Glass Houses

by Jane Haddam

  “Really?” Russ rubbed his hands against his face. He looked cold. “Did you do that with only one person?”

  “Only one, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Gregor shrugged. “He was a friend of Chickie George’s. Chickie asked me to look into it, and I put a clamp on the gossip machine until I could figure it out. But he isn’t the Plate Glass Killer, Russ. He couldn’t be. I checked him out so thoroughly, he could have survived a nomination to the Supreme Court. Marty Gayle just picked him up because he’s gay.”

  “Okay,” Russ said. “But here’s the thing. There’s your guy, and this Bennie Turban—”

  “Durban.”

  “Durban. There were probably more. I wonder how many more. I can’t remember what I’ve seen in the newspapers, but I’ve got to admit that before Henry Tyder entered my life, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the Plate Glass Killer. I wonder what would happen if I ran a search at The Inquirer. I wonder how many people would turn up.”

  “One of the people who would turn up would be Henry Tyder,” Gregor pointed out. “You said yourself that the police had picked him up once before.”

  “They did. But they must have picked up other people. Your guy, Bennie Durban. I can’t remember. I wonder if all the pickups were alike. If there was a woman involved in each one. Can you tell me something? You worked on serial killer cases. Is it common for serial killers to kill somebody they know?”

  “Sure,” Gregor said, “but that tends to happen at the beginning of a cycle. The first one they kill is someone they know, if they kill someone they know at all.”

  “So the most likely victim to have a relationship with the real Plate Glass Killer would be the first one,” Russ said. “Who was the first one?”

  “I don’t remember. And you’ve got to consider that we may not actually know yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Gregor said, “what I heard from Kathleen Conge was that the bodies that were found weren’t bodies but skeletons, which means they’ve been around for a while. The first one might be one we don’t know about yet. It might be one of those.”

  “But it’s not likely to have been Conchita Estevez,” Russ said, “because she was well down the line. Number three or four at least. Which is my point here. There’s another reason to think Henry had nothing to do with it.”

  “Unfortunately, it would also leave most of the other men who’ve been suspected off the hook, too,” Gregor said. “I know there wasn’t a pickup after the first one, or the first one to be discovered, because that was big news for a while, and not a thing. I don’t know if anybody has ever been picked up with connections to the first one, Sarajean Petrazik. That was the name.”

  “Oh, I remember,” Russ said. “God, that was a long time ago. She was, what, a bookkeeper or something. Not an accountant, nothing that big. Found in an alley behind a Quik Stop somewhere not very far from her own apartment. I’m sorry, I really didn’t pay much attention.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t reported as a serial killing,” Gregor said. “You never report the first one as a serial killing, just as a murder. It was after the second one that the papers started calling it a serial killing. I don’t remember the name of the second one.”

  “I don’t either,” Russ said, “we’re pitiful.”

  “Not really. There was no reason for us to be paying attention at the time. But it is a way in. A way of looking at this that the police haven’t thought of yet, and aren’t going to in the case of Henry Tyder. You could look into it.”

  “So could you.”

  “I intend to,” Gregor said. “This whole Plate Glass Killer thing is so odd. It’s not that there are never serial killer cases like this, but they aren’t usual. In fact, they’re very unusual. In fact, no matter how hard I try, I can’t think of a case without an element of sexual sadism to it. Young women, younger boys. It’s about sex and power. But there isn’t any sex in this that I can tell, and the women aren’t young.”

  “Maybe this is a man who hates his mother.”

  “You think you’re joking, but I don’t see any reason to rule that out.”

  “I’m not ruling anything out,” Russ said. “What do you think happened to me anyway? I used to be a cop. Even after I got out of law school, I still thought like a cop—for years. Now I think like a defense attorney.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to leave the District Attorney’s Office.”

  “I know. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

  There was noise on the other side of the street. Russ stood up next to Gregor, and then went up another step or two on the stoop so that he could get a better look. Gregor could see the crowd in front of the door to the murder house, already held back by a line of uniformed officers, being pushed back even farther. Then the medical examiner’s van backed in more closely, going right up on the sidewalk. Then the men began to come out, carrying body bags.

  “That’s another bag,” Russ said. “Holy damn.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Gregor said. “You don’t know what’s in them.”

  “I thought what was supposed to be in them was bodies.”

  Gregor shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. At least five bags, assuming there were no more in the basement, waiting to come out.

  What was going on here?

  PART TWO

  OVER EXPOSURES

  ONE

  1

  It took four hours to get out everything that had to be gotten out, and in all that time the crowd only grew. Sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the stoop across the street, Gregor found himself increasingly fascinated with the psychology of the crowd. This was not a rich neighborhood. It wasn’t a particularly safe one. Surely all these people had been in the presence of a murder victim before or of the police investigating what had happened to one. Why would they stay outside like this on a wet night that was steadily getting colder?

  Why Russ Donahue was staying was not a mystery. “I used to be a cop,” he said. “I trust cops. I trust Philadelphia cops. I don’t think they’re corrupt, and I don’t think they’d railroad an innocent man if they knew he was innocent; but sometimes they don’t know, or they think it’s only a matter of time before everybody knows, and then you’ve got trouble.”

  “What about Marty Gayle? Do you trust him?”

  Russ shrugged. “I don’t know him. I never worked with him, in or out of uniform. He’s got a bad reputation about some things. Why? Don’t you like him?”

  Gregor didn’t answer. He was used to working for the police. And, really, given the way Jackman had set it all up, he was working for the police now. What he was really used to was police support of his work, and he didn’t like the fact that he wasn’t getting it.

  “That makes seven,” Russ said finally. “How could somebody have seven bodies buried in a cellar without anybody knowing about it?”

  “We don’t know that it’s bodies, yet,” Gregor said. “Seven body bags doesn’t necessarily mean seven bodies. They may be taking out pieces, or collections of pieces, rather than whole bodies. Skeletal remains.”

  Russ coughed.

  Gregor looked at his watch. It was going on three o’clock. The scene was surreal. He was tired and cold. He was too far away from the action.

  He got the cell phone Bennis had given him out of his pocket and opened it up. The police showed no signs of packing up to go, but they would, and sooner rather than later. He punched in Jackman’s home number and waited until John picked up.

  It’s me.

  “What the hell time is it?”

  “About three. I can’t believe you haven’t been awake during all this. Do you even know about all this?”

  “Of course I know about it. Body or body parts or bodies in a cellar; belongs to a house where one of the former suspects lived. For this I have to stay up?”

  “I’m not exactly the most popular person at the crime scene at the moment,” Gregor sai
d. “If you really want me to help with this, I have to have access to information, and the best information is on the scene and fresh. Right now I’m standing across the street from the police cordon talking to Russ Donahue about Bennis Hannaford’s brain.”

  “Who are the detectives at the scene?”

  “Marty Gayle.”

  “That’s it? Just him? His partner isn’t around?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “His partner has to be around, Gregor. You don’t go out to a scene like that on your own. Is there some kind of emergency with Cord Leehan that he couldn’t come?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Damn.” There was the sound of rustling on the other side of the phone, rustling that Gregor was sure was not caused by John alone. He filed that away in the back of his mind. John was running for mayor after all. There was only so far he could ride the story about being “the most eligible bachelor in public office.” “Damn,” he said again. “Is Rob there?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t start screaming about that. The DA isn’t usually sitting around at crime scenes in the middle of the night.”

  “I know, but this isn’t just any crime scene. All right. I’ll call Rob. I’ll get Rob to call Cord Leehan.”

  “That would be good.”

  “You know what the problem is, having worked in a department before you become commissioner of police? You know way too much about all the personalities.”

  “I’d think that would help.”

  “I think that would lead to more reasons for committing homicide than I’d care to count. Sit tight, Rob’s on his way. And he’ll call Marty. And so will I if I have to. Are there signs that the circus is leaving town?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What are they doing out there? They’ve been there for hours.”

  “Well, they’ve brought out seven body bags.”

  “Shit,” Jackman said again. Then he said, just under his breath, in just enough of a whisper for Gregor to hear, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us who have recourse to thee.”

  “Why are you calling on the Virgin Mary?”

  “I do it every time I swear,” Jackman said. “You just haven’t noticed it before. Sister would not have been happy with references to excrement. Go, Gregor. Get things done on your side. I’ll get things done on mine.”

  There was nothing to get done on Gregor’s side, so he closed the cell phone and put it back in his pocket. Then he started walking back across the street toward the police line. They could certainly keep him out; but if they did they’d hear about it from Jackman, and he had an idea that they knew it.

  It took a little jostling and nudging to get to the officer on duty next to the break in the yellow tape. The crowd had not only grown in all these hours, it had also solidified. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, and not one of them felt like moving aside for anybody. He kept getting bounced back and forth along the line of people, going forward only rarely, as if he were in one of those mazes that came in Penny Press puzzle magazines. He got to the front just as four uniformed officers were hefting one of the body bags into the back of a van and presented himself to the officer waiting there. It was not the same one who had been there when he’d come through before.

  The officer was young, and tired, and tense. He started to say something automatic to Gregor. Then he realized that he recognized the man he was talking to and stopped. “Oh,” he said, “it’s Mr. Demarkian. You can come in.” He looked over his shoulder nervously and then looked back.

  “I don’t want to come in at the moment,” Gregor said. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

  “Sure.” The young officer looked back over his shoulder again.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tom Celebrese.”

  “Tom Celebrese. That’s good. Did Marty Gayle tell you not to talk to me?”

  “Uh,” Tom said. “I mean—”

  “Never mind,” Gregor said. “You do realize that he can’t tell you not to talk to me if John Jackman and Rob Benedetti say you should? Never mind again. It doesn’t matter. Why don’t you let me in, and I can find out what I want to find out for myself.”

  “I’ve read all about the stuff you do,” Tom said, “in the papers. And guys talk about it at the precinct, you know. The stuff with Drew Harrington. It’s really impressive. I mean it. But this isn’t like that, is it?”

  “Isn’t like it how?”

  “Well, this is a serial killing,” Tom said. “This is some nut, you know, with sexual problems, something like that. Some guy who goes around killing innocent people just for the kick of killing them.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? We’ve had eleven killings, and now this, whatever this is. There was at least one whole body in there. I heard them talking. With a cord around its neck. That would make twelve.”

  “Would it?”

  “Is this one of those things, you know? Like the Socratic method? Because you’re not making much sense. We do have a serial killer. The Plate Glass Killer. He’s been around for a couple of years without anybody catching him.”

  “It’s what I used to do, you know,” Gregor said, “catch serial killers. When I was with the FBI. I was with a unit whose sole purpose was to coordinate interstate investigations of serial killers.”

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t they call you in on this one before? We could use the help. It’s embarrassing when this guy keeps getting away with it.”

  There was suddenly a lot of noise and commotion at the end of the block. Gregor looked up and saw a long black car making its way carefully down the street, moving forward inexorably, expecting the people to pull back.

  “Who’s that?” Tom Celebrese said.

  “My guess is it’s the district attorney,” Gregor said. “John Jackman said he would come in a limousine. Here, before they get here, let me tell you about serial killers. Serial killers work in a pattern. Once the pattern is set, they almost never deviate from it unless circumstances force them to.”

  “So?”

  “So if there’s an old body with a cord around its neck in there, a skeleton, or something decaying, that’s fine. That could have happened before the bodies started appearing in the alleys. Then the cellar got too full or burying the bodies there got too dangerous, so the killer had to move his operations. But there’s been no problem with leaving the bodies in alleys. There are hundreds of alleys in Philadelphia. We can’t patrol them all. So leaving the bodies in alleys is safe. The chances that he’d risk the far more dangerous prospect of burying a body here are virtually nil, if what we’re dealing with is a serial killer.”

  “I didn’t mean new,” Tom said. “I mean, you know, intact. So that it looked like a body.”

  “Still, if I were you, I’d hope you got that information wrong; because if you didn’t, we really have a mess here. Ah, that is the district attorney coming. I’m going to go talk to him. And don’t worry. I won’t tell Marty Gayle you’ve been talking to me.”

  “We’ve just been passing the time,” Tom said stiffly. “He can’t blame me for that. I mean, what am I supposed to be, rude?”

  You’re supposed to be older, Gregor thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. Rob was out of the car and marching toward the police line like General Patton on a tear, the effect only mildly spoiled by the fact that the two assistants trailing him were both very petite women in very high heels.

  Gregor shoved his hands in his pockets and went to meet Rob Benedetti.

  2

  It would have been an understatement to say that Marty Gayle was not happy to see Rob Benedetti, but it would have been something on the order of a lie to say he was unhappy to see Cord Leehan. Marty came out to meet Benedetti. When he saw Cord walking up through the ranks of the police line, he took a couple of steps back and swore in what Gregor knew was Latin. Tibor swore like that sometimes, since he couldn’t swear in Arme
nian on Cavanaugh Street without most of the women knowing what he meant. By then, Gregor was just inside the cordon, hanging back to let Rob do what he wanted to do about Marty. He was startled at the venom and disgust in Marty’s face, as if Cord were a Nazi death camp guard just come to the surface in South Philadelphia. He looked long and hard at Cord Leehan, but he couldn’t see it. The man was thin and tall and muscular, but beyond that he looked like a million other men of the same age. The only thing distinctive about him was the fact that he had red hair.

  Gregor moved closer to Tom Celebrese and asked. “So what is it? Is this Cord Leehan a crooked cop, or an informer, or what?”

  “What?” Tom looked startled.

  “That Marty Gayle should hate the sight of him.”

  Tom blushed. “It’s not that. It’s nothing like that.”

  “So what is it?”

  Tom turned away and looked into the crowd. Gregor thought about pressing him, but decided not to. The crowd had been remarkably well behaved all this time, and most of them were probably asleep on their feet and no danger to anybody; but one or two would surely have been drinking while they watched the parade pass by, and one or two would have been doing something worse. The potential was always there for a bad situation.

  It didn’t help, Gregor thought, that most of the faces in this crowd were black, and most of the faces in the police lines were not. He’d thought the Philadelphia police had fixed that problem years ago.

  He started to make his way back to where Rob Benedetti was just coming up to Marty Gayle. Cord Leehan was still a good twenty feet away, and he didn’t seem to be moving very quickly. Gregor suddenly realized he hated this. If there was one thing they drilled into new recruits at Quantico, it was that personalities had no place in an investigation. Personalities meant inefficiency, and confusion, and failure. Personalities meant a case about the investigators and not about the investigated. He had the feeling that anything around Marty Gayle was about Marty Gayle, and that was the worst news he’d had since he’d realized that Bennis had taken off for parts unknown.