Slaughter (10 page)

T
he door to Margaret Evans's second-floor apartment was still unlocked, but there was a roll of yellow crime scene tape leaning against the doorjamb, and an NYPD sticker that had to be peeled off before the door could be opened. Quinn and Fedderman were ready to enter, but Bud Peltz ushered them to the next door, leading to the apartment directly adjacent to the scene of the murder. The detectives were curious about what Peltz had in mind.

The apartment next to Margaret Evans's was vacant and unfurnished. There were clean rectangles on the otherwise bare off-white walls where picture frames or similar objects had hung. A dead geranium sat in a green plastic pot on the living room windowsill.

Peltz led them toward the hall to the rear of the apartment, then into a bedroom. Their footfalls on the bare wood floor carried a faint echo.

They entered a bedroom with a window overlooking a side street. The room was completely bare except for a stained double mattress leaning against the window. It blocked enough light so that it was dim in the room.

Quinn flipped a wall switch that turned on an overhead fixture. Nothing changed, only became more visible.

“You need to turn the light out,” Peltz said.

Quinn did, making the room dim again. He was getting an idea of where this might be going.

Peltz went to a door, unlocked it with a skeleton key, and opened it. The door led nowhere but to an empty closet. Even the bar where clothes could be hung had been removed. The closet had an empty twelve-inch wooden shelf above and behind the clothes bar. Peltz tilted the shelf, removed it, and a narrow lance of light penetrated the dimness. Behind where the shelf had been, at its precise level, was a one-inch-round peephole.

Quinn stepped into the closet, peered through the hole, and saw two paramedics putting parts of Margaret Evans into a body bag.

“I saw what he did,” Bud Peltz said in a tremulous voice. “I couldn't help her. When I started looking, she was already dead. There was nothing I could do to save her.”

“So you watched,” Fedderman said.

“I—I couldn't look away.”

“You could have called us,” Fedderman said. “We could have caught the bastard. Stopped him from doing this.” Fedderman's voice rose in anger. This voyeur scumbag had watched and done nothing.

Peltz raised both shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I told you, she was already dead. And I . . . Well, I admit, I was afraid to leave and get to a phone.”

“Did you have your cell phone?” Quinn asked.

“Yes, but he might have heard, would have killed me.”

“Not much doubt of that,” Quinn said, modulating his voice. He wanted to get on this guy's side, become his confidant, learn what he knew. “I won't condemn you for looking through a peephole, Mr. Peltz. You're not the only man who's ever done that.”

Peltz's entire body was quaking. “I'm so damned ashamed. And Maria might leave me.”

“Did you tell her what you saw?”

“Not everything. I didn't want to talk about some of the things the killer did. Didn't want to think about them.”

“It isn't easy,” Quinn commiserated.

Fedderman still wanted to toss Peltz out the second-story window, but he knew what Quinn was doing. Getting on Peltz's good side so he could mine him for information.

Then maybe they could toss him out a window.

“I saw what he did with his jigsaw,” Peltz said. He looked as if he might break down and start sobbing any second. “Poor Maggie . . .”

Maggie?

“We need to know,” Quinn said. “Did you and Maggie—Margaret—have a relationship?”

“We were friends.”

“With benefits?”

“You mean did we have sex?”

“Yes. By any definition.”

“Twice. Three times.”

“Idiot!” Fedderman said softly, thinking of Maria Peltz.

“But it didn't mean anything serious. Not to either of us.”

“Of course not,” Quinn said. “A woman like that, and a man like yourself . . . hell, things like that are hard to avoid.” He gave Fedderman a stern look so he'd be quiet. “They're like ripples in a lake. Left alone, they disappear and it's as if they never happened.”

“That's what I wanted,” Peltz said. “That's where we were at. The ripples were disappearing and there would have been smooth sailing except for—what happened.”

“One thing, Mr. Peltz. And I hope you won't object to my asking this, but did you ever take photographs through that peephole?”

“Oh, God no! I swear!”

“Video?” Fedderman asked.

“Not that, either. And believe me, I could have. The bedroom was bright enough. Margaret liked it with a light on.”

Quinn tried not to show his disappointment. It would have been more than convenient to have the Gremlin's photograph. His likeness on video or as a still would go a long way toward finding him.

“So you got a good look at him.”

“Yes. Though a lot of the time his back was turned toward me.”

Fedderman had his note pad out. “Can you describe him?”

“A small man, but very muscular.”

“Hair?”

“Black. Maybe brown. He wore it kind of long in back and on the sides, combed back over his ears.”

“Eye color?

Peltz shook his head. “Sorry. I can't recall.”

“He have his clothes off?”

“Yeah. Everything. I guess so he wouldn't get blood on his clothes he couldn't wash off.” Peltz began shaking again. “Margaret was nude, too.”

“Any identifying marks on either of them?” Fedderman looked up from his note pad. “Like tattoos or scars.”

“No. Not that I saw.”

“Is there anything in particular that we didn't ask about? Anything. Even if it seems unimportant to you, but for some reason stuck in your mind.”

Peltz pressed his fingertips into his temples to make a show of thinking. “The way he moved, maybe. He was quick and kind of hopped. And his body hair. It was dark, and he had a lot of it.” He shook his head. “God! Poor Margaret.”

“Sounds like she was attacked by some kind of animal,” Fedderman said.

Peltz said, “No. But there was something about him . . .”

“Like a leprechaun?”

“No.”

“A gremlin?”

“Yeah!” He looked momentarily confused. “However a gremlin's supposed to look.”

“You're sure Margaret was dead when you first saw her last night through the peephole?” Quinn asked.

The shaking got worse. There were tears now, and Peltz's voice cracked. “Her head was detached.”

Quinn made an effort to keep calm. To at least appear calm. He was the one assigned to find and stop this monster.

“No one could blame you for being upset,” he said to Peltz.

“Jesus save me! Horrible as it was, I couldn't look away.”

“We understand,” Quinn said. “Anyone would react as you did. Even old cops like us.”

Fedderman glared at him.

Quinn almost felt guilty about the anger he experienced on learning that Peltz was merely a voyeur and didn't photograph or video Margaret or her killer.

He started toward the door. “If you think of anything else, Mr. Peltz . . .”

“Of course. I'll let you know.”

“They'll want your statement down at the precinct house.”

Peltz seemed annoyed. “Another statement? I thought that's what this was. Why so many statements?”

“C'mon, Mr. Peltz, you watch cop shows on TV.”

“Yeah. You want to see if I contradict myself, then it'll be my ass.”

“It's been our experience,” Quinn said, “that people who don't contradict themselves are usually lying.”

They were silent as they left the building. Out on the sun-warmed sidewalk, Peltz stopped as if his batteries had suddenly run down.

“We going back to my apartment?”

“No,” Quinn said. “We'll let you face your wife by yourself.”

“All that stuff about the peephole in the closet, will it be on the news?”

“Most likely.”

“Do you photograph well?” Fedderman asked.

Peltz looked angry enough to attack Fedderman. Even took a step toward him. Fedderman didn't back up.

“Now, now,” Quinn said, moving between them.

“It's all your fault,” Peltz said, still zeroed in on Fedderman. “You're supposed to catch dangerous psychos like that, keep them from killing.”

“You've got a point there,” Quinn said.

That seemed to calm Peltz. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them. “Okay, I'm sorry. I guess I got lost in my own anger, in those images of Margaret. I couldn't look away.”

“You told us that,” Fedderman said.

Peltz looked mournfully at him. “I'd like to think you believe me.”

Fedderman turned and walked toward the car.

When Quinn had gotten in on the driver's side and slammed the car door closed, he lowered the window to let out some of the heat. Peltz bent down and said, “Why's your partner got such a hard-on for me?”

“It's that part about you wanting to be believed. He mostly doesn't believe anyone.” Quinn smiled. “I'm pretty much the same way.”

Peltz looked enraged, his temper barely in check. “Bad cop, bad cop,” he said in disgust. He crossed his arms and stood unmoving as a rock.

Quinn said, “I'm sorry you feel that way.”

 

 

Quinn started the car and turned the air-conditioning on high. He didn't drive away immediately, though. After a minute or so, he goosed the Lincoln and made the tires squeal. He wanted to be sure Bud Peltz saw them leave.

“Something not ring true to you?” Fedderman asked.

“Yeah, but I'm not sure if it matters, except to Maria Peltz.”

“You think Peltz might be abusing her?”

“Or she him,” Quinn said.

“He's got a temper,” Fedderman said, watching Peltz move toward his apartment like a condemned man, “but he controls it.”

“Let's hope his wife controls hers,” Quinn said. “That woman reminds me of a stick of dynamite.”

Fedderman said, “Notice we're both more concerned that she's going to do him serious harm, rather than the other way around?”

Quinn said, “That oughta tell us something.”

This is the very ecstasy of love,
Whose violent property fordoes itself
And leads the will to desperate
    undertakings.

—S
HAKESPEARE
,
Hamlet

 

A
s Jordan Kray watched, the propane explosion obliterated the only house he'd ever lived in. Shingles and wooden splinters flew. Chimney bricks and large sections of the house became airborne and arced away from the fiery explosion in all directions. No one could live through the blast and the inferno.

They were dead. His family was dead.

For a moment he saw a flame-shrouded dark figure that might have been his mother running, flailing her arms. Or he might have imagined it. She was dead when he saw her; she had to be.

Another figure, that he knew wasn't a mirage, was hurrying toward him, still absently lugging the fire extinguisher. Ben the bus driver, lucky to be alive. Ben was forty pounds overweight, most of it in his gut, and could run only so fast. But despite his slowness afoot, his fear had helped to propel him outside the radius of death caused by the propane blast.

Also outside the reach of the explosion, Jordan found himself wondering about the effects of what he'd done.

Was he detached? Already? No. He definitely wasn't detached. And he wasn't horrified or in shock. Maybe he should be both those things. Instead he was being observant and reasonable. Analytical and curious.

He was aware that others might assume that his calm silence was a symptom of shock. Well, let them.

What he'd planned had worked. He was proud of that but knew he mustn't let anyone realize it. He put on his mental mask. Its expression was one of disbelief and disorientation rather than accomplishment.

What would the house look like later, inside its burning walls? How would the walls and what was left of the wiring and plumbing look? There was a steel I beam running the length of the basement. Would it be melted? Or would it withstand heat and explosion long enough to prevent the house from collapsing into the basement? And what about the heating vents? Had the flames found them to be an easy route through the rest of the house?

The firefighting books Jordan had read in the library were accurate and useful. The precautions, when read and interpreted from a different point of view, provided instructions from hell.

The bus was far enough onto the road shoulder to make room for a fire engine, a red-light-festooned chief's car, and several pickup trucks. What there was of the local fire department. The lead vehicles had their lights flashing. None of them sounded a siren. There was no point. The firefighters could see for miles and it was just them and the fire that was drawing them like a magnet.

Ben and Jordan returned to the bus. Ben, looking at the kids in the rearview mirror, fastened the emergency brake and said, “We might as well watch what happens from here and stay outta the way.” He opened the bus's front and rear doors, then switched off the engine and air conditioner. In the sweltering heat and silence, several of the kids raised the bus's side windows. A welcome breeze played down the aisle.

Jordan hadn't counted on this. It was his tragedy and he wanted to see it close up. Nobody saw him dash out through the bus's rear door and run across the tilled field toward the burning house until it was too late. Then everyone pointed and yelled. Ben the bus driver said, “You all stay put now,” and struggled out of his seat and left the bus.

One of the volunteer firemen noticed Jordan approaching and jogged out to intercept him. Jordan changed the angle of his approach to the burning ruin that had been his family home.

The fireman was in good physical shape and closed in on Jordan while Ben kept him from retreating. They both tackled him and brought him down, knocking the breath from him.

“It's okay,” Ben kept repeating. “It's okay, Jordan.”

Both men were breathing hard. Jordan tried to talk but was too winded.

“The kid's family was in that house,” Ben said

The firefighter coughed and spat off to the side. Said, “I know. He's one of the Krays. I seen him around.” He patted Jordan's shoulder.”

All three of them lay quiet for a few minutes, working to breathe.

“How many of your family were inside, Jordan?”

“All of them, I think. Everyone but me.”

“Shit!” said the fireman.

Ben rested a hand on Jordan's shoulder and kneaded his flesh, as if a good massage was what was needed by someone who'd just lost his entire family.

“You okay, Jordan?”

“Yes. I want to get closer and look.”

“Look at what?”

“My mom and dad, Nora my sister, Kent my brother . . .”

“You can't help them now,” the firefighter said. “They're in a better place.” He looked up at Ben and the other firefighter who'd come over to stand by them. “He tried to save them. Even with the fire.”

“Jesus!” the other firefighter said.

Jordan looked from one to the other. What better place were they talking about?

That was when Jordan suddenly recognized the first firefighter. Riley something. He was a deacon at the church Jordan and his family had attended exactly twice, before his mom and dad had declared themselves atheists.

“A brave lad,” the second firefighter said.

“Couldn't keep him on the bus,” Ben said. “Not after he realized his family's house was on fire.”

“Brave is right!” Riley said. “Inspiring!”