Night Terrors by Dennis Palumbo Read Free Book Online Page A

Biggest Fan.’” Alcott laughed. “’Course, he was Jessup’s only fan. A fan club of one.”
    â€œYou said ‘he.’ You sure the letter-writer was male?”
    â€œOur 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?”
    â€œJust 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.”
    â€œDid you follow up with her? Maybe she’d know who her brother’s secret admirer might be.”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAny suspicion of foul play?”
    â€œNone. 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.”
    â€œSorry. 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?”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œWhat prison was Jessup being held in again?”
    â€œMarkham Maximum Correctional. Bingham, Ohio.” A slow smile. “I get the feeling you’re starting to remember.”
    â€œMaybe. Wasn’t there a news story a few months ago about some kind of riot there? Prisoners attacking the guards. Turned violent, bloody.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œSo that’s how Jessup died. He was killed.”
    â€œYeah. 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œA week later, two days before Christmas, Earl Cranshaw—the prison guard who’d killed Jessup—was shot dead outside his home.”

Chapter Eight
    â€œETA, five minutes, sir.”
    It was our driver, his voice breaking the sudden silence that had settled between Alcott and me.
    â€œThanks, Billy.” Alcott leaned up, peering at the rear view mirror. “Simon and Garfunkel still with