Wallflower

by William Bayer

  The briefing that commenced, part lecture, part slide show, consisted of a procession of crisp, well-rehearsed young forensic analysts, each with his own area of expertise, doing his stint with pointer and easel, then yielding to the next.

  They were shown detailed color slides of the five Happy Families crime scenes. People with stiffened limbs and ice picks protruding from their ears, eyes, and throats lay at odd angles in domestic settings. All were naked from the waist down, having been stripped in order to be glued. Janek found himself turning his head, then looking at the pictures obliquely with only one eye. He wasn't certain why he did this; it was a habit he'd acquired over the years. Perhaps, he thought, if only one eye were exposed, the gruesome images would be less deeply etched into his memory.

  The agents used staccato tones to describe each set of victims along with details of the abuses each had suffered:

  Miss Bertha Parce, an elderly retired schoolteacher, found murdered in her bed in a single-room-occupancy hotel in Miami Beach, Florida;

  Cynthia Morse, a wealthy divorcée, killed over Memorial Day weekend, with her two visiting grown daughters, in her luxury condominium in Seattle, Washington;

  James and Stuart MacDonald, two aging playboy-type brothers, slain in their shared weekend house in Kent, Connecticut;

  The Robert Wexier family (husband, wife, three children) killed in their suburban ranch-style home in Fort Worth, Texas;

  The Anthony Scotto family (husband, wife, and two teenage sons) slaughtered in their Cape Cod-style home just outside Providence, Rhode Island.

  There was also a homeless man who didn't seem to fit the pattern, though he, too, had been stabbed and glued, then left in an alley in the Alphabet City section of Manhattan.

  The presentation notably did not include anything about Jess. Janek wondered whether this was because the team was being considerate of his feelings or because it simply hadn't worked up that part of the briefing yet.

  At exactly twelve-thirty a break was called, and Janek and Aaron were invited to join the analysts for a working lunch in the staff cafeteria. But as it turned out, the conversation there had little to do with the case. Rather, the agents solicited war stories from New York, for which they exchanged no personal revelations, only other war stories they'd heard from other visiting investigators.

  Later, in the men's room, Aaron asked Janek what he thought was going on.

  "They're looking to see if we're team players. Teamwork's what the FBI's all about."

  Aaron laughed. "We're hotshots, ain't we, Frank?" Then, more seriously: "I feel out of place. Maybe it's the clothes. They all dress so nice. Even some of the ladies wear ties."

  The afternoon session concluded the presentation of cases, after which their tour guide, Hansen, reappeared with another muscle-bound assistant to demonstrate the stabbing method. The men acted it out several times at normal speed and then in slow motion: a violent thrust with an ice pick from under the chin through the roof of the mouth, the ear hole, or the eye socket and then into the brain. The fact that the pick was always left embedded was, according to Hansen, "classic commando technique."

  The star speaker of the afternoon was Dr. David Chun, brought in to explicate the killer profile. Janek had heard of him. The brilliant young Asian-American was not an FBI employee but a forensic psychiatrist on the faculty at Harvard Law School, who had testified at numerous high-profile criminal trials around the country. From the flattering way Sullivan introduced him, it was clear he considered Chun a major asset.

  The moment the doctor began to speak, Janek understood why he was usually so successful with juries. He had the kind of deep, authoritative voice that compels attention and belief. But there was something canny, perhaps even vain in his presentation, that fitted with the subtle swagger Janek had observed in Sullivan and the entire HF team. The way these people behaved spoke of arrogant pride. They saw themselves as the best of the best. And they'd made it clear at lunch that if the two shaggy, scruffily dressed detectives from New York wanted in, they would have to prove they had the stuff.

  Dr. Chun stated his belief that the organized crime scenes and ethnic background of the victims indicated a white male killer most likely in his late twenties or early thirties. Further, he believed the neatness of the gluing suggested excellent hand-eye coordination, as well as a certain protective concern for the victims' "bodily integrity."

  "Various facts," he continued, "such as the forced entries, clean escapes, and the killer's ability to take on multiple victims, suggest a particularly confident individual, probably one with a high level of martial arts training. The stabbing technique raises the possibility of a military background. The psychopathology is sexual-sadistic; I would surmise that the killer possesses a large collection of sadomasochistic pornography. The gluings and lack of semen at the crime scenes speak of sexual fear indicative of a loner type. But the most striking characteristic is the killer's lack of gender differentiation."

  The psychiatrist paused. Though his features remained composed, Janek picked up on something in his eyes. It's almost as if he’s afraid, he thought as Chun continued in the same authoritative style.

  "He glues up the genitals of men and women with equal thoroughness. Children, too, and, in the case of Fort Worth, even the family dog and cat. But beyond the genitals, all orifices seem to be fair game. With the Miami woman and the brothers in Connecticut we find mouths and anuses glued. In the case of Providence the wife's fingertips were glued together in a praying-type position. In the other cases fingers and toes were glued at random as if to create a webbed hand or foot effect. We call these variations subpatterns. They speak of something beyond conventional categories of sexual assault. In this case concepts such as straight and gay are useless, virtually irrelevant. We appear to be dealing with a man who engages in symbolic negation of any and all forms of human sexuality. One may surmise he has a disturbed relationship with a mother, who is possibly deceased. Finally, the killer is most likely sexually dysfunctional."

  This time, when Dr. Chun paused, his breathing quickened, and he screwed up his eyes. When he resumed speaking, Janek was certain. Something about this definitely frightens him, he thought.

  ". . . there is one very unusual aspect. This killer chooses what we call difficult victims. With the exception of the homeless man and the young woman jogger in New York, the people he chose were not easy to get at, not easy at all. Most serial killers take an easy path, preying on hitchhikers and prostitutes. But not this one. He sets himself extremely tough challenges. From this we must infer intelligence, a capacity for careful planning, and a streak of competitiveness rarely demonstrated in this category of crimes."

  After Chun was finished, he stared down at the floor, then raised his head as if he had something to add. He opened his mouth, then abruptly clamped it shut.

  "Lieutenant Janek, Sergeant Greenberg—I thank you for your patience." Then he almost seemed to flee the room.

  After Chun left, a full minute passed, during which Janek made out a short bit of conversation from the other side of the door. He strained to listen. It was between Sullivan and the psychiatrist. Chun sounded deeply upset:

  ". . . doesn't fit . . . diabolical . . ."

  ". . . overworked. Get some rest. We'll talk. . . ."

  When Sullivan reentered the room, Janek was impressed by his sangfroid. He picked up the briefing just where Chun had left it off, dealing head-on with the issue of easy versus difficult.

  "The homeless man was first and the Foy girl last," Sullivan began. "Both easy prey, both hit-and-run homicides committed outside at night in New York, and both glued quick and sloppy in the crotch. As you've heard, we find much more elaborate gluing when the killings are committed indoors. The killer goes in like a stabbing machine. But then he's careful, very, very careful with the glue. Squirts it in just right, makes sure everything's sealed up."

  Sullivan paused for effect.

  "All right, you know all that. We acknowle
dge the inconsistencies. In our discussions we've theorized a possible second killer, an outdoor killer, who murdered the homeless man and the jogger, as opposed to an indoor killer, who murdered the families. But the theory doesn't hold because there's another aspect to the signature. In all seven cases we find the weed."

  Aaron shook his head. "You talking about pot?"

  "Not pot, Sergeant. I'm talking about a literal weed. We didn't pick up on it at first. Then our forensic people noticed that there was always some wild plant left at the scene, a dandelion or a dried-up field daisy, a junk flower like you'd find in a vacant lot. This isn't a mystery novel. No rose or carnation or orchid here. Just a weed. A crummy weed." Sullivan turned to Janek. "There was a weed left near your goddaughter's body, too. . . ."

  They finally did get to see Hogan's Alley. Sullivan insisted on it. Color-coded students (red T-shirts for FBI; blue for police) ran around what looked like a movie set playing cops and robbers. The inspector watched, extremely proud, but Janek found it tiresome. These FBI people, he thought, live in a world of their own, where technology and profiling and games are ends in themselves. Meantime, city detectives like Aaron and himself worked sleazy cases out of dirty offices. He had no doubt as to which of them had a better feel for the criminal mind.

  Janek arranged to meet Sullivan that night at a D.C. restaurant, then drove Aaron back to National Airport.

  "I want to get him alone," Janek explained. "Really piss him off."

  "I thought we were supposed to make nice."

  "You want to work with him?"

  "Be pretty tough," Aaron admitted. "But I'll give it a shot if you want me to."

  "Maybe it won't be necessary," Janek said.

  He dropped Aaron off at the Pan Am Shuttle, then drove into D.C. Though it was only five o'clock, the sky was already darkening. Affluent-looking joggers were running all over the place, and the rush-hour traffic was starting to build. He parked his car in a garage at the Watergate complex, then set out to walk. After a while he felt himself drawn to a center of energy. It was the Vietnam War Memorial. He knew it from pictures but had always wanted to see it for himself.

  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.

  The 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, excessive 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?"