But he no longer wished to be something other than what he was.
EIGHT
1
The only detective on the case at the scene now was Marty Gayle. Gregor had heard about him off and on for years because he was something of a departmental embarrassment. The Philadelphia Police Department didn’t require its officers to be gay rights activists, but it wasn’t happy with outright flaming homophobia either; and Marty Gayle was a homophobe, complete with a wrongful arrest record that looked like the screenplay for the kind of Hollywood movie that wins an Oscar on the strength of its social commentary alone. Gregor would never have assigned somebody like Marty Gayle to a case like this, and he wouldn’t have kept him on the case if he was having trouble working with a partner; but he wasn’t making those decisions, and he was going to have to live with the ones made by other people. He wondered what the partner was like. Cord Leehan was not somebody he knew even casually. With any luck he’d be somebody who was easier to work with than Marty Gayle.
Marty Gayle was out here now because he was the first person the precinct captain had thought to call when his two least excitable patrolmen had called in to tell him what they had—or thought they had, Gregor reminded himself. It was the middle of the night. It had to be after ten o’clock. It was pitch dark, and most of the light in this neighborhood was coming from the spots the police had brought in for themselves. Gregor looked around and saw that there wasn’t a single streetlamp broken. It wasn’t that kind of place.
He was just stepping out of his cab and wondering what to do next when Russ came running up, out of breath.
“Gregor,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad—”
“I’ll bet you’re glad,” a big man said, coming over to both of then, “but you shouldn’t be, Mr. Donahue, and you know it.”
“I heard about it from Rob Benedetti,” Russ said, “and I was right.”
“We don’t know who’s right about what just yet,” the big man said. Then he held out his his hand to Gregor Demarkian. “I’m Marty Gayle. I’m the detective detailed to the Plate Glass Killer case.”
Gregor filed away, in the back of his mind, the fact that Marty Gayle had said he was the detective on the case—as if he were the only one. “There’s been another Plate Glass Killing?” he asked.
“No,” Marty Gayle said. Then he walked away.
Russ watched him go. Gregor thought Russ looked awful. Another day had come and gone, and Russ didn’t seem to have gotten any sleep yet. It was the kind of thing you could do in college, once or twice, but never again.
Gregor looked at the scene, or what was available to see. There was a small house exactly like a dozen other small houses both on its side of the street and on the other. There was the open door at the front, and the porch, cleared of everything unrelated to the police. There were the neighbors, dozens of them, watching from the sidewalk and from other porches. It was hard to see details in the dark.
“So,” Gregor said, realizing just then that a fine, misty drizzle was coming down, “what is all this about if there hasn’t been another Plate Glass Killing?”
“It’s your verb tenses,” Russ said. “Watch out for Marty Gayle. He’s like that. There hasn’t been one, but there were more of them in the past than we realized—maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“Because I haven’t been able to get in there,” Russ said. “Oh, I know, I shouldn’t be able to actually get in there. I’d contaminate the crime scene. That’s not what I mean. I haven’t been able to get anyone to tell me anything, and I’ve got a right to know, Gregor. If it turns out there was another Plate Glass Killing, and Henry didn’t even know about it, that’s a clincher. I’ve got a client charged with capital murder. I have a right to know.”
“Henry didn’t mention any Plate Glass Killings besides the ones that had already been in the papers?”
“No,” Russ said, “and he didn’t even mention all of those. This is ridiculous. You know this is ridiculous.”
Gregor looked around again. “Who are these people?” he asked. “Some of them live in the house, isn’t that right? Do you know which ones? Do you know how the police got called in?”
“I thought you’d be able to get by them,” Russ said, “because you’re working for Jackman now. Officially, at any rate. I thought they’d have to let you in.”
“Let’s worry about that later,” Gregor said. “Why are the police here? Who called them? What got them out here?”