Night Terrors (27 page)

Chapter Forty-six

After getting Chief Block's promise to call the precinct and order Maggie Currim's release, I climbed in my car and sped back along those same treacherous roads toward town. Unmindful of the deep ruts and patches of frozen mud.

Driving with one hand, I used the other to smooth out the map on the passenger seat. Glancing at it as much as I dared. Looking for the address I'd also been given by the chief.

The county hospital for the indigent.

My mind was a jumble of thoughts, a tangle of ideas being pulled into a pattern. One that I was beginning to comprehend. Or, at least, believed I did.

I hadn't shared my suspicions with Chief Block, nor was I ready to call Agent Alcott or Pittsburgh PD. After all, I had no proof. Not one shred of solid evidence.

But I knew. My every instinct told me I was right.

Sergeant Harve Randall was the shooter.

The way I saw it, he'd spent his whole life marinating in shame and self-loathing. His mother was a prostitute who'd been impregnated by one of her johns. Instead of raising Harve, she'd abandoned him to his fate, drifting back into her drug-addled life on the streets.

Growing up in a series of abusive foster homes, shuttled from one horrific environment to another, I believed Harve developed an obsessive, murderous hatred for his mother. But from a distance. Never seeking her out.

Because though he nursed an overwhelming, psychotic desire to kill her, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd probably fantasized about doing it since childhood, and certainly even more so as he became an adult.

But he couldn't make himself kill her, no matter how virulent his hatred. No matter how fervently, desperately he wanted her dead.

She was his mother.

So Harve Randall satisfied himself with the murders of
other
prostitutes. Women who were surrogate victims of his homicidal rage. Whose brutal deaths he could read about, over and over. And whose killers he could idolize. Experiencing their crimes vicariously…

By now, I'd reached the main highway. Making the turn toward downtown Wheeling, I found myself weaving in and out of weekend traffic. And speeding. Exhaling deeply, I made the conscious effort to slow down. Drive more cautiously. Follow the train of my thoughts in a calmer fashion.

Not an easy task, given the adrenaline surging through my system. But I had to try. There was still so much I didn't know or understand.

I assumed, once Randall had become a cop, he was able to use the network of law enforcement databases to learn about any new murders of prostitutes. To recognize patterns that indicated a serial killer might be on the prowl. Someone whose exploits he could follow. Whose horrific actions provided him the excitement and gratification of the kill, and then the catharsis of release.

But what I didn't know was what first prompted him to write fan letters to Gary Squires. Then, after Squires died, to John Jessup. Moreover, after Jessup was killed in prison, what triggered Randall's desire to avenge his death? To methodically work his way down a hitlist of those whom he held responsible? Maybe I'd never know.

However, other pieces of the puzzle were easier to fit together. For one thing, all the “personal time” Randall took—ostensibly to visit his dying mother—gave him plenty of opportunity to make the short trips across state lines necessary to attack his victims.

Just as important, once the joint FBI-police task force was up and running, Harve Randall—as a member of the Wheeling PD—would have access to the tri-state interface. Which meant access to all case intel: Knowledge of the investigation's progress, the whereabouts and movements of potential targets on the hitlist, advanced word when a suspect or witness was to be interviewed. That's how he knew about Harry Polk's trip to Steubenville to question Vincent Beck. How he knew where Claire Cobb was being hidden, and when she was being transferred out of town.

Until the task force brass shut down the Internet grid, and Randall lost his window into the investigation. Now, in the words of Lyle Barnes, he was working blind.

I could just imagine Randall's growing frustration and outrage. My guess was, with the remaining potential victims sequestered in some unknown FBI safehouse, the only option that occurred to him was to frame Barnes. At least it was one way to punish the man who'd initially identified and tracked down Randall's hero, John Jessup. And the easiest way to do
that
was to plant the revolver he'd used, the Taurus 44M, in Barnes' Franklin Park home. A revolver that Randall had undoubtably stolen some time ago from Chief Block's gun cabinet.

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the hospital turnoff the chief had described. I made a sharp left and found myself on a cracked asphalt road that curved around some kind of deserted, long-abandoned park. A sad array of rusting playground equipment. Broad swaths of broken earth, tufts of unruly grass glistening with ice.

I followed the road past a row of apartment complexes that had seen better days, until I came to a small, paved driveway. This led me to the front gates of the Marshall County Public Hospital. Five stories of government-funded, lowest-bidder construction. A forlorn, ugly building of chipped red bricks and barred, cracked windows. Heavy steel doors and a weather-beaten, black-shingled roof.

After I parked in the gravel lot, I sat thinking about what I was doing here. And why I was doing it. Despite the fact that all my theories about Harve Randall were just that—theories—maybe I ought to just call the authorities and step away. Leave things to the
real
detectives.

But I knew I wouldn't. Couldn't. Because there was one thing left I needed to know. One question to which I had to have the answer.

And only one person who could give it to me.

***

The ward nurse was a small, middle-aged woman with a placid, almost serene face. Filipino, I guessed, with the merest trace of an accent. As she led me down the dreary, paint-flecked corridor, past a row of rooms whose bedridden occupants looked more like cadavers than patients, she made a point of smiling brightly into each opened door.

“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.