Panic Attack

Also by Dennis Palumbo

The Daniel Rinaldi Thrillers

Mirror Image

Fever Dream

Night Terrors

Phantom Limb

Head Wounds

Nonfiction

Writing from the Inside Out: Transforming Your Psychological Blocks to Release the Writer Within

Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

You are just one click away from…

• Being the first to hear about author happenings

• VIP deals and steals

• Exclusive giveaways

• Free bonus content

• Early access to interactive activities

• Sneak peeks at our newest titles

Happy reading!

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2021 by Dennis Palumbo

Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by The BookDesigners

Cover images © Joseph Sohm/Shutterstock, Lincoln Beddoe/Shutterstock, Rattanapon Ninlapoom/Shutterstock, FOTOKITA/Shutterstock

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

sourcebooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Palumbo, Dennis, author.

Title: Panic attack : a Daniel Rinaldi thriller / Dennis Palumbo.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series:

Daniel Rinaldi thrillers ; book 6

Identifiers: LCCN 2020056420 (print) | LCCN 2020056421

(ebook) | (trade paperback) | (epub)

Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3566.A5535 P36 2021 (print) | LCC PS3566.A5535

(ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056420

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056421

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

To Daniel, for whom Dr. Rinaldi is named, with love—

Never say you know the last word about the human heart.

—HENRY JAMES

Chapter One

On a bitterly cold afternoon in late October, I was one of twenty thousand witnesses to a murder.

Not ten minutes before, I was sitting next to Martin Hobbs, dean of Teasdale College, sipping spiked cider from a thermos, my head sunk low in the collar of my winter coat.

Above, enormous white clouds loomed like a chain of floating islands, backlit by a wan sun whose diffused light crowned the trees still boasting autumnal colors. Beyond, a carpet of crisp, freeze-dried grass stretched to meet the ancient Allegheny Mountains. A typical fall landscape in Western Pennsylvania, yet less than twenty miles from downtown Pittsburgh, in a small, formerly thriving farming community called Lockhart.

Isn’t this great, Dr. Rinaldi? Dean Hobbs rubbed his gloved hands in excitement. Perfect football weather, eh?

I nodded, shivering. We were in the cushioned VIP seats, right on the fifty-yard line in the small private college’s new football stadium. I’m more of an NFL fan, especially when it comes to the Steelers, and hadn’t been to a college game since my undergraduate days at Pitt. But when the dean asked me to join him for Saturday’s matchup against the team’s division rivals, I didn’t see how I could refuse.

The evening before, I’d given the commencement address in the Reynolds Auditorium, another newly built facility on the rural campus, a gift of billionaire alum William Reynolds. Having amassed a fortune in real estate, the late philanthropist had earmarked the funds for the stately building in his will.

Now, with kickoff only a few minutes away, I let my attention drift from Dean Hobbs’ relentless boosterism and replayed my speech from the night before. It had gone reasonably well, though both the school’s faculty and its graduating class were perplexed by the phalanx of print, online, and broadcast journalists who rushed me as soon as I’d finished.

I couldn’t believe I was still news, now more than eight months after the Sebastian Maddox case. Although I’d done my best to keep a low profile, the media wouldn’t let the story go. Just last month, I was approached by a cable news producer who said they were planning a special about the crimes, and asked if I’d agree to be a participant in the program.

Naturally, I refused. Not that they needed my onscreen presence, anyway. There was enough news footage from that period—the various bloody crime scenes, the smoking remains of the fire that had raged through the psychiatric clinic; there’d even been coverage of the last victim’s funeral. After all, the mayor himself—never one to pass up a photo op—had attended that gaudy affair.

To me, this proposed special was nothing but a particularly gratuitous exploitation of a real tragedy. It’s what my late wife used to call murder porn, and I was having none of it. Those horrific days left psychic scars on me as fresh as when they’d first been inflicted—not to mention what had happened to friends, colleagues, and patients. Eight months of therapy later, and I still barely slept at night.

But the Maddox case, following numerous high-profile investigations I’d been involved with in recent years, had cemented my reputation as both a psychologist and consultant to the Pittsburgh Police Department (officially the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police, though no one calls it that). While I hadn’t exactly become a household name, a good number of people knew who I was. A PR guy even called, offering to help me enhance my brand. I couldn’t hang up fast enough.

Nowadays, unlike in those earlier cases, and especially in recent months, I made sure to stay out of the public eye. No more interviews with the Post-Gazette, no more expert commentary on CNN about the possible motives behind the latest mass shooting or new string of serial killings. Like the victims of violent crimes I specialized in treating, I needed time and therapeutic support to address my own traumatic reaction to what Maddox had put me through. Lately, other than a few intimate meals with close friends and my ongoing clinical practice, I’d kept mostly to myself.

So, when the invitation came to speak at Teasdale College, a modest private institution east of the city, my initial reaction was to politely decline. Then I mentioned it to my own therapist, who suggested it might aid in my recovery to, in his words, return to the land of the living.

That’s how I ended up cupping a thermos of not-quite-spiked-enough cider and smiling as attentively as I could while Dean Hobbs prattled on about his school. In his late fifties, reed-thin and balding, his neck swathed in a scarf emblazoned with Teasdale’s colors, the dean had finally taken a breath and glanced at his watch. His small, inoffensive eyes gleamed merrily.

Almost time for the tiger.

What tiger?

The Teasdale Tiger. Our team mascot. The fans love him. Especially the kids.

He nodded at the home team’s sidelines, where in addition to legendary local coach George Pulaski and his heavily jacked players, a two-legged tiger was doing deep knee bends.

It was a full-body costume, complete with a head cover with an appropriately tiger-ish dark, whiskered snout and muff collar. There were also impressive-looking claws on the furry hands and feet, and a floppy tail. For a moment, I wondered how the guy inside the costume could breathe. On the other hand, he was probably warmer than anyone else in the stadium.

Dean Hobbs nudged me. Know who’s in the tiger costume?

No.

A conspiratorial chuckle. Neither does anyone else. Only Coach Pulaski and I know. It’s an idea we borrowed from Pitt. Their Pitt Panther mascot.

Of course I knew what he was talking about. For years, my alma mater, the University of Pittsburgh, kept the identity of its similarly costumed football mascot, the Pitt Panther, a secret. All anybody knew was that it was one of four undergrads who rotated in the job, all of whom had been sworn to secrecy. Even after they graduated, they kept their promise not to reveal that they’d worn the fabled costume. Only the university’s provost and football coach knew their names.

Hobbs took a sip of hot chocolate from his own thermos, embossed with the school’s logo. The guy was a walking advertisement for the campus store.

"Now in our case, Doc, he said casually, we only have one student per year who dresses as the Tiger. This year it’s a sophomore bio major named Jason Graham. Great kid. Really likes to put on a show for the crowd. A worried frown creased his brow. I assume you’ll keep that information to yourself."

I’m a psychologist, Martin. I keep secrets for a living.

He breathed a sigh of relief as my eyes swept the tiers of seats all around the stadium.

Since many of the fans were returning alumni of Teasdale, I found myself wondering which, if any, had once worn the tiger outfit. And who, many years later, having weathered the pains and indignities of life, now looked down at the energetic student doing push-ups on the sidelines and recalled the carefree days of his youth?

Or maybe I was thinking about myself, and all the unexpected twists and turns of my own life since my early years at Pitt. The long, complicated journey that’s led to where I am now.

Suddenly, my reverie was broken by a tremendous uproar from the crowd. No surprise why. The Teasdale Tiger had taken to the field, doing cartwheels on his way to the middle of the artificial turf.

Dean Hobbs had joined the rest of the fans in jumping to his feet, whistling and shouting. I hauled myself out of my seat as well.

I had to admit, it felt good being enveloped by the enthusiastic energy of the crowd. After all these somber, halting months, obsessed with what Sebastian Maddox—in his fury at me—had done to those closest to me. The grief, the guilt. But now something about that lunatic mascot cavorting on the field, leading the fans in a protracted tiger roar, gave my spirits a lift.

Until a few seconds later, when, as the crowd noise lessened, it was replaced by another sound. A loud, booming crack, like a tree branch breaking in a storm.

A gunshot. From somewhere above and behind where Hobbs and I stood.

I whipped my head around, eyes sweeping the mass of people behind me, some of whom had themselves frozen in place.

Then another sound, a massive collective groan from the stands, brought my gaze back to midfield.

It was the mascot. The Teasdale Tiger.

On the ground. Motionless.

* * *

Chaos. There’s no other word for it.

People yelling, screaming, crying. Some were so stunned they stood rooted at their seats, others scrambled over seat backs and down the slanted aisles toward the field.

Given our VIP seats, Hobbs and I had been among the first to reach the fallen student, though the dean had just as quickly backstepped away, hand on his mouth. Meanwhile, the entire team had poured from the sidelines and stood, wide-eyed, stricken, in a loose semicircle around the body. One of them bent and retched, while others cried out or moaned in terror. By then one of the campus security guards had reached the body and, shouting and waving his arms, began pushing the student athletes back.

Only Coach Pulaski, his face old and cracked as drying clay, refused to move, merely staring down at the costumed body at his feet. His beefy frame slumped, as though having collapsed in on itself. Mouth chewing air, trying to form words.

Jesus Christ. His anguished whisper over my shoulder echoed my own horror as I crouched by the body, forcing myself to look.

Almost immediately, I turned away, the bile rising in my throat. Willing myself, I swallowed a couple huge breaths, trying to tamp down my fear, my revulsion. Then I caught sight of another security guard and motioned him to my side.

Bend down across from me. I managed to gesture across the body. Help me shield him from onlookers.

The man’s face was white as a paper plate, but he nodded and scrambled to the other side of the body. Keeping his own eyes averted from the fallen boy, he unzipped his coat and spread it wide behind him, like sheltering wings.

Steeling myself, I reached with both hands and gingerly peeled the torn, bloodied hood from the victim’s head. What came away with the ragged strips of cloth and plastic was a horrible mixture of brain, fleshy pulp, and jagged shards of bone.

Gulping more frigid air, I struggled to comprehend what I was seeing and what I was holding in my cupped, trembling hands.

Seeping through the shredded cloth, dripping bright red droplets to the ground, was the shattered top of the victim’s head, literally sheared off. Exposing a scalloped divot of scorched brain tissue, swimming in blood…

By now, more security had arrived. A quick backward glance revealed that they were having a hard time keeping the fans at a distance. A throng of people, varsity hand banners drooping at their sides, breath misting in the biting cold, moved like a living thing toward the scene. I knew the overwhelmed guards wouldn’t be able to contain them for long.

Meanwhile, his own breathing quick and shallow, Dean Hobbs had finally joined me, falling to his knees beside the body.

Poor kid. This will kill his parents. This will—

His voice caught as he stared down at the dead boy. For the first time, I, too, registered the victim’s white, nondescript features and received another shock.

It was perhaps the most horrific thing of all. A grotesque joke. A final, nightmarish touch.

Below the severed skull cap, rivulets of blood ran down the sides of an impossibly unmarred face. Like a mannequin’s molded visage, the victim’s smooth, clean-shaven features looked essentially undisturbed. Frozen, lifeless, but obscenely intact. Lips slightly parted, as though about to speak. Eyes wide open, staring up at Hobbs and me.

I took another deep breath to steady myself. The victim looked to be about the same age as the players. What was the kid’s name again? Jason Something…?

Then the Dean made a strange, garbled sound. Peering down at the still, achingly young face, he blinked in confusion.

What is it? I gripped his arm.

He turned, aiming that same bewildered stare at me.

This… I don’t know who it is…

What do you mean?

"I mean, this boy… He isn’t Jason Graham."

Chapter Two

Anybody know the poor bastard’s name?

Lockhart’s veteran sheriff Roy Gibson—a lapel pin on his weathered olive-green jacket proclaimed his ten years on the force—stood on the Teasdale team’s sidelines. He was as tall as me, sturdily built, and boasting a full head of silver hair with a matching mustache. Hands behind his back, feet planted wide, he affected a kind of paramilitary stance as his flinty gaze went from one frightened, confused player to another. Each student athlete claimed not to know the identity of the victim. Nor did George Pulaski or any of this coaching staff.

Dean Hobbs and I stood behind Sheriff Gibson, just inside the crime-scene tape that surrounded a wide swath of stadium field. In its center a medical tent had been erected, shielding the work of the hastily called medical examiner from prying eyes. In this case, twenty thousand pairs of prying eyes.

Though Gibson’s officers had quickly secured the scene and had—via the stadium loudspeaker—instructed those of the onlookers who’d left their seats to return to them, this didn’t prevent dozens of fans from recording the proceedings on their cell phones. In fact, I was sure video of the tragic event—perhaps of the shooting itself—was already coursing through the internet’s bloodstream. Going viral. Other observers were no doubt tweeting about it or sharing real-time images on Facebook.

Which meant the media wouldn’t be far behind.

Meanwhile, Martin Hobbs had drifted from my side and was leaning against one of the city’s patrol cars. Head down, he was muttering to himself. I went over to join him.

It’s a disaster. He didn’t bother to look up. I can’t imagine what this will mean for Teasdale. The harm it will do.

It hasn’t been a fun day for the victim, either, Martin.

This brought his face up, eyes absent their former peering benevolence. I don’t mean it that way, Doctor. But this kind of scandal can ruin a small school like ours. We’ll be assailed by worried parents, our donors might disappear, students may leave. Not to mention whatever legal or financial liability this leaves us vulnerable to.

I nodded as sympathetically as I could. In the short time I’d been in his company, it had been clear to me that the long-divorced, childless academic derived his entire sense of being from his position as college dean. His job, his reputation, was the glue that held his self-concept in place. So while it was easy, under the circumstances, to dismiss his concerns as callous, I also had to acknowledge how potentially devastating this crisis could be to the only thing that mattered to him.

With that in mind, I gripped his slender shoulder and offered a reassuring squeeze, which he seemed to ignore.

I felt my throat tighten. The sight of my red, roughened knuckles reminded me of how my hands, only a short time before, had been spackled with the victim’s blood and brains. And how thoroughly—almost compulsively—I’d washed them in one of the stadium’s restrooms. Lathering soap up to my elbows, scrubbing so hard my skin burned.

Afterward, I just stood there for countless minutes, regarding my haggard face in the smudged mirror, letting my hands dry in the concrete cold of the windowless room. Thinking of old horrors, other murders. Wondering if I was fated for the rest of my days to be followed by sudden, violent death…

* * *

In the single hour since the shooting, a gunmetal-gray dusk had descended, bringing deeper shadows and an even more ear-biting chill. I noted the half dozen uniformed officers scurrying about, stiff-legged and red-cheeked from the cold now seeping into their bones. They ignored the seemingly perplexed security guards standing in twos and threes, stamping their feet and blowing into their cupped hands.

When I turned to look, I saw Sheriff Gibson finally dismissing the coach, his players, and staff, and sending them back to the team locker room with a police officer as escort. Then, after a few words with another of his men, Gibson came back over to Dean Hobbs and me.

Nobody we’ve talked to can identify the victim. That stupid tiger suit doesn’t have pockets, so there’s no wallet or student ID on him. But Coach Pulaski told me they use an old basement storage closet for changing into the suit. This way the wearer stays anonymous. So I’m hoping our vic left his personal effects inside after he changed. Coach gave me the key, and I’ve just sent one of my men to check it out.

Are you even sure he’s a student here? Hobbs asked.

At this point, Marty, we’re not sure of a damned thing. Other than we got a dead male, Caucasian, early twenties, with the top of his head blown off. Gibson looked at me. You’re positive the shot came from behind you?

Yes. Behind and above. Up in the bleacher seats.

He registered this, then turned again to Hobbs.

"You said the vic wasn’t the one supposed to be in the tiger outfit. So who the hell was, Marty?"

A sophomore here at Teasdale named Jason Graham. He’s been our Tiger mascot the whole season.

So where is he? Do you have his number? His email? We need to get in touch with him. Get some answers. Like maybe why this other guy was wearing the suit.

Give me some credit, will you, Roy? Soon as it happened, I called Dr. Bishara, our assistant dean. She’ll have that information for you. He peered past the sheriff’s shoulder. In fact, there she is.

I followed his gaze to the opening of a narrow tunnel that ran beneath the stands, where a slender, dark-haired woman was giving each of the athletes a brief hug as they passed on their way to the locker room. Then she turned in response to a wave from Hobbs and headed over to us.

As she neared, bundled in a heavy coat and boots, her smooth, pretty features framed by severe glasses, she reached out to Hobbs with her hands spread wide. The two colleagues folded into a long, warm embrace.

Gently extricating himself, the dean introduced her to Gibson and me. After a quick nod at the sheriff, she offered me an oddly penetrating look, her red lips tilted up in a sad smile.

Up close, she looked to be in her late thirties, with a determined set to her chin and not a hair out of place. The quintessential no-nonsense administrator.

I’m sorry to meet you at such a tragic time, Dr. Rinaldi. I’ve wanted to do so for ages and was pleased to learn you were giving the commencement address. Which I greatly enjoyed.

Thank you, Dr. Bishara. Nice to meet you, too, though I agree about the circumstances.

Please call me Indra. I’m not one for formalities, as Martin here will gladly tell you.

The dean gave her an indulgent look. Dr. Bishara was born in New Delhi but came here to Lockhart with her family as a little girl. Even went to Teasdale for her undergraduate work.

Yes, and then came right back after Princeton. Though it wasn’t to the Lockhart I grew up in.

Hobbs winced. Oh, please, Dr. Rinaldi. Don’t get her started on Big Ag and the destruction of family farms.

Her eyes narrowed. It’s wiped out an entire way of life, Martin. As you well know. Local people once had jobs, pride, hope for the future. But now…

I knew what she was talking about. On the drive here Friday evening from my office in Oakland, I had become fully aware of the community’s depressed conditions the moment I crossed the town limits. Boarded-up storefronts, abandoned farms. Kids gathered in small, joyless clusters in a mini-mall parking lot. Vaping. Earbuds glued on. Giving passing cars the finger.

Whatever small-town charm Lockhart once enjoyed had faded into a palpable, weary resignation. Now the place was just another American small town on life support.

Sheriff Gibson’s sharp tone interrupted my reverie. "Look, folks, I’m dealing with a murder here. This isn’t the time for a social studies debate. Especially not that old one."

Indra Bishara looked appropriately rebuked. I’m sorry, Sheriff. It was wrong of me. As my daughter will tell you, I’ve got a one-track mind where the issue is concerned.

Maybe, but what I need from you now is info about this Jason Graham. What can you give me?

Not much, I’m afraid. Admissions gave me both a cell number and email address. I tried the number and got Jason’s outgoing message. And there was no answer to my text. Nor my email.

Did you check social media?

Of course. No posts in recent days on either his Facebook or Twitter account. I don’t think he’s on Instagram.

Hobbs said, I’m thinking we should consider calling Jason’s parents. They might know where he is.

The sheriff shot him a sidelong glance. "Give me some credit, okay, Marty? Already figured on doing that. Though I’m worried it might freak them out. ‘Hey, folks, it’s the cops. Any idea where your kid is?’"

I spoke up. Why not let Dean Hobbs call them? He can say he has a question about a class Jason took.

Gibson grunted his assent. Good idea. For all we know, Jason could be at his girlfriend’s place right now, getting laid. With no idea about what’s just happened. He stirred suddenly. There’s a thought. Assuming he lives on campus, does Jason have a roommate?

Yes, Dr. Bishara said. Vincent LaSala. I have a call in to him as well but haven’t heard back.

Okay. Give me that address, and I’ll send one of my guys over to check out the dorm room. Might be something there that could help us locate Jason. He massaged his chin. Hell, this LaSala kid could be right here, too. In the stands. Along with the killer, by the way. Unless he made his escape between the time of the shooting and the lockdown.

Hobbs very deliberately cleared his throat. About that, Roy. When are you going to let all these people leave? You can’t hold them here forever.

Not planning to. But we need to check each one of them as they exit. Their IDs, personal items. Bags, backpacks.

I surveyed the area encircled by the crime-scene tape and counted heads. You only have six or seven uniforms on-site, Sheriff. And a handful of security guards who look like they got the job yesterday. How do you plan to do a stop-and-frisk with twenty thousand people?

Good question, Doctor. Luckily, there’s a National Guard unit doing maneuvers less than five miles away. I’ve already contacted the C.O., and he’s volunteered to send his people over to help.

He sighed heavily. "Which still leaves us with no idea who the shooter is or why he did what he did. I mean, maybe this was a random act. By some whack-job. Unless he was targeting the Graham kid. In which case, he got the wrong guy."

Dr. Bishara removed her glasses and pointed them at the sheriff. "It’s also possible the killer knew that Jason wasn’t in the tiger suit. That the poor soul who was murdered was the target all along."

About the murder victim, Hobbs said quietly. Like I said, it seems we’re all assuming he’s a student here at Teasdale. But what if he isn’t? Shouldn’t we determine that?

Way ahead of you, Marty, said the sheriff. I asked Dr. Sable— He glanced at me. He’s the county coroner. I asked him to take a good photo of the vic while he’s on the table and send it to me. Then we do a computer check with all the registered students at Teasdale. Even compare the picture with yearbook photos going back a while. See if we can get a hit. Get us a name to go with the face.

I assume the lab will take his prints as well, I said.

Of course. We’ll run ’em through the national database, including ViCAP. Just in case. You never know. Still, I’m betting we find his ID in that storage closet.

I had another thought. Did your men find the bullet?

Doc Sable figures it’s still in the vic. We’ll know exactly what kind after the autopsy. But it had to be heavy-duty to get through that thick hood.

Indra Bishara carefully replaced her glasses. "You’re getting a photo, Sheriff? But the boy was shot. His face… I can’t even imagine how it looks."

Gibson’s sudden grin was decidedly unpleasant.

No worries, lady. It’s kinda weird. Kid practically got scalped, but everything below that looks fine. Pretty as a picture.

Chapter Three

We found the gun.

Sheriff Gibson bent to speak to Hobbs and me through the inch-wide opening in the driver’s side window of the dean’s late-model Chevy.

Without asking, Gibson opened the back door and slid inside, trailing a gust of stinging cold behind him.

It was almost two hours since the murder, yet Gibson’s few officers, a half dozen security personnel, and the press-ganged National Guard troops hadn’t finished taking