Night Terrors (23 page)

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?”

“March 31, 2009.”

“Okay, now look something up for me. When did John Jessup's first victim die? The first prostitute he raped and killed?”

Barnes wheeled back to the desk and scooped up the files Alcott had given me. He flipped quickly through some loose-leaf pages.

“The first vic was a woman in Ohio. According to the initial police report, the date of the crime was…” His voice quieted. “The date was June 13, 2009.”

He looked up at me.

“Are you saying?..”

I nodded. “Shortly after Squires died,
another
serial took up the task of killing prostitutes. Our letter writer had a new champion.”

“Jesus…” Barnes pulled at his lower lip.

“Don't you see? It's not the
killers
that obsess the letter writer, it's their victims. Prostitutes.”

“I get it. Squires croaks, then the guy who's been writing to him learns of another hooker's murder. Maybe even a second one, not long afterwards. And realizes that someone else is now out there, continuing the mission.”

I stepped back, sat on the sofa. Suddenly deflated.

“But how does he know about the murders? The seemingly random killing of a prostitute rarely makes the news.”

“Yeah, but law enforcement types
would
know. Every cop in every police department in the country. So would every agent in the Bureau.
If
they were interested. You want me to find out whether any hookers were murdered last week in Stockton, California? Who the vics were, when they got killed, who's been arrested? Give me five minutes and I can tell you. There are multiple and overlapping data bases. Hell, VICAP alone gives you a perfect window into homicide here in the good ol' USA. I'm surprised there hasn't been a reality TV show built around it yet.”

I let this all sink in.

“We're just guessing here, granted,” I said, “but it looks like our letter writer shifted his hero worship from Gary Squires to John Jessup. He didn't know who Jessup was, of course, until his arrest and trial. But he'd learned
somebody
was out there killing prostitutes, and he was following his exploits. Like you might follow and root for your favorite athlete.”

Barnes shook his head. “He's not just
following
the serial's exploits, Doc, he's
living
them. Vicariously. He's killing prostitutes by proxy.”

 

Chapter Thirty-nine

“By proxy?”

I fell silent, slowly accepting the logic of Barnes' theory. “Then Neal Alcott was wrong when he said the shooter was just a garden-variety murderer with a hitlist. In a way, our guy
is
a serial killer. In his fantasies, anyway. He's just been having somebody else do it for him all these years.”

“Exactly. My guess is, the same psychological dynamic is at work with our guy as it probably was for the serial killers he idolized.” Barnes looked off, voice sober. “There's an internal pressure, insistent, all consuming. Like his head's gonna explode. The emotional need for catharsis, for release, builds and builds, until a predator like Gary Squires—and then John Jessup—rapes and kills a prostitute. Our guy reads about it, experiences the vicarious thrill, then his bottled-up tension is released. Drains away.”

“A return to homeostasis,” I suggested. “Until, over time, the cycle begins again…”

“That's right.”

I paused, noting the reflective cast that veiled his pale eyes. Whether from extreme fatigue or the excitement of the chase, he seemed less guarded. Less armored against any incursions into his interior world. At ease discussing the particulars of his unique, difficult profession. I realized it might be the opportunity I'd been waiting for.

“Is that cycle typical of serial killers you've profiled?” I asked casually.

Barnes leaned back in the desk chair.

“For most, yeah, in some variation. But not all. I remember the Chris Wilder case. When we finally ID'd him, he led us on a cross-country chase for weeks, killing a new victim every other day. Swiftly, brutally.”

“What happened to him?”

“Some cops spotted him at a gas station and Wilder shot himself. Just a killing machine, that prick. All in a day's work. No cycles involved. Like I say, some serials feel no more compulsive urges than it takes to order a cheeseburger. I interviewed one guy on death row who kidnapped and tortured adolescent girls because, in his opinion, they dressed immorally nowadays. You see, from his perspective, he had a
reason
to do what he did. Unconscious cycles are one thing, motive is something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“The cold fact is, whether psychotic or sociopathic, a serial usually has his or her reasons. David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, believed his neighbor was a demon ordering him to kill. Communicating instructions via his pet dog. Mary Martin Speck, a nurse who killed twenty-three patients, claimed to be doing the Lord's work. Dennis Rader, the BTK Killer, felt a profound need to prove his superiority over us lesser beings who were trying to catch him. Hell, I ought to know. After his arrest, we spent hours talking about it. Interesting guy.”

He regarded me wearily. “As I say, the reasons may be irrational—based on delusional beliefs or unfounded grandiosity—but they're reasons nonetheless. At least in the killer's mind.”

“Now you're talking about rationality. That it's no guarantee of sane behavior.”

“Shit, no. In my experience, a perfect rationality is not incompatible with psychosis. If carried to the extreme. Hell, you could argue that it
leads
to it.”

“What about men like Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dalhmer?”

He stoked his chin. “Jesus, monsters like that…Reminds me of something Holderin wrote. ‘It is now the night of the world.' Afraid he got
that
right.”

“Another poet I never heard of?”

“Only a fucking genius. Son, your education is sorely lacking, ya know that?”

“If you say so.”

“By the way, I interviewed Bundy. Twice. Charming son-of-a-bitch, I'll give him that. Not that it ever worked on me. His smile had too many teeth, if ya know what I mean. As for Dalhmer, you're better off asking a theologian, not me. There you're in the realm of the unimaginable. Real evil. With young boys. Necrophile, cannibal…Besides, he was killed by his fellow inmates before we had a chance to chew the fat.” A wicked grin. “Sorry. Bad joke.”

“
Christ
, Lyle! Anyway, don't some studies suggest an organic cause in these serials? Something neurological?”

“It's possible. Like maybe some kind of lesion in the limbic lobe. The site of unmediated aggression. Pure id, if you guys still use that quaint term.”

Then, briefly, he yawned. I'd been carefully watching his body language. Gauging the depth and regularity of his breathing. Noting how his body had slumped in the chair, the tension leaving his arms and legs. As I'd hoped, he was lapsing into a presleep stage of relaxation.

I knew I had to continue the rhythmnic balance of our conversation. Maintain the cadence that was lulling him.

“So getting back to our guy,” I said, “if we're right,
he
had his reasons too. For years now he's been using two successive serial killers to enact his fantasies of killing prostitutes. First Gary Squires, then John Jessup.”

Barnes blinked lazily. “And then, after Jessup is sent to prison, the letter writer—older, more sophisticated now—starts sending his new idol fan mail. Signing it ‘Your Biggest Fan.' Until Jessup is killed in a prison riot.”

“Not only that, but the man responsible, the guard Earl Cranshaw, isn't punished for it. Not sufficiently, anyway. Not in the fan's mind. So he sends a final, posthumous letter to Jessup, assuring him that his death will be avenged. Two weeks later, Cranshaw is shot and killed. The first name on the avenger's list.”

Neither one of us spoke for a full minute. During which, I watched as his eyes slowly closed…

Abruptly, to my chagrin, Barnes roused himself and awkwardly rose to his full height.

“Lyle, wait…”

“Sorry, I was starting to drift off…”

“That's the goddam idea.”

Ignoring me, he went padding in stockinged feet into the kitchen. I followed, and found him opening the plastic lid to the coffee canister.

“Don't you think you've had enough caffeine, Lyle? Your hand tremors are getting worse.”

“Bullshit. I'm fine.”

“I watched while you typed on the keyboard. I saw the effort it took to keep hitting the right keys. How often you had to backspace, retype.”

He turned from the counter, coffee scooper in hand.

“And your point is…?”

“My point is, you need to give it up. You need to let yourself sleep. Regardless of our theory about the shooter, for now it's just a theory. And it doesn't get us one inch closer to knowing who this guy is. Even if we're right, and it
is
a cop. Or an agent.”

“
Or
ATF, or Homeland Security. They use VICAP and all the other data bases, too. They have as much interest in violent criminals as the cops and the bureau. Anybody in one of those agencies could also be our guy. Which means we got a helluva lot of work to do.”

“Though we can't do much if our mental resources are strained to the max.” I smiled. “By the way, I'm just saying ‘we' to be polite. I really mean
you
. You've got to let yourself sleep. And I think I can help you do that.”

“I'm not taking any fucking meds.”

“No problem, I can't prescribe them. But what I
can
do is use hypnosis to relax you. Put you in a tranquil frame of mind. With any luck, you might get some real sleep for a change. Even if only for a couple hours. I watched you in there, Lyle. Your body is
desperate
for sleep.”

“Great. And when I wake up screaming—”

“I'll be here.”

A beat. “Let me give it some thought. Over coffee.”

“No way.” I snapped the lid back on the coffee canister. “My house, my rules.”

He stared, anger reddening his cheeks.

“Are you shittin' me?”

For a moment, I thought he was going to take a swing at me. If so, he never had the chance.

Because suddenly there was a loud, insistent pounding at my front door. Then an equally loud, insistent voice calling into the house.

“FBI, Dr. Rinaldi! Open up!”

Barnes froze where he stood. Then, abruptly, he ran out of the kitchen and down the hall. Toward the bedroom.

As the pounding at my front door grew louder. Afraid they might break it down, I hurried across the house and looked out the door's peephole.

The fish-eye lens distorted her features, but I could still make out Agent Gloria Reese's stern, dark-eyed face. Which threw me for a moment. It couldn't have been
her
voice I'd heard shouting. It had definitely been male.

Regardless, I turned the knob. I'd just opened the door a crack when it was violently pushed in, knocking me back. Surprised, I had to struggle to keep my balance.

As I'd guessed, Agent Reese wasn't alone. She was flanked on either side by Agents Green and Zarnicki, looking as adrenaline-pumped and formidable as linebackers. All three had their handguns drawn, at the ready.

“What the hell—?”

I'd barely gotten the words out when Agent Green grasped my elbow with his free hand. His fingers dug meaningfully into my flesh. A statement.

“Where's Lyle Barnes, Dr. Rinaldi?” His angry gaze lasered back at my own. “We know he's here.”

Reese stepped up beside us, lowering her gun.

“He's been here all along, hasn't he?” Deliberately keeping her voice calm, quiet. “You've been hiding him.”

Ignoring her, I kept my eyes riveted on my captor.

“You better remove that federally-funded hand, Agent Green, before I do it for you.”

He smirked, as only the young and testosterone-fueled can, and merely squeezed harder.

“
You're
not callin' the shots, Rinaldi. We are.”

“Hey!” Reese nudged him with her elbow. “Doc here's not the target. Don't go all caveman now, okay?”

She looked beseechingly at me, silently asking me to chill out and cooperate. I acquiesced, turning my attention from Green to her.

“What's going on, Agent Reese? Why do you people think Barnes is here?”

“A credible source gave us the address, okay? So now you need to be smart about this. You're in enough trouble already, you don't want to add aiding and abetting. Or worse, accessory after the fact.”

I probably stared.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Behind her, Agent Zarnicki gave a short laugh.

“She's talkin' about Lyle Barnes, Doc. We're here to arrest the son-of-a-bitch.”

“What? Why?”

“You don't get it, do ya?
Lyle Barnes is the shooter!
”