Murder and Salutations - By Elizabeth Bright Page 0,27

of melting tar trailed his black brogans. He was gasping for breath but moving like a bull that would not be stopped.

It was nearly one hundred degrees at midday, the hottest month in Philadelphia history, and William Fleisher wondered for the hundredth time what brought him obsessively into the bowels of the city, why he left the cool, ordered hallways of the U.S. Custom House for the steaming end of South Street, where chaos ruled.

He passed an old wino, and three homeless men sharing a flattened box in some shade, skeletal dogs feeding in a pile of garbage. Criminals along with the whole human race stagnated in the heat, waiting for dark. He was armed, and remained vigilant. A slasher was stalking poor neighborhoods. Four women, ages twenty-eight to seventy-four, had been stabbed to death and mutilated in a frenzy that recalled Jack the Ripper, their torsos carved open. That summer of 1986, “serial killer” was a new and terrifying term in the United States; Philadelphians in particular spied the dim corners of their old city with fears once unimaginable.

Two miles from his office at the Customs House, the nineteenth-century storefront sagged in the darkness. Once the Victorian butcher shop of a prosperous neighborhood, it now shadowed drug dealers and addicts drifting by in a dank river breeze. Old newspaper, long faded by the sun, covered the storefront windows. The green door appeared abandoned, except for two small signs: PEARLS REQUIRED, and PUT OUT THE CIGARETTE NOW, ASSHOLE. No light or sound came from within; steam quietly rose from the kitchen vent, like breath from a tomb. The city stank from fifteen mountains of garbage uncollected during the garbagemen’s strike. But the stench emanating from the building overpowered all else.

Fleisher knocked on the green door of the dilapidated building at Twenty-third and South.

The door cracked open, and a young blond woman let him in. She was taller and buxom in a white T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh; it was all she was wearing. Fleisher grinned; he was feeling better already. Behind her rose a vast, hidden warehouse studio with a concrete floor and no windows, its bulk concealed from the street. In the high-ceilinged gloom, broken only by light filtering through a row of skylights, were crude wooden shelves lined with sculpted human heads. But next to them was a lovely walnut museum case with a bronze handgun shaped like a penis. The plaque read, THE SEX PISTOL THAT WON THE WEST.

He chuckled. “The sex pistol? At his age, I thought Frank would shoot blanks.”

“He’s been up all night,” she said coolly, leading him through a steel door into the studio. “When he gets going, there’s no stopping him.” The studio was cluttered with nudes of young women, ladders and piles of bricks, erotic Parisian postcards. On the shelves were heads cracked by tire irons; mouths twisted in lipsticked horror; the bald head and psychopathic eyes of a man who had killed his entire family; a Negro slave whose bones had been dug from the grave. It was a gallery of murderers and victims of murder without equal and a somber mood came over him.

An abominable smell floated from the makeshift kitchen in the rear. Frank Bender, shirtless and barefoot on the cement floor, was stirring a huge steel pot. From the pot rack hung ladles, spoons, and a pair of steel handcuffs. A Norman Rockwell calendar looked down on a 1950s aluminum kitchen table.

“Bill!” he cried in the luminous voice of a man high on life. His eyes were unusually bright, like a cloudless sky. More female voices sounded from somewhere in the warehouse.

“What’s cooking? ” Fleisher walked over to the stove. The smell was awful.

“You don’t want to know.” Bender grinned and quickly put the lid on the big pot.

Fleisher recognized the smell. “That’s it. You’re not coming to the potluck.”

Bender didn’t like working with flesh-eating beetles. He boiled his rotting heads: fill water above the head, add half a cup of bleach and a dash of Borax, boil until done.

“I make a mean chicken in this pot,” Bender said. Bender did most of the cooking, and most of it in the same pot. “Jan and Joan hate it when I use it to de-flesh the heads.”

Fleisher rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we go out for lunch.”

• CHAPTER 10 •

ON THE TRAIL OF THE ASSASSIN

The Day by Day Café was noisy and crowded with August light filtering through skyscrapers to find the corner plate-glass windows. Outside, winos and