Wallflower (12 page)

When he arrived, he felt no disappointment. The wall was everything he'd imagined. And it evoked in him a strong feeling, a bittersweet nostalgia for his own tour out there when, in 1968, he'd worked narcotics with Army CID in Da Nang. But as he stood in the shadows with the other visitors, staring at the black granite while the last light slowly faded from the sky, he felt a strong, sad anger for the awful waste of that war and the young American lives that had been lost fighting it.

T
he restaurant Sullivan had chosen, small, elegant, and expensive, was situated on the lower level of the Watergate Hotel. Even as Janek entered, he felt Sullivan's intention. The inspector knew he wasn't wearing the right clothes for such a place, so again he was trying to make him feel uncomfortable.

Janek waited a full fifteen minutes before he realized that, too, was part of the plan. And then he found Sullivan pathetic. The manipulation was so unimaginative, an exact duplication of the method used that morning at the academy. Sullivan had proven himself to have a small-time bureaucrat's mentality. Such a man would solve a major case only by luck.

By the time the inspector did arrive, smiling, solicitous, exces
sive with profuse apologies, Janek had decided to play the first part of their dinner at his most collegial.

"
Here's how we see it," Sullivan said, after coaching Janek patiently through the menu.
"
The five indoor family killings were very difficult to bring off. The two outdoor single killings were relatively easy. But in all seven cases we see the same thrust, same brand of ice pick, same basic mutilation of the genitals and the weed. So what we're thinking—"

Janek interrupted. "You're thinking the homeless man was for practice. After him the killer went after desired prey."

"You're good, Frank. I'm impressed. So tell me—what else do we think?"

"You think Jess Foy was for practice, too. You think the killer lives in New York because that's where he practices. You think when he wants to kill a family, he travels outside the city until he finds one that attracts him."

Sullivan grinned. "You've pretty much got it."

"So tell me," Janek said, "if he likes happy families so much and has so much positive experience with them, what does he need another round of practice for?"

Sullivan clicked his teeth. "Who the hell knows? These sociopaths have their own twisted logic. Some of it we understand; some we don't. Maybe the guy's losing his nerve. Maybe he's just sharpening his skills."

Janek was not charmed by that little witticism. And he wasn't sure which notion he disliked more: Jess as random victim or used as a practice target by a serial killer.

Sullivan sat back, his pink cheeks puffed out.
"
I feel something in all this, Frank. Something that goes beyond cases I've worked before. It's like, I don't know, it's a . . . Great Crime."

Janek stared at him. "What does that mean, Harry? A 'Great Crime'—what the hell is that?"

"Like that big case of yours. That Switched Heads thing. A great criminal conception. A killer playing a dangerous game, taunting us while he weaves his pattern. He sees himself as an artist. To catch him, we have to understand his art. In the end that'll tell us who he is. Decipher the pattern." Sullivan held up his hand. "Then he's ours." He shut his fist to simulate a trap.

"Any way you see me fitting into this?"

Sullivan smiled. "We stayed late, talked it over after you left. The boys think you could be a real asset."

"What about Aaron?"

"Not so clear. Don't misunderstand, Frank. I'm sure he's a terrific cop."

But with him on the team I'd have an ally, and you don't want that,
Janek thought.

Sullivan leaned forward. He wanted to speak in confidence.

"I know it's tough. I know how cops feel. I know we're not the most popular guys around. But we've got the expertise, Frank. On a case like this we're the only game in town. Not just because we can coordinate on a national level but because we've been studying these guys, profiling them for years. After a while you get a feel for them. This one's tough, but I know there's a soft spot. There always is. With your help I think we can find it. I'd be truly honored, Frank, if you'd agree to join my team."

When the main courses arrived, they dropped discussion of the case. As they ate, Sullivan spoke casually of his ambition to write.

"It's what I've always wanted to do," he said. "Think about it—all the fiction writers out there who'd give their left ball for the kind of material we deal with every day." He took a bite from his plate. "Ever hear of Grey Scopetta?"

"No."

"A film director. Does these true crime things on TV. I figured with your miniseries and all you'd have heard of him."

"It wasn't
my
miniseries, Harry. I was just the police adviser."

Sullivan winked at him. "Don't be so modest." He gulped some wine. "Anyway, about Scopetta—he's been in touch with me about HF."

Janek put down his fork. "I thought the point was to keep it quiet."

"From reporters, sure. But the bureau likes filmmakers. Some way, we don't know how, Scopetta heard about the case and put through a request for a briefing. So we gave him one. Nothing like what you got. The smaller, simpler version. And nothing about the weed. Nobody knows about that, not even detectives in cities where the families were killed. Anyway, the two of us stayed in touch. So one day we're talking and he mentions I'm the guy maybe ought to write the script. I figured what the hell, why not give it a shot? So this past summer I flew out to L.A., took a crash course in screenwriting, one of those five-hundred-bucks-per-weekend seminar deals. Now in my free time, evenings and weekends, I've been writing away."

Again Sullivan lowered his voice.

"
Look, this is the kind of case that when it's solved, there's sure to be a movie. So I figured why shouldn't I, the guy who's going to solve it, get a piece of the action? Somebody's gotta write it. Why not me? That way, soon as there's an indictment, the script's ready to go. Nothing wrong with what I'm doing; I checked with our ethics guys. I'm not showing my script to anyone. Just getting it ready, that's all. See, Scopetta explained it to me: Screenwriting is structure. So that's what I'm working on, the structure of the thing. And lately I've had this idea that working on the structure of the script is going to help me solve HF Because HF's got a structure, too. Know what I mean? Solve it as a story and I may solve it as a case. Anyway, it's an idea. . . ."

Jesus, what an asshole!
Janek thought.

With dessert, they resumed discussion of Happy Families. Having trusted Janek with his writing ambitions, Sullivan was finally ready to expose the most sensitive aspects of the case.

"Okay," Sullivan said,
"
you know what we've got. After a year of work, incredibly little. No prints. No fibers. No tissue cells. No DNA. The ice picks are common, sold all over the country, and the weeds are obviously untraceable. We believe the gluings were done with a standard caulking gun, the kind you can buy in any hardware store. He rams it into them, then shoots in potent animal glue. Now there was one thing we didn't get to in the briefing. Connections between the victims. Believe me, we searched for them. We have a powerful computer program designed to make that kind of search. So far all it's come up with is a city, Cleveland, which ties together only two of the families. The brothers in Connecticut were
from there, and the old lady in Florida taught school there before she retired. Coincidence? Probably. If it was a small town in southern Ohio, I might feel different. A serial killer fixated on Cleveland—I just don't see a story line there. . . ."

Janek cleared his throat.
Time now to rattle him,
he thought.

"Maybe it's not a serial case, Harry. Ever think of that?"

"You kidding? This is a classic. Of course it's a serial case."

"I'm not so sure."

Sullivan's pink cheeks began to redden. "What the hell're you talking about?"

Janek shrugged. "Call it a gut feeling."

Sullivan snorted. Then he turned sarcastic. "What else does your 'gut' tell you?"

"Now don't act offended, Harry."

"I
am
offended. You're questioning the premise of my investigation. What's bugging you?"

"No victimology."

Sullivan stared at him. Then he smiled. "Okay, you're good, you picked up on that. But see, even with the best software, the computer isn't perfect."

"Forget the computer. I'm talking about David Chun."

"David's upset about a couple things. But—"

"He talked about everything except what the killer found attractive, what he saw in his 'difficult victims' that made him decide to go after them. And that's the key, isn't it? If you've got that many victims and they don't tell you why they were attacked, well, then, what have you got? Far as I can see, nothing. Except"—he sneered—" 'Happy Families.' "

"You're mocking that?"

"I don't mock homicide victims, Harry. But tell me, between the two of us, what was so goddamn happy about all those people?"

"Oh, come off it! That's just the name we use. . . ."

"Sure. That's how it started. Because you couldn't read the common element. But now it's like the name's defining the case. 'Happy Families'—how do you know they were happy? Because they lived in nice houses, nice neighborhoods, Dad coached Little
League, Mom baked apple pies, and kids were on the honor roll? Because their friends and neighbors told you they were? See, Harry, I never worked a case where I didn't hear the victims were just the greatest people, the finest, happiest people. And half the time it turned out they were just like everybody else, happy and unhappy, capable of hurting each other, even capable of killing each other if the stress got bad enough. I'm not saying your families
weren't
happy. I'm just asking how you
know
they were. Because I don't buy Happy Families. It's too vague. Show me a victim list of pretty blondes with hoop earrings or old ladies with hairy chins, then maybe I'll go along. But you don't have that. I think this goes deeper. I think these killings were victim-specific. I think there's an invisible thread connecting all these people and you and your team just haven't found it yet."

"After a year of work we haven't found it, the best serial killer team ever assembled. But
you're
going to find it? Great! Maybe you'll even find it tonight!"

Janek sat back. Sullivan's sarcasm didn't bother him. It only made him want to push the needle farther in.

"Know what I think, Harry? I think working out of Behavioral Science has got you overinvested in the serial killer idea. I think you're so wrapped up in that you can't see beyond it to anything else."

Now Sullivan was staring at him, trying to push him with a hard cop's stare.
"
Man, you've got some kind of balls," he whispered.
"
If I were you, I'd watch my step. Someone just might come along and cut 'em off. Know what I mean, Frank?"

Janek smiled. He'd forced Sullivan to resort to vulgar, tough guy talk. When a cop started talking about cutting off another cop's balls, he was aroused to a highly competitive state.

"
I've heard about you," Sullivan continued, not bothering to conceal his bitterness.
"
I saw the way they played you on TV. This genius cop who didn't need a team, didn't need backup, didn't need nothing except his brain, which we're supposed to think is so powerful it should be registered as a dangerous weapon." Sullivan grinned. His cheeks were quivering. His little ice blue eyes
were sparkling with envy. "So here we sit, end of our first day together. I lay my case out for you, a year's worth of work, and now you slip to me you got a theory of your own."

"Yeah, I guess that's about it," Janek agreed.

"I think it's a crock of shit."

"Maybe it is. But the question is, Harry, how're we going to find out?"

Sullivan glared at him. "Suppose you tell me, Frank."

"My suggestion is since you're so sure it's a serial case, you and your team continue working the way you are. Meantime, let Aaron and me follow up on my idea. We can set up a little two-man office in New York, in a precinct back room somewhere. Of course, we'll share what we find, but other than that, we'll stay out of your way."

Sullivan chewed on that for a moment. "Nice concept. Only trouble is . . . I don't see what's in it for me."

"Come on, Harry! There's plenty in it for you. You get the chance to compete."

"
Compete?"

"FBI versus NYPD, you versus me. Whoever solves the case gets the glory: the book, the TV movie, the whole enchilada. Right now you've got the manpower and a year's head start. Pretty good odds." Janek smiled as he appealed to Sullivan's weakness.
"
You look like a sport, Harry. What do you say?"

"I'll have to think about it."