by Jane Haddam
“Maybe I’d better talk to Russ,” Gregor said. “He’s the one who called me. Or isn’t Russ in on this case anymore?”
“Oh, he’s in on it,” Jackman said. “Henry Tyder likes him, and he’s legally an adult and he hasn’t been declared incompetent, so he gets to pick his own lawyer. Whether the sisters will pay for it is another story, but Russ came down pro bono when we all thought Henry was just another street person, so I’m not sure that matters. I’ll send them in. I just wanted you to know—”
“What?”
“What the situation was,” Jackman said. “I’m no more interested than you are in throwing the wrong man in jail for the Plate Glass Killings. I’m more happy than you know to have you in on this and watching everybody’s backs. I just wanted you to understand how things are shaping up. The cardinal’s sending a guy to check up on us. He’ll be checking up on you, too.”
That was all he needed, Gregor thought, the cardinal archbishop checking up on him. The cardinal archbishop was the second member of the clergy he had ever met, after Tibor, who did not talk in platitudes. What the cardinal archbishop did tend to talk in instead was, well, a little unnerving.
“All right,” Gregor said. “Maybe you’d better send them in.”
Jackman gave him one long last look and went.
2
It wasn’t them who came, only Russ himself, looking mangled and exhausted. He looked more exhausted than Gregor had ever seen him, and Gregor had known him when he was still a police detective. His suit was rumpled. Gregor knew he hadn’t left the house like that. Donna would no more let him leave unpressed than she would drown kittens in her bathtub. Then he thought of Donna in the Ararat, alone, the very first thing this morning.
“Did you get home last night?” he asked.
“No,” Russ said. “Is Donna furious? I don’t like to leave her on her own, you know, with the baby—”
“I thought you hired someone to live in.”
“Zagiri Shoshonian. From Armenia. Father Tibor knew about her. She’s there. But she’s only a girl, isn’t she? She’s only about twenty-five. She can’t do heavy lifting.”
“Why would Donna need to do any heavy lifting?”
“I don’t know,” Russ said. “I realized, the other day, well, awhile back, when we decided to sponsor Zagiri, that I have no idea what Donna does all day. I mean, except go to school, you know, because she wants to get her degree. But other than that, she could be lifting bricks for all I know.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t had any sleep,” Russ said. “I really haven’t. I’ve been up all night arguing with the judge, arguing with the cops, and then doing research; and I know you think I should have waited, but I’m about ready to scream. And then there’s Henry. Who is, let me tell you, his own worst enemy.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s next door. I’ll get him in a second. I just wanted to warn you about something. He’s a world-class alcoholic, and he has been for years. And it shows. He’s not really mentally competent to do anything, never mind make a confession and stand trial. And the idea that he could have killed eleven women by strangling them with packing cords is absurd. I don’t think he could strangle a rat. But none of that is going to matter if he goes on like this, and so far, he’s going on like this.”
Gregor hesitated. “You’re sure,” he said. “In your mind, and otherwise, you’re sure he isn’t the Plate Glass Killer. That’s not a product of your lack of sleep and of your admirable zeal for your client’s interests.”
“I’m sure.”
“You’ll be sure after you’ve gone to bed for a while?”
“I’ll be sure.”
“John Jackman said that he wasn’t sure if Henry Tyder was the Plate Glass Killer, but he was sure that he’d killed a human being once in his life.”
“He said that?” Russ was thoroughly astonished. “I can’t believe that. Henry’s nothing like that at all. You’ll see.”
“I will if you’ll bring him in.”
“I have to have him brought in,” Russ said. “They’re doing that thing where they act as if every single person in custody is Osama bin Laden with a bomb hidden in every orifice. Be right back.”
Russ went, and less than a minute later was back, followed by two police officers flanking each side of an old, broken-down man in handcuffs and shackles. Gregor felt a quick spurt of anger. In his day the only prisoners who were handcuffed and shackled just to get them from their cells to a police interrogation room, or even to court, were killers known to be both dangerous and flight risks. Now they went through this routine with everybody: grandmothers who had done nothing more violent than pass bad checks; white-collar embezzlers who had never so much as slapped another human being in their lives; twelve year olds. Gregor felt embarrassed for the Criminal Justice System. This sort of behavior was over the top and shameful. It damaged not only the reputation of law enforcement but the long-term prospects of men and women who left prison hoping to build new lives. It gave the general public the idea that everybody who had ever spent a day in jail was a wild animal liable to pounce and claw at the first opportunity.
Gregor turned his attention away from reforming America’s police departments—in his opinion, the shackling policy was the result of a lot of men in uniform desperately wanting to seem important and professional—and turned it to the man now sitting down in a chair on the opposite side of the table. At second glance Henry Tyder wasn’t as old as Gregor had assumed. What had seemed like age at first was really decay. There had been too many late nights and too much alcohol in this man’s life, but he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. His body was shaking—there was withdrawal from alcohol as well as from drugs, and just plain alcohol poisoning to explain that—but it was well put together, and Gregor thought it must once have been powerful. He looked down at Henry Tyder’s hands. They were broad and strong, but they were also twitching.
The two police officers went through a remarkable complicated ballet to get the handcuffs off Henry Tyder, but left the shackles on. Then they said “Excuse me” and left the room. Russ waited until they were well and surely gone before he went over and shut the door.
“Henry,” he said, “this is a friend of mine. His name is Gregor Demarkian. He’s—”
“I know who he is,” Henry said, and his voice sounded clear and lucid, “the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot.”
Russ cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Well.”
“I read the newspapers,” Henry said, his eyes suddenly going drifty and opaque. “I sleep under enough of them. He’s the one who did that murder where the radio guy died. The one who shouted.”
“‘Did’it?” Russ asked.
“Solved it, then,” Henry said, snapping back to reality. It was a snap, too, Gregor noticed. He could almost hear the sound of it in the air.
Russ pulled out a chair and sat down between Henry and the door. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “Gregor is going to help us with this, I hope. He’s going to help us with your case.”
“I killed her,” Henry said. “The woman in the alley. And all the other women. I put cords around their throats and killed them, and then I took glass from broken windows and cut up their faces. There was a lot of blood.”
“Do you actually remember that?” Gregor asked. “Do you remember killing all of them?”
“I don’t remember anything much,” Henry said. “Not about anything, never mind about killing. I get drunk sometimes.”
“Were you drunk yesterday when the police found you with the woman who’d been murdered?”
“I was going to call Elizabeth,” Henry said, “and have her bring me home. I always call Elizabeth and not Margaret, because Elizabeth doesn’t yell so much. I wanted a turkey sandwich. She brings me turkey sandwiches sometimes.”
“Brings them to you where?”
“To the bridge. Where I sleep mostly. She doesn’t tell Margaret. Margaret would get people to co
me after me and lock me up. Elizabeth brings the sandwiches and orange juice, and she doesn’t tell Margaret.”
“Let’s try to go back to yesterday,” Gregor said. “Were you drunk yesterday when the police arrested you?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said.
“He wouldn’t take a breathalyzer,” Russ said, “but even when I got here, several hours after they picked him up, he was falling over whacked. And sick.”
“I barfed on a policeman,” Henry said. “That’s why I’m in jail. I barfed all over his uniform, so they locked me up.”
Across the table, Gregor saw Russ shake his head. He was inclined to agree with him. Henry Tyder was sitting at his place with his hands folded on the table, a blissful and open look on his face. Aside from the shaking, there was nothing about him that seemed mobile, never mind violent.
“I barfed all over Margaret once,” Henry said. “That was on the way to rehab. We were all sitting in the back of the car. I knew I was going to throw up, so I turned right around and threw up on her. People should throw up on Margaret. It’s good for her.”
“Last night,” Gregor said, “and today, just a couple of minutes ago, you said that the reason they locked you up was because you killed all those women. Strangled them with a cord.”
“I did,” Henry said. “I know I did. But that’s not why they locked me up. They locked me up because I barfed on a policeman. Or maybe because I killed the rabbit. In the park. I killed the rabbit to eat it, because I don’t like searching around in garbage cans. The food is spoiled. And people have had their mouths on it.”
“You caught a rabbit and killed it?”
“It was in a store. In a pet store. I broke the window. That’s why they put me in jail. I shouldn’t have broken the window.”
“He’s said this before,” Russ said. “I checked it out. If it was anytime recently, the store owner didn’t report it. My guess is that it wasn’t anytime recently, but Henry isn’t too sure of dates and times.”
“It was supposed to be a pet,” Henry said. “That made it just like a person. I killed a person and ate it. The rabbit.”
Russ sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“Henry,” Gregor said, “how do you know you killed all those women with a cord?”
“They told me so,” Henry said happily. “They saw it.”
“They saw you kill them?”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “They were right there. They saw it. They told me all about it. I like it when people are there to see, don’t you? Then you don’t have to try to remember. I can’t remember anything anymore. I think I’m getting old.”
“All right,” Gregor said. “Is that all they told you? That you killed them? Or did they tell you other things, things about the killings. Did they tell you about the cord.”
“The tall one put his face right up into mine and said, ‘You took that cord and wrapped it around her neck and pulled and pulled until she wasn’t moving anymore.’ That’s what he said. I think you’d better talk to him about it. He should be arrested, don’t you think? He was a police officer and he was right there and he didn’t stop me doing it, so he’s the one who really killed her. That was in my philosophy book.”
“Your philosophy book?”
“In college,” Henry said. “It was a long time ago. Elizabeth and Margaret made me go to college, but I didn’t stay. I just got drunk there. Do you think I could go now? I don’t like being in buildings unless it’s really cold, and it’s not cold now. It was cold a few weeks ago. I remember. I had to go to a shelter, and then for a while I had to go back to stay with Margaret and Elizabeth. Margaret yells at me.”
Gregor looked at Russ. “Well,” he said.
“You see what I mean,” Russ said.
“Yes.” Gregor looked around. “Do you think we could leave him here for a moment or two? Do we have to call an officer? I want a word.”
“Just a minute.”
Russ left and came back moments later with a woman officer who was a little less overwrought than her male colleagues. She did not bring handcuffs, and she did not seem worried about staying in a room with Henry Tyder. That spoke volumes about the possibility that Henry was actually the Plate Glass Killer, or about this woman’s ability to handle hand-to-hand combat.
Russ thanked her for her time and stepped into the hall with Gregor following. They closed the door behind them and looked up and down the empty corridor to make sure that it was clear.
“See,” Russ said. “I mean seriously. Is this a case of false confession or what?”
“I’d say it’s ninety-nine-to-one that it’s a case of false confession,” Gregor said.
“I think John Jackman knows it, too,” Russ said. “He’s been around here all morning, sniffing. That’s because of the cardinal; he’s on the warpath. Catholic social teaching and all that. The preferential option for the poor.”
“Henry Tyder isn’t poor,” Gregor pointed out.
“He might as well be,” Russ said. “I can’t figure out what it is they think they’re doing. I was sure that as soon as they realized Henry had connections, they’d drop this crap. Because it is crap. And coincidence. They can’t possibly think he really is a serial killer. Do you?”
“No,” Gregor said. “Or at least, I doubt it. He doesn’t fit the profile that I can tell. And there’s too much—I don’t know what to call it—affect. But it’s not just that they picked him up next to the latest victim, right? There was some other connection.”
“One of the earlier victims was a woman named Conchita Estevez,” Russ said. “She lived in the house with Henry’s sisters as a live-in maid.”
“And was he found next to that body, too?”
“No,” Russ said. “He wasn’t found anywhere near it. It was in a service alley behind the house. But he’d been in the house the whole week before she died, so they picked him up.”
“And?”
“And they let him go,” Russ said. “They had to. It was obviously a Plate Glass Killing. The elements were all there. He barely knew the woman. He wasn’t living at home much and never has. So they let him go.”
“And then today he was found next to the body,” Gregor said.
“No, that’s media shortcut,” Russ said. “He was found on the street near the entry to the alleyway with blood all over him. Some woman saw him and started screaming, and then somebody called the police. I don’t doubt he was next to the body though, and that he got the blood all over him because he touched it; but I still don’t think he killed her, and I don’t think they think so either. They’re just jumping on an easy out.”
“Maybe it won’t be so easy an out,” Gregor said. “If he’s not the Plate Glass Killer, chances are there will be another Plate Glass Killing while he’s in custody. And that will take care of that.”
“But maybe not,” Russ said. “Serial killers go dormant, don’t they? Or they disappear for a while?”
“Yes, they do,” Gregor said.
“So we can’t count on that,” Russ said. “Then there’s the problem with the detectives, so that I can’t get the two of them into a room to talk to me. I see them separately, but never together; and when I ask what the hell they think they’re doing, I get a runaround. Do you know them? Marty Gayle and Cord Leehan?”
Gregor thought about it. “They sound familiar, but I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve read their names in the papers about this case.”
“You never see them together,” Russ said. “It’s not something I noticed before, but I have since I got here trying to represent Henry. They act like they hate each other, and you can’t get them to tell you the same thing. It’s like playing telephone. I heard of them, too, before this. I just can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe we should go back to Henry Tyder,” Gregor said.
Russ sighed. “I’m really not going to let them get away with this. People make false confessions all the time. You know that; they know that; even the cardinal kno
ws that. And in this case, it’s obvious he was asked leading questions.”
“There’s a tape?” Gregor asked.
“Yes.”
“You should be able to get a copy of it or a transcript on discovery,” Gregor said. “Your problem is going to be keeping him from making a guilty plea and having it accepted. Have you found a psychologist yet?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“I know somebody who might be able to put you in touch with one,” Gregor said. He shook his head. “I’m going to need some things, if you could get them for me. Talk to John Jackman; and if he won’t listen to you, I’ll call him myself. I want all the information I can get about the murder of, what’s her name, the maid—”
“Conchita Estevez.”
“Yes. All of it. About her death, his arrest, everything. And everything I can get about this one. In fact, I want everything—”
“About all of them?” Russ said. “Will John Jackman let you have those? Can he?”
“He can if I’m consulting for the department instead of the defense,” Gregor said. “And he will if he’s scared enough. He is running for mayor.”
“I didn’t know,” Russ said, “but I’m not surprised. I expect to see him running for president one of these days.”
3
Gregor expected to see himself run for a psychologist one of these days, and not one who would help Russ Donahue with Henry Tyder. Sitting in the cab on the way back to Cavanaugh Street, a number of things occurred to him, none of them to his credit. First, he realized it had been a very good day. Phillipa Lydgate could have taken his mind off a nuclear holocaust, never mind the problem of Bennis Day Hannaford. Work always made it possible for him to put aside his personal life. He thought back to the time when his wife was dying—long before Cavanaugh Street or Bennis or Alison or even his retirement from the FBI—and wondered if it would not have been so bad if he had stayed on the job, rather than taken leave to look after her. Elizabeth had wanted him to stay on the job. She’d said she wasn’t interested in benefitting from his martyrdom. He was the one who hadn’t been able to make himself do it.
