Night Terrors (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“You can
prove
it? How, Maggie?”

“On the night Mr. Meachem was killed, Wesley was with me. At my house.”

I chose my next words carefully.

“Are you sure about that? You've been under a great deal of stress. You might have the nights wrong.”

“No, it was definitely the night of the twenty-ninth, because I asked him to help me clean out the attic. My church was collecting old clothes to give to charity, and they wanted all the donations ready and boxed-up by the thirtieth. They'd rented some U-Hauls to come by our houses, pick up the boxes, and deliver them to Goodwill.”

Maggie frowned. “Truth is, I'd been asking Wesley all week to come help me, but he kept putting me off. He knows full well I hate leaving things to the last minute, but it's practically a way of life for him.”

“So Wes showed up at your house that night? Do you remember when?”

“Around six thirty. I made him dinner and then we went up to the attic. I had stuff in there that went back years, decades. You wouldn't believe the dust, the cobwebs.”

“How long did Wes stay that night?”

“Till past midnight. Packing things in boxes and bringing them downstairs. We didn't even get halfway through everything, but by then we were both tired and thirsty. I remember he had a beer for the road before he left for his place. His apartment over on Eighth Street.”

I leaned back in my seat, trying not to let Maggie see the doubt in my eyes.

“Did anybody else know Wes was with you? Maybe some neighbor saw him drive up to your place.”

“I already thought of that. There're only three other houses on my street, and I asked about it at every one of them. Nobody saw anything.”

“Not even his pickup in your driveway? It must've been there for almost six hours.”

“No it wasn't. He always pulls around to the back when he comes to visit me. That's where I keep the trash bins. He picks up any cans or bottles and puts them in the truck. There's a recycling place a couple blocks away, and Wesley turns them in for cigarette money.”

I considered this.

“So it's only your word that Wes was with you that night. With no other corroboration, you're his only alibi.”

“That's right. So I don't have to tell you what the district attorney and the police think.”

“They don't believe you. They think you're lying to protect your son.”

She nodded slowly. “I even showed them the receipt the church gave me for the boxes when the U-Hauls came the next day. Do they really think I could've brought all those boxes down from the attic myself?”

“The point is, Maggie, you can't prove you
didn't
. Still, I'm surprised they haven't at least investigated the possibility—”

Here she slumped, for the first time since she'd entered my office. Hands clasped tightly on her lap.

“Why should they?” she said quietly. “After all, even Wesley says I'm lying.”

“What?”

“He told the police he never came over to the house that night. He swears he
did
kill Ed Meachem. And that I'd probably say anything to save him.”

Neither of us spoke for a full minute.

Beyond my office window, the sun had risen to its noon height, glazing the cold glass. The whole room suffused with a cheerless, hazy light.

When Maggie spoke again, her voice was equally muted. Bewildered.

“I…I don't understand it. Why would he insist that he's guilty? I'm not crazy, Dr. Rinaldi. Wesley
was
with me that night. Why does he deny it?”

“I don't know. I can't understand it either.” I let out a breath. “I assume you've also talked with your son's attorney? Told him what you told the police.”

“Of course. But Mr. Hansen is as puzzled as I am.”

“Regardless, he'd be smart to put you on the stand. You make a more than credible witness.”

“He said the same thing. But he also said that even if the jury sympathized with me, there's still Wesley's confession to deal with.”

I nodded. “Plus his knowledge of the location of Ed Meachem's remains. Strong arguments for the prosecution.”

Only then did Maggie look back up at me. Her gaze as frank as it was solemn.

“I have to ask you, Dr. Rinaldi. Do
you
believe me?”

I took a long moment before replying.

“Truthfully, Maggie, I don't know what I believe. Your story seems as credible to me as I suspect it would seem to a jury. But I was there when Wes showed us Meachem's body. And his confession was uncoerced. According to what the Wheeling police told me, Wesley seemed almost eager to confess to the crime.”

Her jaw had almost imperceptibly tightened as I answered her question. Whatever our initial connection had been, I could see it dissolving. As though my doubt—no matter how carefully I tried to express it—was undoing what little hope she had.

I must have been right, for without another word she rose to her feet. That stern smile once more in place.

I stood as well. “Maggie, please don't go yet. We should still talk—”

“About what? I came to ask for your help and it looks like I'm not going to get it.”

“But even if I knew for a fact that what you say is true, that Wes was with you the night of the murder, how could I help you?”

“By going to see Wesley. By convincing him that he should tell the truth.”

“I have no reason to believe he'd listen to me.”

“Maybe not. But you're the only hope I have left. My son
didn't
kill that man. I've prayed and prayed on it, and I can't for the life of me understand why he keeps saying he did, but I swear before Almighty God that Wesley was with me that whole night.”

I hesitated, not sure what to say next. Suddenly, to my surprise, her hand was on my arm.

“I'm a proud woman, Dr. Rinaldi. It's not easy for me to ask for help. But I need it…my
son
needs it…whether he wants it or not. Would you at least
see
Wesley? Talk to him?”

For the second time that morning, I was being asked to convince someone to do something they were unwilling to do. Neal Alcott wanted me to talk Claire Cobb into staying in town, and now Wes Currim's mother wanted me to talk her son into recanting his murder confession.

I realized, as I stood looking into Maggie Currim's stricken eyes, that both she and Alcott had a faith in my persuasive powers that I didn't quite share.

Her grip tightened. “Would you at least think about it? Please? At least promise me that.”

***

I kept replaying those last moments with Maggie Currim in my mind as I drove across town to the Hilton where Claire Cobb was now sequestered. Traffic was knotted and sluggish, despite the snow-plowed roads, as though the unceasing cold had slowed the city's usual urban rhythm. As though everybody and everything was succumbing to a wintry slumber, a sunlit hibernation.

I found the hotel whose address Alcott had texted me and pulled into the self-parking lot. I shut off the Mustang's engine, listening to its muffled ticking as I slowly rebuttoned my coat.

Would I really consider talking to Wes Currim, a man I believed committed an unspeakable crime? And even if I did, how could I persuade him to recant his confession—if, as Maggie insisted, it wasn't true—when he clearly didn't want to? When he'd gone so far as to accuse his own mother of lying to protect him?

Besides, he could very well be right. Perhaps Maggie
was
lying. It was obvious she loved him dearly, fiercely.
I had no trouble imagining the lengths to which she'd go to help him. To rescue him, even from the consequences of his own actions.

I rested my hand on the door handle, but didn't turn it. Mothers and their sons. A powerful, intricate, often difficult bond, as every therapist understood. Even me, though my own mother had died when I was three. And she'd been bedridden for most of those short years. Leaving me with no memory of being held in her arms, of her smell and touch, of a smiling, loving face looking down at mine. An absence in my life that was in some ways as crucial, as life-altering, as any presence.

Christ!
I pushed those thoughts away. Not a place I wanted to go then. Rarely did, and never without a stab of self-pity that, despite myself, filled me with shame. As though somehow the longing, the loss, should have been dealt with—extinguished—long ago…

With more force than was necessary, I grasped the handle and shouldered open the car door, stepping out into a sharp, implacable cold.

 

Chapter Eighteen

As soon as Agent Green ushered me into the top-floor suite of the downtown Hilton, those assembled in the spacious main room stopped what they were doing to gape.

Neal Alcott, standing, cell in hand. Harry Polk and Eleanor Lowrey on a sofa, poring over files spread before them on a glass coffee table. Claire Cobb and a young woman I presumed to be her FBI protector sitting at a table laden with cups, sodas, and plates of sandwiches.

I heard Agent Green quickly close the door behind me, as though he couldn't wait to make his exit. Not that I blamed him. Every face in the room held the same look of angry, barely-contained frustration.

I smiled. “Isn't this the part where you all jump up and yell ‘Surprise!'?”

“Funny as ever, Rinaldi.” Alcott clicked off his cell, then used it to point at an armchair near me. “Sit.”

I sat. But not without shooting a questioning glance at Eleanor Lowrey, whose returning look was unreadable.

Her partner was less circumspect.

“In case you're wonderin', Doc, we all look shell-shocked 'cause we're fucked.” Polk stroked his chin. “The whole story about the shootings leaked a couple hours ago.”

“It leaked?”

“Somebody broke it on a crime blog,” Alcott explained. “It all went viral in a heartbeat. The letters John Jessup received in jail. The sender now working his way down a list of people he blames for Jessup's death. The joint FBI-Pittsburgh PD Task Force.”

I struggled to take this in. “What about the killer's M.O.? Using stolen cars? Do they know that?”

Lowrey answered. “Not so far. But they
do
know that all the bullets fired came from the same gun. Biegler said the chief is getting hammered with questions from the mainstream media. Requests for confirmation.”

Alcott took out a monogrammed handkerchief to blow his nose. “Our office here is getting the same requests.”

I had a sudden thought.

“What about Vincent Beck? The eyewitness in the prison guard's shooting?”

“So far he's under the radar, too,” Eleanor said.

Polk grunted. “Wanna bet how long he
stays
under it?”

“Now that the media's connected the dots,” Eleanor went on, “everything's up for grabs. Suddenly the local press in Steubenville is taking a second look at the Cranshaw shooting. Re-interviewing the cops involved, fact-checking Cranshaw's background. Harrassing his widow. Because what seemed a random unsolved murder is now part of something bigger.”

“It gets worse,” Polk added. “Some police groupie's website got hold of the M.E.'s report on Cranshaw, listing the cause of death as two gunshot wounds to the chest. Steubenville PD had managed to keep that detail out of the press the first time around.”

“What about Ralph Loftus?” I asked. “How did
he
die?”

“Single shot to the head. But, hey, you don't gotta ask me. Just ask the judge's daughter. She wrote about it in her blog. She found out at the morgue when she ID'd her father's body. She's also posted photos taken of the makeshift memorial to him at the spot where he died. Flowers and Bible verses at the Hilton parking lot in Oakland.” A sour laugh. “Bet
that's
great for business.”

“The point is,” Eleanor said, “now we're in the media spotlight. Which means political pressure, calls for a quick arrest. And that means sloppy police work, mistakes.”

I turned to Alcott. “Jesus, this isn't a leak, it's a flood. How could this happen?”

“How it usually happens.” Shoving his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Somebody talked to somebody. We've got dozens of our people working with cops from three different jurisdictions. Think about it. Combined, you're looking at detectives, uniforms, field agents, transportation, lab rats, communications. Intel flying back and forth throughout the tri-state area. Emails, cell calls, faxes, texts. Hell, maybe some rookie churning out Xeroxes for his precinct captain bragged to his girlfriend about something he read on one of them.”

He sighed. “Given the size of this operation, I'm surprised it took this long to leak.”

Another somber silence settled on the room. Broken suddenly by the sharp rattle of a coffee cup.

It was Claire Cobb, trembling hand still holding the cup as it rested in its saucer. As though unable to let go.

“This means the killer knows that
we
know what he's doing,” she said quietly. “He'll be more cautious, more on his guard. More dangerous.”

“Or just the opposite.” Alcott's placid tone didn't disguise his impatience with her. “Knowing there's a major task force mobilized to track him down, he might get smart and call it a day. Maybe he'll figure he got enough of what he wanted.”

Her smile was rueful. “Somehow, Agent Alcott, I'm not getting that vibe.”

“Me, either,” I offered.

“Well, luckily, law enforcement doesn't operate based on vibes.” Alcott tilted his head at Claire. “And I understand that other matter's resolved, Ms. Cobb?”

She nodded, unhappy.

I looked from her to Alcott. “
Now
what the hell are we talking about? Claire wanting to get out of town?”

The agent actually grinned. “Oh, yeah, Doc. In all the excitement, I forgot to tell you. You didn't need to come down and have a chat with her after all. The director called the Cleveland DA, who then called us here about two minutes later. Isn't that right, Ms. Cobb?”

Claire directed her answer at me, not Alcott.

“My boss read me the riot act. Said I had to cooperate fully with the operation, or risk getting fired. If the FBI wants me to sit in the hotel bathtub till next Christmas, I damn well better do it. And that's a direct quote.”

“Sounds like he needs a little work on his people skills,” I said.

She scowled. “What he needs is a new set of balls and an IQ upgrade. But you can't choose your boss—until you
are
the boss. I just hope I live long enough to take the damn job away from him.”

Alcott folded his arms. “You sit tight and let us do
our
jobs, Ms. Cobb, and you'll be fine. As I've been saying all along.” A glance at me. “In fact, a little attitude adjustment on
all
our parts wouldn't be a bad idea.”

Claire got up slowly from the table, favoring her bandaged wound, and came over to face him.

“Well, don't expect it from me. Besides, I still have a job to do. So if you'll all excuse me, I have to check in with my office in Cleveland. There're cases pending, calls and emails to return.”

She turned to look back at the female agent—to whom I'd never been introduced, I realized—and motioned for her to rise as well. She was young, sturdy-looking. But wary.

“C'mon, Gloria,” Claire said. “Let's find us a room in this suite where I can have some privacy.”

The agent glanced nervously at Alcott, who jerked his thumb toward a hallway leading off from the main room.

“Go ahead, Reese. Take Ms. Cobb to the master bedroom. There's a separate phone line, laptop, wireless access. Whatever she needs.”

Gloria Reese gave a brisk nod and hurried to catch up with Claire, who'd already headed out of the room.

Alcott looked like he wanted to say something more, but must've thought better of it. Instead, he reached for his handkerchief again and wiped his reddening nose.

Just then, Lowrey's cell rang. The rest of us stared dumbly as she took it. She listened intently, offered a few “Uh-huh's,” and then said good-bye.

“That was Lieutenant Biegler again.” Looking up at Alcott. “They've worked up a new set of protocols for disseminating case evidence. To try to prevent any more leaks. The brass even has tech guys beefing up security to the tri-state online interface. We've got Pennsylvania up and running, almost done with Ohio and West Virginia.”

“Good idea,” Alcott said, officiously. “If every Barney Fife in every Podunk precinct has access to task force intel, we might as well just invite the goddam media to sit in on case reviews.”

For the first time in a while, Harry Polk stirred. And gave Alcott his trademark squint.

“Yeah, well, on behalf of all the Barney Fifes in all the Podunk precincts, this case needs every pair o' eyes and ears we can get. Every boot on the ground, every cop on a beat.”

He swiveled in his seat, taking in the rest of us.

“‘Cause the real problem ain't that the story leaked, boys and girls. It's that we don't got squat on the killer. No prints from the abandoned cars the perp drove. No way to trace the gun. No ID, unless this Vincent Beck mook can give us something more than he told the Steubenville cops. No idea if or when the killer's gonna strike again. And no real reason to think that we've rounded up everyone on his target list.”

He let out an exaggerated breath. “So maybe
I
need that attitude adjustment, Agent Alcott, 'cause from where I sit, we're lookin' like a pack o' fools here. Hell, maybe your old profiler Lyle Barnes was smarter than all of us. He had the good sense to just get the fuck outta Dodge.”

Neal Alcott had stood motionless, arms still folded, during Polk's entire rant. Now he lowered his hooded eyes.

“I appreciate candor as much as the next man, Sergeant Polk. But I
don't
appreciate defeatist attitudes. Besides, historically, that's not the bureau's way. Not how we've gotten things done for the past hundred years.”

I didn't even try to suppress a laugh.

“Give it a rest, will ya, Neal? Save the speeches for the next FBI pep rally.”

Alcott favored me with a disdainful look.

“You know, Rinaldi, now that Ms. Cobb's decided to stay here as the bureau's guest, there's no reason you need to be here anymore. So consider yourself excused.”

“What about Agent Barnes?”

“My guess is, Lyle Barnes will be picked up any time now. When that happens, you'll be the first one I call.”

As if to emphasize the point, he held up his cell.

Which was why he was caught off guard when it suddenly rang. Startled for a moment, he clicked it on.

“Yes? Okay, good. Send him up.”

He hung up, with a satisfied smile.

“Looks like Ms. Cobb's going to have some company. Another member of the bar. Agent Zarnicki just arrived with John Jessup's defense attorney. He's escorting him up right now.”

I said nothing, but inwardly was relieved. For some reason, I'd felt all along that these two specific people—the ADA who prosecuted Jessup, and the defense lawyer who failed to keep him out of prison—were among those most likely to be held responsible for his fate by the killer.

Meanwhile, Polk had climbed to his feet.

“Look, I figure it's about time me an' Lowrey—”

Suddenly, Alcott's cell rang again. Seconds after answering it, his face tightened with irritation.

“Right, got it.” Snapping into the phone. “You just make goddam sure he stays put! Be right down.”

He practically jammed the cell into his pants pocket.

I raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Jessup's lawyer took a detour to the hotel bar. Says he won't come up. So now I have to go downstairs and tear him a new one. Like I don't have enough grief…”

Alcott aimed a skeptical look at me.

“He wants
you
to come down, too. Says he knows you.”

“Me?” I shrugged, at a loss. “I don't know this guy.”

“He says you do. So you're coming with me.” He shook his head, miserable. “Damn, Rinaldi, I can't seem to get rid of you.”

Polk gave a dry laugh. “Welcome to
my
world.”

***

The dimly-lit, wood-paneled bar was located in a back corner of the ground floor, just off the lobby. Though not yet five in the afternoon, the dark, cloistered feel of the place—not to mention the haggard, red-faced bartender, the bored middle-aged waitress, and the scattering of weary businessmen staring into their drinks—made it seem like every corner bar in every chain hotel in every city in the world. Where it's always two a.m.

Agent Alcott strode in ahead of me, making straight for the end of the
faux
mahagony bar at which sat the field agent I recognized as Zarnicki. The younger man swiveled on his stool and beamed at us with a combination of chagrin and relief. Reinforcements had arrived.

Next to him, with his back toward us, was an older man in a tailored, though well-worn, Italian suit. Something about the way his shoulders sagged as he bent over his drink looked familiar to me.

I soon learned why.

After throwing back his whiskey, Assistant District Attorney Dave Parnelli turned and patted the stool next to him.

“Park it here, Doc. I saved ya the seat.”