pick-pocketed Agent Zarnicki’s cell on the way out of that meeting with Alcott.”

  “Amazing. You looked dead on your feet to me.”

  “I was—and still am. I’m ridin’ on fumes here, son. Hell, maybe I’m asleep right now.”

  “You still using Zarnicki’s phone?”

  “Nah. The director came through, and I got my personal effects back, including my phone. Though I’m still in the building, in the cafeteria. But don’t worry. Soon as Zarnicki let me out of the room, I gave him back his cell. Somehow he failed to see the humor in the situation.”

  “I’ll bet. Listen, Lyle, I’m glad you called. I think you’re gonna wanna get back to your old buddy the director. ‘Cause I know who the shooter is.”

/>   “What?”

  “Guy’s name is Harve Randall. A detective sergeant in the Wheeling PD.”

  “A Wheeling cop? Holy shit! Are you sure?”

  As quickly and cogently as I could, I explained my reasoning. “I realize it’s all just theory, but—”

  “No, it makes sense. All of it. Now I think—”

  Suddenly, another call clicked in. I checked the display. Neal Alcott.

  “Hang on, Lyle. It’s Alcott.”

  I clicked over and heard the Special Agent’s weary, suspicious voice.

  “You better not be jerkin’ my chain, Rinaldi—”

  For the second time in less than a minute, I detailed my thoughts about Harve Randall. Alcott listened without interrupting me, and kept silent for another long moment after I’d finished. Finally, he spoke.

  “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. Not one tangible piece of evidence in anything you just laid out. All a bunch of psychobabble, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

  Still, I heard a rare hesitancy in his tone.

  “But you’re desperate enough to consider it, right?”

  “I wouldn’t say the bureau’s desperate,” he replied carefully, “but I admit your idea’s worth following up.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “First thing, I’ll put in a call to Wheeling PD. Talk to that Chief Block you mentioned. I’ll want to verify the exact dates and logged hours of that personal time Sergeant Randall took these last few weeks. See if they line up with when the victims were killed.”

  “Good idea. Though the chief’s at home at the moment.”

  I could almost see his smirk. “Is that a fact? Not once I have them give me his home number. I guarantee the chief will be back at work in short order.”

  Alcott cleared his throat. “I just have one more question, Doc. You tell all this to the Pittsburgh PD?”

  “I tried to, but haven’t heard back yet.”

  A dry laugh. “Sweet.”

  He hung up. Which was when I remembered that I still had Lyle Barnes on the other line, on hold. I clicked over.

  And just got a dial tone.

  ***

  As I pulled into midtown, the winter sun’s rays were like pale yellow spokes fanned out behind Pittsburgh’s multi-tiered skyline. It would be dusk in less than an hour, and with the roads cleared and no fresh snow in the forecast, the Saturday night crowd would soon pour into the city’s trendy, newly-gentrified havens. The Point. Shadyside. The South Side. The Riverfront.

  But I had a different destination. Two blocks past City Hall, I turned into a parking lot behind a low-roofed, nondescript building that was long overdue for a paint job. It was a privately-owned forensics lab that frequently contracted with the Pittsburgh Police. Moreover, the guy who ran the place had been in grad school with me at Pitt.

  Though it was the weekend, I wasn’t surprised to find the facility open. Henry Stiles had been a workaholic even as a student, and his precise, indefatigable personality had only solidified with age.

  It had been years since I’d last seen him, however, so I needed the receptionist to direct me to Henry’s office. Still, when I knocked at his opened door and he came from behind his desk greet me, I was vaguely unsettled to see how much older he looked than I’d remembered. Heavy-set, with greying hair and veined eyes behind wire-rim glasses.

  “Dan Rinaldi!” He gave me a hearty, collegial hug. “Good Lord, it must be—”

  “Far too long, Henry. Unforgiveable, on my part. So naturally, I need a favor.”

  “Naturally. What are old friends for?”

  Folding his arms, he sat back on the edge of his desk.

  “Though you must have a portrait mysteriously growing old up in your attic, Danny. You look the same as always. Or else it’s those damned Italian genes.”

  I smiled. “That’s the other good thing about old friends, Henry. They know how and when to lie.”

  He gave a short laugh, then, almost reluctantly, sighed. “Okay, we’ve done the obligatory old-school-chums bullshit. You’ll also note I haven’t even asked about those bandages. So what do you want?”

  I handed him the envelope I’d lifted from the Wheeling police station.

  “I need you to analyze what’s inside. And Henry—”

  “Yeah, I know. You need it yesterday.”

  “If not sooner.”

  “Right. Now tell me what’s in here and what I’m looking for. And why.”

  So I did.

  ***

  The temperature must have dropped ten degrees by the time I came back outside. Night was coming.

  I got behind the wheel of the rental and turned the key. Then, gunning it, I pulled out onto the street.

  I hadn’t gone three city blocks when the car died.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Putting it in neutral, I climbed out into the cold and, leaning in to steer through the open window, pushed the car to the curb. Some side street, off Fifth.

  Sighing, I popped the hood and peered inside, though I didn’t know what I was looking for. Dead battery? Faulty fuel pump?

  It didn’t matter. The truth was, I didn’t want to deal with it. Not now, when it seemed as though things were suddenly coming to a head.

  I shut the hood and locked the car. I’d let the rental company handle it later. Right now, all I cared about was getting new transport. Buttoning my coat against the wind and the chill, I trudged up to the corner. Where the traffic was.

  I was still curbside, looking up and down Fifth Avenue for a passing cab, when my cell rang again. It was Eleanor Lowrey, her voice high, breathless.

  “I just got your message. Jesus, Danny, are you sure about the shooter? ‘Cause before I go to Biegler with this, I need—”

  “That’s okay, I’ve already talked to Neal Alcott and he’s on it. Makes sense anyway, since he heads up the task force. Probably deserves the collar.”

  I heard her grateful—and obvious—sigh of relief.

  “Thank God. I was afraid you’d do something stupid again—like go after this Randall guy yourself.”

  “Nope, I’m being a good boy this time. Letting you real law enforcement types earn your salaries.”

  “But what tipped you to Randall in the first place?”

  “Long story, and I’m outside, freezing my ass off. Soon as I grab a cab—”

  “Like hell. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.”

  ***

  We were in Eleanor’s unmarked, heading along surface streets toward the Liberty Tubes. I could tell she was driving with no particular destination in mind. Just moving cautiously through the urban maze, violet eyes focused on the thickening traffic, listening to my theory about Harve Randall.

  “Ya know,” she said at last, “if you’re right, it helps explain something that’s always bothered me.”

  “And that is?…”

  “The night our eyewitness, Vincent Beck, was killed. We never found any abandoned vehicle, which was a real break from the shooter’s typical M.O. Just like his using that hunting rifle instead of his usual revolver.”

  “I see where you’re going, El. We assumed—correctly, I think—that the shooter broke with his standard pattern because he was forced to. Which means that Randall was away from his home base, either his residence or the Wheeling precinct, when he learned that Harry Polk was on his way to interview Beck. Randall was probably in his patrol car.”

  She nodded excitedly.

  “Sure. Maybe he heard about it from some dispatcher. Or maybe Randall’s patrol car is equipped with an onboard computer, linked into the tri-state interface. So he could monitor the task force investigation even if on the road.”

  “Whichever. The thing is, once he hears about the Beck interview, he has to get to Steubenville before Harry does. He can’t tak
e the chance that Beck hadn’t seen something that could expose him. But there wasn’t time to get his usual gun—which, by the way, I’m beginning to believe has some kind of totemic meaning for him. It’s too specific a weapon of choice, if you get my drift.”

  She offered me an indulgent half-smile. “If you say so, Doc…Anyway, if there wasn’t time to get his usual gun, there sure as hell wasn’t time to steal a car.”

  “Right. He had no option other than to risk driving to Steubenville in his patrol car. And breaking into that gun shop to get hold of a weapon. He couldn’t use his own service piece. Ballistics could match it.”

  I gave this more thought. “Wheeling, West Virginia, to Steubenville, Ohio. That’s roughly twenty-five or thirty miles. Then, after he escapes from the warehouse, another thirty miles back to Wheeling. It’s tight, but doable.”

  I suddenly remembered hearing the approaching sirens as the Steubenville police sped to the crime scene.

  “Funny. Randall must’ve been barreling out from behind the warehouse just as the local cops were pulling up to the front.”

  “The guy’s got brass balls, all right.” She stopped at a light and looked over at me. “I just hope nothing spooks him before the bureau closes in.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. In fact, I figured I’d have heard something from Alcott by now.”

  The light changed and Eleanor turned onto a narrow side street. She kept going until she found an open space, pulled to the curb and cut the engine.

  “You giving Biegler a call now?” I asked.

  She shook her head. Sat back in her seat.

  “Before I call him…before it all cranks up again…I just wanted to explain. I mean, about last night.”

  I turned her chin gently toward me.

  “Nothing to explain, El. It’s her, isn’t it?…”

  Her eyes lowered. “I…I just can’t stop thinking about her…wishing things were different…”

  I knew what she was talking about, of course. The woman she’d once called the love of her life. Who’d come back into that life last summer, if only briefly…

  “I do understand, Eleanor. More than you could know.”