Praise for the Daniel Rinaldi Thrillers Head Wounds “The grim title should serve as a warning. This psychological thriller has some fine language and a strong narrative pull that keeps the pages turning, but the series of crimes that occur are unnerving. As Head Wounds rolls to its clever, crazy gothic conclusion, no one could accuse Mr. Palumbo of being flat.” —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette “The author gets maximum suspense out of the buildup to each killing, taking us along on a child kidnapping and grave robbing, until we get to an ending that has something to do with a Warren Zevon song. Yes, it makes a kind of sense, but it’s the compelling craziness of the story that keeps us reading.” —Booklist “A spectacular ride.” —Thomas Perry, New York Times bestselling author “This is a book that’ll make you lock your doors and check your computer’s security settings.” —Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author
Phantom Limb “He serves as the perfect point of view character, central to the action without needing to clamor for attention as Daniel’s personal story continues to evolve.” —Publishers Weekly
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“Pittsburgh psychologist and police consultant Daniel Rinaldi is the refreshingly low-key and unassuming protagonist appearing in this fourth in the series of crime novels. Yet as a former Golden Gloves boxer, he’s willing and able to throw down in situations that warrant a good right cross to the jaw.” —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
Night Terrors “Answers prove elusive as the murders begin to pile up. Palumbo ratchets up the stakes in this psychological thriller but maintains the emotional complexity.” —Publishers Weekly “Palumbo’s thrillers are strictly for late at night and for readers who have no pressing engagements early the next day.” —Kirkus Reviews “Palumbo, an award-winning Hollywood screenwriter turned psychotherapist, uses all his professional experience to craft short, action-and tension-filled chapters and insightful sketches of people traumatized by violence.” —Booklist “Complications abound, but Rinaldi—and Mr. Palumbo— resolve them in ways both plausible and compelling.” —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
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Fever Dream “Palumbo’s exciting second mystery featuring Pittsburgh psychologist Daniel Rinaldi takes the reader into the seamy side of the Steel City, chock-full of corruption and crime, love and loss.” —Publishers Weekly “In this fine novel…Rinaldi’s methods are as much Columbo as shrink: he notices details that don’t fit and picks at them until the whole psychodrama comes clear. A smart, strong read.” —Booklist “A smoking hot trail of dirty money, dirtier politicians, and wholesale killing… Daniel Rinaldi keeps his cool and his edge, Jack Reacher with a psychology degree.” —Kirkus Reviews “A high-octane police procedural. Lots of action makes for a roller-coaster read.” —Library Journal “Running at a fever pitch, Palumbo’s second novel featuring Pittsburgh psychologist Dan Rinaldi opens with the trauma expert called to the scene of a bank robbery and hostage situation. Multiple twists attest to the fact that Palumbo, a therapist himself, got his chops in Hollywood.” —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine “A high-adrenaline action thriller with some clever deductive reasoning to show whodunit. Highly recommended.” —San Francisco/Sacramento Review
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“The brisk pace and intelligent writing about the adventurous and heroic psychologist will leave the reader wanting more.” —Portland Book Review
Mirror Image “Using his background as a licensed psychotherapist to good advantage, Palumbo infuses his fast-moving, suspenseful story with fascinating texture, interesting characters, and the twists, turns and surprises of a mind-bending mystery. Very impressive.” —Stephen J. Cannell (writer/creator of The Rockford Files; New York Times bestselling mystery author)
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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
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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. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. 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 Printed and bound in XXXXXX. XX 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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To Daniel, for whom Dr. Rinaldi is named, with love—
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“Never say you know the last word about the human heart.” —H E NRY J AMES
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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
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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.
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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 Until 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. small, inoffensive eyes gleamed merrily. “Almost time for the tiger.” “What tiger?”
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“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.”
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“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.
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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 so stunned they stood rooted at their seats, others scrambling 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.”
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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 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
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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.”
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