Night Terrors (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Lyle Barnes stood in front of the oval wall mirror, straightening his tie.

“I guess you've already figured out why the director reached out to you.”

“You're suffering from night terrors, and he wants me to treat you. To help you manage the symptoms.”

Barnes peered curiously at his own reflection in the dusty mirror. Squared his shoulders. Then turned back into the room, facing me.

I was on the corner sofa, in a room that was an exact replica of the one we'd just left. Though Barnes and I were the only occupants, I knew there was an agent stationed outside the door. Probably Green or Zarnicki.

In his smartly-done tie and pressed suit jacket, Lyle Barnes looked every inch the veteran FBI agent. Freshly showered and shaved, hair carefully combed. He came over to sit opposite me on the corner of the still-made bed.

“What do you know about night terrors?” I asked.

“Probably as much as you, Dr. Rinaldi. If not more.”

I didn't doubt it. FBI profilers usually held at least a master's in psychology, with the added benefit of years of practical experience. Particularly with the more extreme forms of pathology, expressed primarily in homicidal—or at the very least, criminal—behavior. The kind of on-the-job training that most conventional mental health professionals never received.

With that kind of knowledge and experience, wedded to a cop's mentality, a veteran profiler like Barnes made a formidable agent. However, unlike how they're often portrayed in TV and film, most bureau profilers put in more hours doing research, building potential suspect protocols, and conducting post-conviction interviews than chasing serial killers down deserted alleys at midnight.

Although, given the steely glint in his eyes as he sat forward on the bed, it wouldn't have surprised me if Barnes had done his fair share of the latter. Back in the day.

“Just to fill you in, Doctor,” he began, kneading his knuckles, “I've got the classic symptoms of night terrors. Wild, inchoate dreams filled with horrific images. Though not always distinct images. Shapes, sounds. Pervasive feelings of dread or imminent danger. Until I wake up screaming. Heart and breathing rates elevated. Adrenaline, too, which means cortisol levels off the charts.”

He'd done his homework all right. Unfortunately. I'm always concerned when a patient feels too comfortable with the clinical lingo. It creates in him or her a false sense of control, of mastery over the situation. Which only means a greater sense of shame and disillusionment when the next episode occurs. As it almost inevitably does.

“How long have you had these symptoms?”

“About six months, on and off. Started about a week or two after I retired from the bureau. Though they've been worse in the past month.”

“Since the murder of Earl Cranshaw, the prison guard who killed John Jessup?”

A grim smile. “I knew you'd go there first, Doctor. Too obvious, if you ask me. And remember, I said they started months
before
Jessup's death.”

“So you see the symptoms being keyed more to your retirement than to Jessup's murder.” I paused. “But he
was
your last case. The last serial killer you put away.”

“Hey, I'm not ruling anything out. Your interpretation makes sense. But let's not put it in concrete, okay?”

“I never do.”

A cool silence grew between us. Probably the first of many, I thought.

There's a lot of truth to the saying, “Doctors make the worst patients.” From my own experience in therapy, I can attest that this is especially true for therapists. Now I was beginning to think the adage probably applied equally well to FBI profilers.

“The thing is,” Barnes went on, finally, “for years, the night terrors diagnosis was reserved almost exclusively for young children. Pediatric psychiatrists have done studies and written papers on the subject since the middle of the last century. But now—”

“I know, I've seen the current data. Part of my research on trauma-related symptoms. In the past two decades, more and more adults are receiving the diagnosis.

“According to the Night Terrors Support Network, clinicians are blaming the unusual rise in adult symptoms to the uncertainty of contemporary life. The economy, terrorism. Even the recent natural disasters. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. The daily anxiety suppressed by adults during waking life, later invading their sleep.”

He nodded gravely.

“Though this is just conjecture,” I went on. “The cause may very well be organic, a brain disorder. Nobody knows why night terrors occur. And why they occur during stage four of the sleep cycle, the deepest, most tranquil stage, is even more of a mystery.”

I nearly smiled. I rarely spoke in such a technical, almost pedantic fashion to a patient. But my read of Barnes was that this kind of collegial discourse was a good way to bond with him. To meet him, at least initially, at the level at which he felt comfortable. Intellectual, seemingly objective. Creating a sense of connection.

Barnes stirred. “Yeah, but from what I could find, most studies still favor stress or emotional upset as the cause. And in this crazy world, we got that in spades.”

“True. But my guess is you're smart enough to see that such general anxieties probably have little to do with your own symptoms. After all, you've just retired from a long career in which you regularly engaged with the most heinous of predators.”

“You got that right.”

“Whether interviewing serial killers, building suspect profiles, or reading thousands of case files and police reports, you've been inside the heads of homicidal psychopaths. Daily. Hourly.”

“
Deep
inside.” Barnes raised an eyebrow. “Now aren't you going to ask how that makes me
feel
?”

I bristled. And let him see it.

“Cut the crap. I'm treating your intellect with respect. Do the same for mine.”

Another strained silence. Then, unexpectedly, Barnes favored me with a broad grin.

“You know, Doc, this could work out after all. I mean, it might not be a total waste of time.”

I nodded. “On
both
our parts. And why don't you call me ‘Dan,' okay?”

“Sure. And you can call me Agent Barnes.”

“Lotsa luck with that one. Lyle.”

He just looked at me, massaging his firm jaw.

“There's something else,” I said quietly. “What happened in the past few weeks to Earl Cranshaw and Judge Loftus. There's a killer out there, looking to punish those whom he feels are responsible for Jessup's conviction. And thus his death.”

“Yeah, I know. That's why the bureau has me holed up here in a makeshift safehouse. They figure I'm one of the targets on his hitlist.”

“That reminds me, why'd they put you
here
? I mean, in Braddock? You live somewhere near?”

“Close enough. I lived in Virginia when I was at Quantico, of course. But I moved here to Pennsylvania, to Franklin Park, after I retired. That's why Neal Alcott caught the baby-sitting detail, at least when it came to me. He works out of the bureau's Pittsburgh office. I don't know where they're stashing the other possible targets.”

“Why Franklin Park? You have family there?”

“I did. Had a wife. Died of cancer years ago.” He looked off. “‘Still, for that little while, we visited our possible life.'”

He smiled at my puzzled look. “From a poem by Jack Gilbert. Pittsburgh boy. I'm surprised you don't know him.”

“I don't know much about poetry.”

“Man's greatest achievement, far as I'm concerned.”

I took this in. “You have any children, Lyle?”

“One. A son. But we don't exactly…” A long, leaden pause. “I guess you could say we're estranged. He lives in Chicago. Married, I think. With kids.”

I let another, longer pause hang in the air. Let him sift through whatever thoughts now filled his mind. As his face changed, becoming a grey, unreadable mask…

I decided it was too soon in our work to pursue the more personal details of his life history. There was a good chance I'd lose him. So I brought us back to the present, to the situation at hand.

“You said the Bureau believes you're a likely target on the killer's hitlist. Do you?”

He roused himself. “Seems logical. I'd have to have a look at those letters Jessup received.”

“You mean, you haven't seen them?”

He shook his head. “Since I'm officially retired, I can't get those bastards to let me have eyes-on. Yet without that, I can't work up any kind of profile of the letter writer. Even a general operating theory.”

“What a stupid waste of your talents.
And
your experience.”

“Tell me about it. Meanwhile, I gotta sit in this goddam motel, eating fast food take-out. Like I haven't done enough of
that
in my life.” A rueful smile. “Once I retired, I hoped I'd regularly be able to have a good drink and a decent meal. At a real table. Like a civilian.”

“God knows, you've earned it.”

He folded his arms, gave me a reproachful look. “One more positive, supportive comment outta you, and I'm gonna have to reevaluate our relationship. I did some clinical interview training, too. I know all the tricks.”

“So? Maybe I meant what I said.”

“I'll consider that possibility. Once I've gotten to know you better. It's a two-way street, Doc.”

I stood then, stretched. The sofa was backed against the poorly-insulated exterior wall, so I was near enough to feel the deepening chill just outside. Another night with the temperature below freezing.

I turned to Barnes again. Tried another tack.

“You really gonna be such a pain in the ass about this? If so, you're not as smart as I thought you were.”

“I'm crushed.”

“I mean, it's not like you don't have enough to deal with. Your psyche kicking the shit outta you every time you fall asleep, and some killer with a personal grudge out there looking to put you to sleep
permanently
.”

“And your point is…?”

“For a guy in your situation, your attitude sucks.”

“That's your clinical opinion?”

“
And
my personal one. In your case, it comes down to the same thing.”

Barnes got to his feet as well. Body tensed, eyes hard. Wary. And then, with an abruptness that again took me by surprise, his gaze softened.

And he held out his hand.

“Here's the deal,” he said. “I'll try not to be a shitty patient, and you try to keep me from losing my fuckin' marbles.”

“I'll do my best. But what you're talking about is a kind of psychological triage. I mean, the bureau asked me to help you, and I want to help. They even took the trouble to free up my schedule to work with you. But only for a few days. And, frankly, that's not gonna cut it.”

“What do you mean?”

“To get at the root of your symptoms could take weeks, maybe months. Plus the probable use of medication. There've been some good results from using antidepressants like Klonopin and Tofranil.”

“Not gonna happen. I like my brain chemistry just the way it is.”

“So we'll try other modalities. Relaxation techniques. Hypno-therapy. Prescribed sleep medications.”

“Not until I research their efficacy. Possible side effects.”

I didn't blink.

“You do what you have to, Lyle. And I'll do the same.”

He'd long since let his his extended hand fall once more to his side. His voice grew an edge.

“
Now
who's being a pain in the ass, Doc?”

Before I could reply, there was a sudden loud pounding on the door. Impatient, insistent. Then Alcott's voice.

“You two decent? Another package just showed up.”

Barnes and I exchanged puzzled looks.

Without waiting for an answer, Neal Alcott opened the door and stepped inside. His eyes found mine.

“Session's over, Rinaldi. We're moving.”

“What's going on?”

“Remember that hotshot ADA I told you about? The one who prosecuted Jessup?”

“Yeah?”

“They just brought her in. Got her sequestered in the city.”

Barnes stepped in front of me to face the other agent.

“Because she's probably on the killer's list, right?”

Alcott gave a gruff laugh. “Because she almost got crossed
off
the list. By the killer. He took a shot at her tonight, right outside her office.”

 

 

Chapter Eleven

It was midnight by the time we got back to the city.

The sky was clear and Arctic cold, emptied of snow. Not a flurry had hit the Lincoln's windshield as we drove back the way we'd come. With most of the streets plowed, snow piled in lumpy drifts on either side, it took Billy, again our driver, just half the time to make the trip.

Still, it was plenty of time for Neal Alcott to fill us in. He sat in the front passenger seat, body twisted awkwardly around to peer in the dim light at Barnes and me in the rear.

“Her name is Claire Cobb, twenty-nine. Native of Dayton, Ohio. Went to work for the Cleveland DA's office right after law school. On the fast track, like I said. The Jessup case was her biggest plum yet. And she nailed it.”

Barnes grumbled. “Wasn't hard. The evidence was overwhelming. Once he passed the psych eval, Jessup was toast.”

“Whatever.” Alcott took a breath. “Anyway, we'd just sent a team to Cleveland this afternoon, following the judge's murder. To convince her to accept FBI protection, stay in a safe house outside town till we got the prick.”

“So what happened?”

“The goddam weather is what happened. Our two agents got stranded on the interstate heading there to meet her. Some kinda car trouble. By the time they got hold of another vehicle, it was too late. They show up at the Cleveland DA's office, only to find the whole block cordoned off. Black-and-whites. City ambulance. Turns out, Claire Cobb was shot going to her car in the parking garage. After work.”

“How bad was she injured?” Barnes asked.

“Minor. Shoulder wound. The bullet went in and out. She was damned lucky, that's for sure. She told the cops the shooter was in some kind of blue or black van. Came barreling out of a darkened corner of the garage, leaning out the driver's side window with a gun. He fired two shots, only one of which hit her, and kept driving.”

Barnes whistled. “She was lucky, all right.”

“Where is Claire now?” I asked.

Alcott said, “Here. In Greentree, across the river. We have her stashed in a Marriott there.”

I knew the place. I'd attended a clinical conference there once. Just east of the city.

“She didn't need hospitalization?”

“They took her to some ER in Cleveland, of course. But they patched her up and said she was good to go. At first, she just wanted to go home, but our agents talked her out of it. Told her the guy might try again. Scared the shit out of her. She caved.”

“But why bring her here?” I was having a hard time understanding the bureau's approach to these shootings.

“I can probably answer that,” Barnes said. “If I were Neal here, I'd want to run the whole show from one place. Easier to control intel, coordinate field agents.
Much
easier to keep potential victims safely tucked away.”

Alcott nodded. “That's right. Besides, the Pittsburgh office runs FBI operations for the whole tri-state area. So the bureau can interface with the Steubenville cops on the Cranshaw killing, the Pittsburgh cops on Judge Loftus—”

“I thought he was from Cleveland, too,” I said. “Where Claire Cobb lives and works.”

“He is, but he was killed here in the city. So in terms of jurisdiction, it's Pittsburgh PD's case.”

“Speaking of Loftus, has his daughter Helen been located? Informed what happened?”

“Uh-huh. Soon as she got back from her hiking trip, she got the next-of-kin notification. Took it pretty hard, according to the cops.”

“No surprise there.”

“Thankfully, her boyfriend was with her. Plus her dorm mate at Carnegie Mellon.”

All the family she had left, I reflected. I hoped they'd be enough. I also made a mental note to follow up with her through Angie Villanova. To make sure Helen was getting the support she'd need.

Barnes cleared his throat. “So the Bureau is working the shootings jointly with the Pittsburgh PD?”

“Yeah.” Alcott's frowned. “Not exactly a brain trust, but some competent people. If nothing else, it gives us more boots on the ground. To follow up on leads. Interview tangential witnesses. Background stuff.”

Lyle Barnes mumbled something I didn't quite catch. But it was clear he shared Alcott's view of the local police department. The typical FBI condescension toward any law enforcement agency that wasn't the bureau. Including cops, the CIA, ATF, and, especially, Homeland Security.

Fuck 'em
, I thought sourly. If Neal Alcott was the bureau's idea of a rising star, they had no business looking down on anyone.

“After the Cobb shooting,” Alcott continued, “we've stepped up making contact with some of the other probables on the killer's list. So our people are getting in touch with them as we speak. The Cleveland cops who brought Jessup in, his defense attorney, the jury foreman…”

“That's a lot of manpower,” Barnes said.

“Not to mention the overtime, but the director feels it's necessary.”

Barnes pursed his lips, but didn't comment.

Having finished his report, Alcott swiveled face-front again in his seat. I turned to look at Barnes' chiseled profile, outlined in the faint light, like a medieval woodcut against the night-shadowed window. Before we'd left the motel, he'd downed two cups of black coffee from the lobby vending machine. Yet I could see the strain in his eyes, their ongoing battle with fatigue.

I sat back in my seat. It was strange. A veteran FBI agent. With a long and distinguished career.

A fearless man, afraid to fall asleep.

We drove the rest of the way to Greentree in silence.

***

Assistant District Attorney Claire Cobb didn't fit the picture I had in my mind of an ambitious, “hotshot” prosecutor. Maybe because the last career-driven, whip-smart female ADA I knew
did—
in her stunning looks, take-no-prisoners attitude, and undoubted courage.

What Claire Cobb had, instead, was the steady manner and personal gravitas that made you believe in her utterly. In her competence. In her sincerity. At least, that was the initial impression I had as we shook hands. If it was all show, a practiced pose, she was a remarkable actress.

She was a heavy-set woman, quite stout, with short cropped brown hair. A smooth, oval face, with serious dark eyes behind Armani glasses. Her white blouse, black jacket and slacks, and medium heels—the contemporary working woman's uniform—seemed made to order for the persona she projected. Business-like, yet approachable.

The only glaring note was provided by the bandaged shoulder visible under her blouse, and the way her forearm was bent across her ample chest, held in a hospital sling.

“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” I said, as she resumed her seat on the three-sectioned couch. I sat next to her. “Does it hurt?”

She managed a smile. “Only when somebody asks me that. And people seem determined to do so.”

Behind me, Neal Alcott stifled a low chuckle.

We were in a suite on the top floor of the Greentree Marriott, on whose exterior double doors was a sign stating that the room was closed for remodeling.

The suite itself was modestly-appointed, yet spacious. Including the main sitting area—where we were now—and two good-sized bedrooms.

The larger of the two boasted a wide-screen TV whose volume was loud enough for us to hear it. The local CNN affiliate, covering the shooting death that morning of Judge Ralph Loftus. Lyle Barnes had gone in and turned it on as soon as we arrived, not five minutes ago.

Agents Green and Zarnicki, having dutifully followed us in from Braddock, were out in the corridor.

I'd noticed Alcott's posture and manner had grown more relaxed from the moment Lyle Barnes left the room. Though Alcott was the agent in charge, the now-retired Barnes' status and reputation obligated the younger man to keep him in the loop. And with Barnes making little effort to hide his disrespect for Alcott, it couldn't have been easy.

Which was probably why, when the TV volume from the master bedroom rose even higher, Alcott was only too happy to stride briskly to the door and close it. The news anchor's voice fell to an urgent muffle.

“Now we can hear ourselves think,” the agent said to no one in particular. And received no reply.

Claire Cobb broke the sudden silence by turning to me.

Her smile was cordial, but wary.

“I understand you work with the Pittsburgh police.”

“As a consultant, yes. I'm a psychologist, and I specialize in treating crime victims.”

“Then remind me to get your card when this is all over. I'll probably need it.”

She looked past me to where Alcott now stood, his back to the wide picture window. His reflection in the glass mingled with the diffused glow of the city's lights.

“Speaking of which, Agent Alcott, how long do you plan on keeping me here? And my fellow captive, Agent Barnes?”

He stirred. “As long as it takes, Ms. Cobb. Unless you think that's a bad idea…”

She shivered involuntarily, and I could see the naked fear she was containing under her placid demeanor.

“No, not at all. Just curious. Being shot at is enough to make a believer out of me.”

“Don't worry.” Alcott grinned. “We'll get the bastard. Catching bad guys is kind of a hobby of mine.”

“Really?” She considered this. “Mine are needlepoint and Tantric sex.”

I enjoyed watching the startled look on Alcott's face. And realized how much I was growing to like Claire Cobb.

“One last question.” Claire turned her head, sweeping the room with her glance. “Where are the two detectives who brought me here from the airport?”

“Detectives?” I looked over at Alcott. “I thought
your
people brought Ms. Cobb in.”

“They put her on the plane in Cleveland. Pittsburgh PD assigned two dicks to pick her up. Bring her in.”

“Was I that dreadful a passenger?” Claire said wryly. “Did I offend them in some way?”

His smile was indulgent.

“No, ma'am. They're probably working the Loftus killing. Part of an investigation the bureau's running jointly with the Pittsburgh police.”

Suddenly, Alcott's cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, squinted at the display.

“Excuse me.” He took the call, listened a moment. “Yes. Okay, send them up.”

He clicked off and favored Claire with another easy smile. “Speak of the devil. They're on the way up. Looks like we caught a break.”