Stack said nothing, either, his eyes on her. As a detective for over thirty years, she imagined he could outstare the best of them.
“I know it eats at you, an unsolved case like this. I can help, but you’ve got to talk to me.”
Stack sighed, unlocked the glass storm door, and pushed it open, holding the frame at the top. “Come on, before I change my mind.”
Fogel ducked under his arm into the house.
She found herself in a small living room. A nineteen-inch television sat on two milk crates in the corner, with a battered brown leather recliner positioned in front. A metal TV tray with three empty bottles and one half full bottle of Iron City stood beside the chair. On the television, the evening news droned on. Stack stepped past her and clicked it off. The air in the room smelled stagnant. She wanted to open a window. “Is your wife home?”
Stack snickered. “Are you in homicide?”
Fogel nodded.
“I gave up on wives after number three gave up on me. You know how it goes—never home, the job always on the mind. Tough sleeping with the images of bodies floating around in your head whenever you close your eyes. I got pretty good at blocking all that out when I came through the door, but not good enough. Some of them follow you inside whether you invite them or not. Wife number three ignored most of that—in the beginning, anyway. After a few years, even the best of them begin to feel like they’re second fiddle to the job. Once that feeling sets in, it’s only a matter of time before bags get packed.”
He picked up the half full bottle of Iron City and took a long swig, then held it out toward her. “You want one? I got more in the fridge.”
“Can’t. I’m on duty.”
He drained the rest of his own beer, set it back on the rickety metal table beside the three others, and retrieved another from the refrigerator in the small kitchen. He popped the cap off on the edge of the counter and took another drink, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and leaned against the back of the recliner, facing her, the beer cradled in his hand. “You don’t want this case in your head, kid.”
“It’s already in my head. Tell me about August 8, 1978. The first one.”
He took another drink, nearly half the bottle gone just like that. “I was supposed to be off. I clocked out at eight-thirty that night and was shooting the shit with a few of the other guys in the pen, when the call came in. That was a quarter after nine. A neighbor reported gunshots. 911 dispatched a unit, and they found the bodies. They taped off the house and put the call into homicide. Morgan should have gone out. He had another hour on his shift, but it was his kid’s birthday, birthday number twelve, and it seemed silly for him to miss something like that. I was six months out of my first divorce, so I had no place in particular I needed to be so I agreed to go out in his place. Worst fucking mistake of my life. Partners were optional back then, so I went solo.”
His voice dropped off. He raised the bottle to his lips, changed his mind. “The house was in Dormont, off Beverly. Number 98. Three stories with a stone facade, perfectly manicured lawn, even better manicured flowers in boxes at the window. Could have been in a magazine, Norman Rockwell from top to bottom. There were three patrol cars there when I arrived. Uniforms taped off the entire front yard, and all the neighbors came out to see the show. I ducked the tape, went inside. There were big splinters of wood around the frame. Looked like someone kicked the door in. I remember the chunks of wood on the floor were tagged with evidence number seven. One of the uniforms recognized me, nodded toward a room off to the left. Flashbulbs were going off on the stairs in the opposite direction. I went to the left, to a family room. That’s where we found the male vic. He took a bullet to the head, right here.” Stack tapped at the center of his forehead. “Perfectly clean shot, dead center. The back of his head was missing, spread out between the coffee table and the carpet. Looked like he had been sitting on the couch reading thePost-Gazette, got up when the unsubs burst through the door, and got about two steps before they plugged him. 9mm round, heavy jacket.” He tapped his forehead again.
“They didn’t try to subdue him?”
Stack shook his head. “This was an execution. They came through the door, spotted him, put a bullet in him. Flat-out execution. You know how I know? It was in his eyes, his face. When someone dies like that, they’re frozen, caught in time. One second they’re alive, the next they’re not. His face, his expression, read total surprise. Another second or two, and he might have registered fear or anger, but he was dead before the light bulb on those thoughts had a chance to ignite. We got a lot of rain earlier, and we found some muddy footprints leading from the front door to the entrance of that room—three sets—they only came in far enough to shoot the guy, no prints deeper into the room. That tells me they came for him. Burglars would have tossed the room, these guys didn’t.”
“Then why did you write it up as a B&E?”
Stack clucked his tongue, took another sip of beer. “That was my captain’s idea. Dormont is a nice, safe neighborhood, always has been. We had no real proof this was an execution, and he didn’t want that to get out in the press. If I hadn’t written it up as a B&E, he would have put someone else on the case, and I wanted to stay on the case.” He shook his head. “I was damned stupid back then. Still not sure I wised up. Anyway, he said if I proved it was an execution and caught the people behind it, we’d update the report, say we held back in order to catch the perp. I went along with that. Shouldn’t have, but I did.”
He finished the beer, set the bottle on the table next to the others, and retrieved a fresh one. “We found the female vic on the stairs. Pretty little thing. The ME put her around twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. No older than that.”
Fogel frowned. “Why the guess? No identification?”
“You read the report. You know what we found, what we didn’t find.” He waved a hand at her. “Let me get this out, then we can go into all that. If I don’t tell you this part now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it out at all.”
“You found the woman on the stairs,” Fogel prompted.
He nodded. “Her clothes were all torn apart, obvious signs of rape. Probably multiple rapes, since we had three perps. The ME found at least two blood samples when he ran a kit. Tech in ’78 wasn’t what we got today. She had been shot in the head, too, just like the male. Unlike the male, her face was well past ‘surprised.’ Frightened wouldn’t even cover it. She looked worried to me. Not about what was happening to her at that moment, but at the thought of what was going to happen. I…” He trailed off for a second, cleared his throat. “I found these scratch marks on the wall, on the wood steps, too. I think she was trying to get upstairs. Do you have any kids, Detective?”
Fogel shook her head.
“Me either, but I know the look. I’ve seen that look on other victims—when the parent is worried about their child far more than whatever they feel for their own well being. I eased past the lab guys and the photographer at that point, and went up the stairs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I tried to prepare myself for the sight of a dead baby. I’d seen them before, worst possible thing anyone could ever see. One of those images that sticks in your mind till the day you die, maybe past that, too. I guess I’ll find out soon enough,” Stack said.
His eyes filled with pain, sorrow. He forced it back down as best he could and went on. “The smell hit me first. Not the smell of a dead body, or even a burnt body, although that’s what they looked like, more of a dry, dusty smell, like opening the door of an attic that’s been shut up for a long time. There were three bodies on the floor. I’d never seen anything like it. They looked burnt, dried out, like something drained every ounce of moisture out of them. You’ve seen the pictures. One of the photographers said they looked like all the life had been sucked out of them, nothing but a shell left. The ME said they reminded him of the victims at Pompeii. Have you ever seen the pictures of the bodies found at Pompeii after the volcano erupted?”
Fogel shook her head.
“Look it up. That’s what they looked like to me, too. Like they were made of nothing but ash. Like if I were to touch them, they would crumble away into dust, just fall apart. They were all on their backs, but two of them looked like they were reaching out for something. Their mouths were open, all three, caught in some kind of silent scream. The bodies were on the floor, lying around a bed. A small bed. A kid’s bed.”
Fogel frowned. “You didn’t mention a kid at all in your report.”
“Because we didn’t find one. Didn’t find anything to indicate there had ever been one. The bed was empty. The room was more or less empty, too. No sheets on the bed. No clothing in the dresser. No books. No pictures. There was an empty bed, an empty dresser, and a chair next to the bed, nothing else. My gut said it was a kid’s room, but there wasn’t a single thing in there to back that up. Aside from bare furniture, it was completely empty. Felt like a kid’s room, though.” He took another sip of beer and pointed at her with the bottle. “That takes me back to what you asked earlier, about the identification. We found nothing in the house. No IDs on the adults, no photographs on the walls, not even a single utility bill. Kitchen cabinets and refrigerator were all bare. The adults were living out of suitcases. We found two in the master bedroom—his and hers. Bathroom had toothbrushes and a small travel kit with shaving gear, hairbrush, and the like. Not a single personal touch in the house. Turned out the house was owned by a real estate investor who lived in Florida, and he had no idea anyone was living there. He kept the utilities on so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Paid some company to stage the place with furniture. Hired a landscaper to maintain the exterior. The two gunshot vics were squatting.”
