Glass Houses(31)

“Oh, my,” Alison said, “that really didn’t sound convincing.”

“No, it didn’t,” Lionel said.

Gregor had finished his scotch. He hadn’t touched his salad. He didn’t like salads. Bennis was always trying to get him to eat them.

“Well,” he said carefully, “here’s the thing. There’s something just wrong about Henry Tyder.”

“Do you mean he shows signs of mental illness?” Lionel asked.

Gregor shrugged. “It depends on what you mean by mental illness. Everybody shows some sign of mental illness by some of the more common definitions. It wasn’t that kind of thing I was thinking of. John Jackman—”

“The Commissioner of Police John Jackman?” Lionel asked.

“And the one who’s running for mayor,” Gregor said. “That’s the one. Anyway, John said that he was convinced that Henry Tyder had murdered somebody sometime, even if he wasn’t the Plate Glass Killer; and I know what it was that made him think that because you can feel it when you talk to him. But I don’t know that I’d say it was because he’d murdered somebody once. It doesn’t have to be that.”

“What would it be?” Alison asked. “What kind of things?”

“I don’t know,” Gregor said. “I’ve only seen him the one time. Maybe my impression would change if I got to know him. And I do intend to get to know him. You have to, in cases like this. But on first acquaintance he just came off as wrong somehow. And that’s the best that I can do. Except that it was like looking at one of those trick pictures. You know, the one with the lady sitting at a vanity mirror and then if you look at it another way, it’s really a skull. Optical illusions.”

“You think Henry Tyder is creating an optical illusion?” Lionel asked.

“No,” Gregor said. “I think Henry Tyder is an optical illusion. I don’t necessarily think it’s something he’s doing on purpose. I think it might be something he just is.”

“You’re making no sense at all,” Alison said.

“I know,” Gregor said. “I’m doing the best I can. Russ has seen more of him. I don’t know if he’s got the same impression. You should ask him.”

“Russ is Henry Tyder’s attorney?”

“Yes,” Gregor said. “And I’m officially going to be working for the other side. But you know, movie thrillers notwithstanding, it’s rarely the case that the police and district attorney just don’t care about the truth as long as they get a conviction. It’s not true here. Nobody wants to see this man go to prison if he isn’t the Plate Glass Killer. If anything, they’re desperate to make sure they haven’t made a mistake.”

“But they don’t think they have made a mistake,” Lionel said, “because of the confession.”

“Exactly,” Gregor said.

“Do they realize that people often make false confessions for all kinds of reasons?”

“Of course they do,” Gregor said. “They’re police officers. They do this all the time. But juries don’t. Juries tend not to be able to see why anybody would make a false confession. Ever.”

“Ah,” Lionel said.

Gregor almost laughed. That was the kind of thing a psychologist was supposed to say. Ah. He picked at his salad just as the waitress came back to clear.

“Go right ahead,” he said, backing away from the plate.

She gave him an odd look and picked up. Alison and Lionel Redstone had both finished their salads. Gregor thought this was something to do with academia. All the academics he knew liked salads.

“What are you thinking about?” Alison asked him.

“Salads,” Gregor said, because it was the truth.

Alison didn’t look as if she believed him. Gregor was about to say something more on the subject of false confessions and Henry Tyder when the cell phone he had left next to his water glass began to vibrate. In a split second, his mind went completely, irrevocably blank.

“You’ve got a call,” Alison said helpfully.

Gregor picked up the phone, flipped it open, and pushed the tiny button that gave him the display.

It was his own number at home that came up on the caller identification line.





FIVE


1


Bennie Durban had been watching the news all morning, picking it up at television wall displays at electronics places and in bars. Most of the time, places like that wouldn’t bother with the news no matter what was happening. The last time Bennie could remember there being news absolutely everywhere was on 9/11. But this was local. This was Philadelphia. This was their very own serial killer. If it had been up to Bennie to tell people how to feel, he would have wanted them to be proud. But of course, nobody asked him.