Night Terrors (4 page)

Chapter Six

“Shouldn't I be wearing a blindfold? Or a hood or something?”

Alcott favored me with a pained smile.

“Hell, if I had my way, Rinaldi, you'd be bound and gagged.
And
tranked to the gills. But I need you conscious, so I can get you up to speed. Besides, there's no mystery to where we're going. Beautiful downtown Braddock.”

Well, that cleared one thing up. I glanced out my side window. We'd crossed the South Tenth Street Bridge, moved smoothly through the construction sites around the Point, and were heading east along the Penn Lincoln Parkway.

Though there were only scant flurries now, our driver—some junior G-man in a thick camelhair coat—drove slowly and deliberately through the unceasing gloom of night.

When I turned back, I saw the chiseled lines of Alcott's profile as he punched buttons on his iPad. The local FBI agent hadn't changed much since we'd met last summer. Same blond hair, with its military-style buzzcut. Broad, linebacker shoulders straining the threads of his tailored gray suit. The knowing, confident squint in his hooded blue eyes.

When the FBI was brought in to assist the police in that bank robbery, Alcott had made no effort to hide his disapproval of my involvement. Not only was I a civilian, I was a head-shrinker. Two strikes against me already, or so it seemed at the time.

So what was I doing in the back seat of a federal vehicle, with an FBI section manager? Being followed by another car, a somber black sedan, probably carrying the two field agents who'd collared me?

Good questions, I thought. So I asked them.

“Give me a minute.” He didn't look up from his work.

I let out a long breath, and turned my attention back to the buildings rapidly receding behind us. Snow-veiled yet glittering, the skyline was dotted with the lights of a twenty-first century Steel City. No longer an industrial powerhouse, most of its workers had long since exchanged blue collars for white ones. The “new” Pittsburgh—with its world-class museums, universities, and hospitals—was an urban work-in-progress, continuing to grow amidst the brown bricks and cobblestone streets of its fabled past.

Its story was, to borrow a phrase, a tale of two cities: one, a faded patchwork of ethnic neighborhoods, steel mills, and coal barges gliding down its Three Rivers; the other, a modern engine of high finance and well-funded research, the nation's pioneer in nanotechnology.

I myself bridged those two realities. The son of an Italian-American beat cop who drank himself to death, and an Irish homemaker who died when I was three, I was the first in my family to go to college, become a professional. Yet I could still clearly remember the Pittsburgh of my childhood, when the skies were choked with the smoke of blast furnaces. When trolley cars rumbled down the old city streets, people sat out on their back porches listening to Pirates games on the radio, and everyone in the neighborhood knew your name.

Alcott jolted me out of my reverie by matter-of-factly dropping a heavy folder on my lap.

“What's this?” I flipped through the sheaf of papers. Police reports, crime scene photos, Xeroxed newspaper articles. Three stapled documents with the Quantico letterhead, from the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit.

“You can study up once we get there. To fill in all the details.” Alcott shifted in his seat to face me. “But for now, let me give you the bullet points.”

I closed the file on my knee. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was fueling a rising anger.

“What if I don't want to play?”

“You don't have a choice, Rinaldi.” He massaged his chin. “You haven't had a choice about it since six thirty this morning.”

“Why? What happened at six thirty this morning?”

“You became, against my better judgment, a necessity. Comes straight from the top of the food chain. The director wants you brought in to help us. Which means, that's exactly what you're gonna do.”

I met his confident gaze. “Sure thing, Alcott. As long as this magic pumpkin gets me home from the ball by midnight. I have a day full of patients tomorrow.”

“Not to worry. We've cleared your schedule.”

I have to admit, this threw me.

“What the hell? What do you mean? How—?”

“We hacked your computer, Doc. We got tech geeks who can do that nowadays. From any remote location. Not that your passwords were that hard to crack.”

“I don't fucking
believe
this. You can't just—”

“Believe it. We got into your patient files, got their phone numbers, made some calls. My secretary did a great job as your answering service operator, informing your patients that you've taken ill. Nothing serious, probably the flu. But you'll be out for a few days.”

“But those patient names are confidential. As are my case notes, and—”

“Listen, nobody gives a shit about a bunch of whiners and head cases. Soon as we made the calls, we deleted all the data.” He raised his hand, palm out. “Scout's honor.”

“Like that's supposed to make it okay? Like I even
believe
you? Go fuck yourself, Alcott!”

I made a mental note to copy and delete my patient files, ASAP. Reinforce security. Change the passwords.

“Easy, Doc. Besides, we cleared it with Pittsburgh PD. The director had a nice chat with your assistant chief. He agreed to loan you temporarily to the bureau. In the name of inter-agency cooperation.”

“Too bad nobody had a nice chat with
me
. I work
with
the cops, not
for
them.” I gripped the door handle. “Now let me outta this fucking car.”

Alcott's jaw tightened. “You're not goin' anywhere.”

From the front seat, the driver's voice. A rookie, all right, spoiling for trouble. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Not at all, Billy.” Alcott gave me a placid look.

I just stared at him in the car's pale light. Frozen by a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Which he thoroughly enjoyed. “By the way, if it helps, your patients felt really bad about you being sick. One lady even offered to bring you some chicken soup.”

My hand tightened impotently on the door handle. Rage creating a burning sun in the middle of my chest.

“Listen, asshole, you have any idea what kind of a breach this is? The damage this could do to my patients if they find out their confidentiality has been violated?”

Especially, I thought, given the type of people I see. Crime victims whose lives had already been shattered. For whom trust in the emotional safety of our work together was as fragile as a soap bubble.

“No reason they should ever find out,” Alcott said smoothly. “I mean, shit,
we're
not gonna tell them. Far as they know, it never even happened. No harm, no foul.”

I didn't reply.

“Look, Rinaldi, the truth is, I think you're an arrogant prick who's more trouble than he's worth. But like it or not, the powers-that-be want you involved. So it's no good bitching about it.”

“That's a damn shame, since I'm just getting started.” Alcott failed to see the humor.

On the other hand, I thought, maybe he was right. Maybe the best course of action, at the moment, was to find out what was going on. With a long breath, I let my anger, my righteous indignation at what they'd done, drain away.

“Okay.” I sat back in my seat, noticing at the same time that our vigilant driver's wide shoulders had relaxed now, too. For the first time in the past minute.

I turned to Alcott. “I guess that means you're going to tell me what happened at six thirty this morning?”

“Nope.” He took back the thick file folder. “That's the
end
of the story. We've got to start at the beginning.”

 

Chapter Seven

“You ever hear of a man called John Jessup?”

“No,” I said.

“I'm not surprised. He's not exactly a household name, like Ted Bundy, or the Zodiac Killer, or the Handyman. Not even close to being in their league.”

“Is Jessup some kind of serial killer?”

“
Was
some kind of serial killer. The sloppy kind, turns out. Anyway, he's dead. But even when he was alive, he pretty much did his thing below the radar.”

“Do I want to know what his ‘thing' was?”

“Nothing fancy. Raped and strangled four prostitutes. Two in Ohio, one in Kentucky, one in Indiana. Over an eight month period.”

“Guy traveled a lot.”

“Sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. On the road all the time. Classic profile for a serial killer. White, middle-aged, kept to himself. No friends to speak of.”

“You said he was sloppy. Meaning what?”

“Meaning he left some DNA under the fingernails of the girl he did in Cleveland, Ohio. She must've scratched him during the assault. I mean, the guy wasn't a total idiot. Wore gloves. But he didn't consider the scratch. What it might've left under her nail.”

“That's sloppy, all right. A smart predator would've done something about it. Like cut off her finger. Just in case.” I'd once read about such an incident.

“Uh-huh. Anyway, the DNA was a match for some unknown perp who'd been busted years before for beating up a hooker in some fleabag hotel outside Detroit. So we got him.”

“Nice story. How come I never heard of it?”

“No reason you should. For one thing, hookers get killed all the time, all over the country. Unless there's something sensational about the crimes, they rarely make it to the front page. Or the evening news.” He paused. “You know what most cops say about a hooker's murder, right? I mean, wasn't your old man a cop?”

I nodded. “Yeah. He used to refer to cases like that as an NHI. ‘No Human Involved.'”

“Right. As in, who gives a shit? Just another dead hooker. Plus, these murders happened in three different states, over a period of months. For a while, nobody even saw a connection.”

“What's the second thing?”

A dark smile. “Truth is, most serial killers got a signature. Maybe they leave something behind at the crime scene. Like a calling card, or a taunt to the cops. Sometimes they send messages to the local paper. Or else they take a specific item from the victim. A lock of hair, her shoes. Something that identifies the crime as their work.”

“But not Jessup?”

“No, the guy's got the imagination of a stuffed cat. Just gets his rocks off, puts his gloved hands around the vic's throat, and chokes the life out of her.”

“More likely, he did both at the same time.”

“That's what the M.E. thought, too. And Barnes. But it's just conjecture. Forensics were inconclusive, and Jessup clammed up after his arrest. Didn't say shit throughout his trial, either.”

“Who's Barnes?”

“Special Agent Lyle Barnes. One of the bureau's top profilers. Been working out of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico for twenty years. Only retired a couple months ago, in fact. John Jessup was his last case.”

“Was Barnes good at his job?”

“The best, some people say. Unrelenting when he caught the scent, if you know what I mean. Plus he was a data nut. Spent every free hour at Quantico compiling stats, poring over the records of past serial killers. Know how he spent his vacation time?”

“No idea.”

“He went around to maximum security prisons, interviewing the monsters still alive. Spent hours talkin' with guys like Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, the Green River Killer. Real fun group. Imagine living inside
their
fucking heads for the past twenty years.”

I couldn't even begin to imagine. I said so.

“Damn straight. On the plus side, Barnes has a gut like nobody's business. When the DNA on the Ohio vic came in, the Cleveland cops asked for the Bureau's help with the lab stuff. Somehow Barnes got wind of it. Then, when there was a match to an earlier assault on a hooker, he got into the data base and—”

“Found the other cases, the other prositutes who'd been raped and strangled.”

“Then all he had to do was contact Jessup's company, get the info on where their rep was working on any given date, and match up the locations to the scenes of each girl's death. Barnes himself led the FBI team to pick up Jessup at the Cleveland county jail.”

“What happened at the trial?”

“Open and shut. So no media circus. Another reason the story stayed regional. A couple news cycles in Ohio, not even that in Kentucky and Indiana. Plus the timing was bad. One or two blogs about it from the crime junkies, and then it was back to March Madness. They take their basketball pretty seriously in that part of the country.”

“And Jessup never said anything? About his motives, his fantasies? Did they do a psych eval?”

“Sure, his defense attorney insisted, and Jessup was declared legally fit to stand trial. Which was all the prosecutor needed. Some hotshot female in the Cleveland DA's office, making her bones with the Jessup conviction. Judge must've felt the same way, since he sentenced the guy to four consecutive life terms.”

“But what's all this have to do with me?”

Alcott unhurriedly flipped to another page in the file. Bringing me into this may not have been his idea, but he was still determined to stay in charge.

“Relax, will ya, Doc? Like I said, none of this stuff is particularly unique. Multiple murderers are a dime a dozen. Got a lot of 'em locked up in SuperMax prisons. Bottom-feeder serials like Jessup. Gang shooters. Mob hit men. The crap floating in the sewers under society.”

I had to smile. “Nice one, Alcott. A good soundbite for your next media shot.”

“Yeah, I like it, too.” A broad, unconvincing wink. “Anyway, John Jessup gets sent up to Markham Maximum Correctional in Ohio, nobody gives him another thought. Until he starts getting the letters.”

“What letters?”

“Fan letters. Again, nothing new. You oughtta see the fan letters Charlie Manson still gets. Hell, Ted Bundy got marriage proposals. All these whack jobs have groupies, people sendin' them pictures, lockets, whatever. Lotta strange folks out there in the heartland, Doc. But I guess I don't have to tell
you
that.”

“But you said Jessup wasn't a celebrity in that way.”

“He wasn't. Maybe if he'd killed a dozen women. Or carved his initials on their tits or something. But I'm telling you, the jails are full of guys like him. Maybe they're nuts, maybe they're just evil pricks. But as far as I can tell, there wasn't anything special about Jessup.”

“Were all these letters from the same person?”

“Looks like it. Though all with different postmarks. All typed on some kind of electric typewriter. A Sears Coronamatic, circa 1970. I mean, who even
uses
a typewriter anymore?”

“What were in the letters?”

“In a nutshell? How much the writer admired Jessup, thought he was brave, a maverick in a soulless society. How the people who put him in jail were the real criminals, part of the oppressive establishment. The usual conspiracy bullshit, with some groupie ass licking thrown in.”

“Was the writer ever identified?”

“No. But he always signed the letters the same way. Well, typed them, I mean. Always ended them with the words ‘Sincerely, Your Biggest Fan.'” Alcott laughed. “'Course, he was Jessup's
only
fan. A fan club of one.”

“You said ‘he.' You sure the letter-writer was male?”

“Our people in Behavorial Science believe it's a man. Barnes included. Most letters from females to inmates like Jessup are more…well, romantic, I guess you'd say. Lots of sexual innuendo. Flirting. More like love letters. These were the work of a fan, not a potential bride-to-be.”

I nodded. “Jessup never received any other mail?”

“Just once. A package, right after the trial, from his widowed sister. His only living relative. In it was a Bible and a note saying she hoped he'd burn in hell.”

“Did you follow up with her? Maybe she'd know who her brother's secret admirer might be.”

“We would've, sure. Except the poor woman died the day after sending Jessup the package. Drove her car off a bridge into the Ohio River. Suicide.”

“Any suspicion of foul play?”

“None. She took herself out, no question.”

I gave this some thought. A deeply devout woman, perhaps fanatically so. Widowed, alone. Her only remaining family member a convicted rapist and murderer. Not much left for her to live for, other than the daily acid bath of shame. No wonder she—

Alcott cleared his throat. “You wanna stay with me here, Doc? We're only five minutes from Braddock.”

“Sorry. Just thinking.” My glance fell to the folder on his lap. “Was Jessup ever questioned about the letters? About whether he knew who was sending them?”

“Of course. But he claimed to have no idea who they were from. Didn't seem that interested, either. Not even flattered or whatever. Says here in the report that Jessup exhibited his ‘customary flat affect.'”

I didn't reply. Because suddenly, some notion in the back of my mind, some vague memory, was starting to take shape.

“What prison was Jessup being held in again?”

“Markham Maximum Correctional. Bingham, Ohio.” A slow smile. “I get the feeling you're starting to remember.”

“Maybe. Wasn't there a news story a few months ago about some kind of riot there? Prisoners attacking the guards. Turned violent, bloody.”

“That's right. To this day, nobody knows how it started. But somehow, John Jessup got caught up in the middle of it. Classic case of wrong place, wrong time. And he paid for it with his life.”

“So that's how Jessup died. He was killed.”

“Yeah. A guard named Earl Cranshaw did it. Beat Jessup to death with his baton. Caused a big controversy when Cranshaw wasn't charged with manslaughter. Just sent packing, stripped of his pension.”

Alcott paused, aware of its dramatic effect. Then, almost delicately, he held a single plastic-wrapped piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger.

“You ready for this? Couple days after Cranshaw left the prison staff, this letter arrived. Addressed to the late John Jessup. The last letter sent by his Biggest Fan.”

“What does it say?”

He squinted at the words through the thin plastic. “‘I'm sad you're gone, but don't worry. Those that have wronged you will be punished. Your cruel mistreatment will be avenged. Because I know that then, and only then, can you truly rest in peace. Sincerely, Your Biggest Fan.'”

Alcott looked at me, jaw tightening.

“A week later, two days before Christmas, Earl Cranshaw—the prison guard who'd killed Jessup—was shot dead outside his home.”