Free Night Terrors by Dennis Palumbo Page A

Bureau is working the shootings jointly with the Pittsburgh PD?”
    â€œYeah.” 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.
    â€œAfter 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…”
    â€œThat’s a lot of manpower,” Barnes said.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œSorry 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