Glass Houses: A Gregor Demarkian Novel (Gregor Demarkian Mystery)

Glass Houses: A Gregor Demarkian Novel (Gregor Demarkian Mystery)

Philadelphia has been plagued by a serial killer dubbed the Plate Glass Killer by the media…until the police finally catch a break: Henry Tyder, the scion of a prominent Main Line family, is found literally with blood on his hands at the scene of the most recent murder. After more than a year of anguish, the city can now rest assured. But even though Tyder has made a confession, his own attorney has doubts. How could the alcoholic, frequently homeless Tyder have committed this crime—as well as the others? Enter Gregor Demarkian, retired head of the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, who’s been asked to look into the case. Gregor’s evaluation of Tyder turns up a grim truth: The police have got the wrong guy. But why would Tyder lie? Who is he trying to protect? If wrestling with this case weren’t enough, Gregor is still trying to make sense of the mysterious reappearance of his estranged girlfriend…and keep them all out of harm’s way while the real Plate Glass Killer remains at-large. “Exhilarating.”— Kirkus Reviews “Haddam plays the mystery game like a master.”— Chicago Tribune “Intelligent, thoughtful…Haddam elevates this twisty whodunit far above most. ”—Publishers Weekly A city under siege Philadelphia has been plagued by a serial killer dubbed the Plate Glass Killer by the media…until the police finally catch a break: Henry Tyder, the scion of a prominent Main Line family, is found literally with blood on his hands at the scene of the most recent murder. After more than a year of anguish, the city can now rest assured. A scandalous suspect But even though Tyder has made a confession, his own attorney has doubts. How could the alcoholic, frequently homeless Tyder have committed this crime—as well as the others? Enter Gregor Demarkian, retired head of the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit, who’s been asked to look into the case. A journey into fear and darkness… Gregor’s evaluation of Tyder turns up a grim truth: The police have got the wrong guy. But why would Tyder lie? Who is he trying to protect? If wrestling with this case weren’t enough, Gregor is still trying to make sense of the mysterious reappearance of his estranged girlfriend…and keep them all out of harm’s way while the real Plate Glass Killer remains at-large. “Haddam plays the mystery game like a master.” — Chicago Tribune “Intelligent, thoughtful…Haddam elevates this twisty whodunit far above most. ”—Publishers Weekly JANE HADDAM is the author of numerous novels, many featuring Gregor Demarkian, as has been a finalist for both the Edgar and Anthony Awards. She lives in Litchfield Country, Connecticut. Chapter 1 Sometimes Henry Tyder thought that the real problem would always be the blood. Bodies could be stashed under tables or cut up and put into trunks. You could take pieces off them or settle for pieces of clothing instead, in case you were worried about how you were going to smell on the bus. Evidence was nothing at all. Evidence was what you made it be. If you wanted it, you went and got it. If you wanted to get rid of it, you had only to point out that you were who and what you were: living on the street half the time; drunk to the gills half the time; out of your mind half the time. No, it was the blood that was the problem because blood went everywhere. It was five o’clock on the evening of March 23rd, and not as cold as it should have been. A fine drizzling rain had been coming down most of the day. The streets were slick and wet and shiny under streetlamps that were just going on. Down at the end of the block, half a dozen people were huddled near the curb, hoping for taxis. This was not Henry’s ordinary neighborhood. It was not a place where he felt safe. He checked out the people one more time and then retreated to the narrow alley between two brick buildings. They were the kind of buildings he remembered from his childhood, with stoops at the front and tall windows that looked out onto the city. It was as if the people who lived inside cared not at all about who could see them. On the alley side, though, there were no windows, except one very high up on the fifth or sixth floor. That would have been a maid’s room in the old days. Now it was probably a place where a law firm stowed the kind of files it expected nobody to ever want to see again. The body was halfway between the two ends of the alley. It was the body of a young woman in a red cloth coat, with fingernails painted to look like American flags. Henry crouched down next to it. His mind was clear. It really was. He’d been living “at home” for weeks now—or at least he’d been living with Elizabeth and Margaret, which was as close as he came to home. He was cold and his bones ached, but he thought he understood what he was doing. The young woman must have been one of those people who liked to call attention to herself. The coat would have stood out in a crowd. The fingernails would have started conversations. Maybe that was what she had wanted. Maybe she had hoped th