"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."
"Do that." Janek pushed away his coffee, tossed two fifty-dollar bills onto the table, and stood up. "That's for the dinner. I'm going to try and catch the last shuttle. Call me when you decide.
But don't take too long, okay?"
New York was fogged in, so the late shuttle was diverted to Newark.
Janek exited the airport terminal into a light and soothing swirl of softly falling rain. He shared a taxi into town with a businessman from Taiwan who admitted this was his first visit to the States.
As their cab approached the Lincoln Tunnel, the city was suddenly revealed, a million lights in the towers of midtown burning through the fog. It was a great romantic vision of Manhattan, and the Taiwanese gentleman peered at it, amazed.,you must be very strong survive in a place like this," he muttered. must be strong. And even Janek nodded. Yeah, you then you may not survive.
He dropped the visitor off at the Waldorf-Astoria, then asked the driver to take him through Central Park. There the fog clung strangely to the statues and hugged the glow of the sodium lamps.
When he finally got back to his apartment, he phoned Aaron at home, told him about his proposed competition with Sullivan. Aaron was surprised. On what basis, he wanted to know, had Janek come up with "victimspecific"? "On no basis, except my feeling Chun had doubts and work under Sullivan. So I did there was no way we could w the only thing that would shake the asshole up. Whatever he said, I said the opposite." "But it is a serial case. I mean-isn't it, Frank?"
"Could be. I honestly don't know."
"Those guys seem so sure."
"Yeah, they're sure. But I wasn't builshitting Sullivan. My true gut reaction is that they're all wrong." He paused. "Did you notice how bored they were? A year of grinding work, and they got nothing."
"Just a bunch of charts and a freaked-out psychiatrist. Still, if it is a serial deal "Let me tell you something about serial deals, Aaron. When they're solved, if they are solved, it's usually because one night some hick town rookie pulls some guy over for a speeding ticket and happens to see a bloody knife on the seat. I say screw that."
"Fine, Frank. Fine. But where do we start-assuming Sullivan buys your deal and Chief Kopta approves?"
"We'll concentrate on Jess. She left me a worried message. Assume she knew she was in danger and was looking to me to help. If that's true, then the first question we've got to ask ourselves is: What was Jess afraid of."'
5
Mama
Again "Listen carefully, child." "I'm listening, Mama." "I'm concerned about Tool." "Please don't be, Mama."
"But I'm very concerned. Unless a tool like that gets regular use, it can easily lose its edge. Preventative maintenance is so important, you know."
"I know, Mama. And I keep Tool in excellent condition. I work with it every day, keep it honed. I want it to stay sharp. And always be ready." "Still, I'm concerned." "Please, Mama-leave it to me."
"It needs supervision." ' I give it plenty of supervision." 'You know the problem with a tool like that? A tool like that can get out of hand, can start to have a mind of its own.":,No…
Do you really think so?" 'I definitely think so. You must watch Tool carefully, child, see it doesn't get any ideas or forget its place." "I just don't believe-"
"Better listen to Mama. Mama knows best." "Yes, Mama."
"A too] like that needs tending. A tool like that is dangerous. You create a tool like that and let it get away from you, you lose control.
The whole point of a tool like that is it works for you, does your bidding. A tool like that goes into business for itself, you gotta think about getting rid of it."
"Yes, Mama…
6
The Fear
Ray Boyce was steaming, his forehead popping sweat. The long, thin wisps he kept carefully combed across his skull were mussed, and the squared-off bottom of his face was trembling like Jell-O.
"I don't get it," he griped.
Janek watched Kit recoil; it was as if the back of her big chief's chair were sucking on her spine. Janek looked around the office, a cavernous space that spoke of the high status of its occupant. The windows were huge. On the other side of the glass large snowflakes fell softly to Police Plaza below.
"I'm sweating out the case, doing a pretty decent job." Boyce mopped his forehead. "Least I thought I was." He spoke with a whine. "Meantime, Janek here does all this unauthorized bullshit.
And for that he gets-rewarded?"
Boyce's question hung in the overheated air. Kit stared at him with faint disgust. Janek, sitting beside him in the other chair facing Kit's desk, felt sorry for him. The poor slob was going to mouth his way straight into trouble.
"I don't know I'd exactly call it a reward, Ray," Janek said gently.
Boyce didn't bother to look at him. He stared straight at Kit, waiting for her to render justice.
"it wasn't a reward," Kit said finally. "Detective Janek is a specialist in this type of crime. His insights will prove helpful in solving it. As for his unauthorized activity, I've put a letter of reprimand in his file. Want me to read it to you?"
Boyce shook his head. "That's Janek's business. All I care about is my role. Am I supervising Janek or the other way around? 'Cause if it is, I can tell you right now, I'm not going-"
"I'm the supervisor here. You and Janek will run parallel investigations. If either of you finds anything, you'll bring it to me."
"What about duplication?"
Oh-oh-don't push it, Ray.
"I'll worry about that," Kit said.
"Sure, you'll worry. But what about the people we're going to interview? Two detectives coming from different directions-that'll get everyone confused." He glanced at Janek. Then his voice turned bitter. "Of course, Janek here's such a famous investigator they'll probably fall all over themselves they'll be so flattered."
"That'll be enough, Detective."
Boyce stared at her, nonplussed. "I may look dumb, Chief. But I can read the writing on the wall."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kit's hoarse whisper should have cut straight to Boyce's ears. But the slob wasn't listening; he was too wrapped up in his self-pity.
"You don't want me in on this. You want Janek. I know why, too."
"Why?" Kit demanded.
"Because he's your you know."
Oh, you poor hotheaded son of a bitch.
"My what?" Boyce sputtered. "Your special friend's what I hear."
"Want a letter in your file, Boyce?"
"All I want is fair treatment!" But then something must have told Boyce he'd gone too far because suddenly he clamped his mouth. When he opened it again, his tone was different. "I respectfully ask permission to withdraw from the case," he whispered with restrained fury. "Permission granted." Kit rose. "I've got work to do.
Boyce, report to your precinct commander. Janek, stay. I've got a few choice words for you, Detective."
<
br /> She walked across her office to the window, stared out at the failing snow until Boyce had shut the door. When she turned to Janek, her eyes were glowing.
"You're really a prick."
Janek shrugged. "You're the one who told me to go down to Quantico."
"And you played Sullivan just right, didn't you? I should have known." "I don't see the problem… now that Boyce has so graciously stepped aside."
"The problem, my friend, is he's going to talk. It doesn't do anything for my reputation to have a pissed off detective saying Chief Kopta's not a straight shooter.
"Everyone knows you shoot straight."
"Yeah." She looked resigned. "Well, you did it, Frank. Set things up just the way you wanted them."
"So punish me for it. Put another letter in my file."
She shook her head. "I hope I won't be sorry about this."
"You won't be." Janek walked briskly to the door. "Sullivan's the one'll be sorry."
Aaron had begged them space on the fourth floor of the Police Property Building in Greenwich Village between Fifth and University Place. The office was on the same floor as the narcotics storage room, past the detectives' lounge, down the hall, down three steps, up two, first door on the left. Aaron had borrowed two gray hard-rubber-top desks, two swivel chairs, a beaten-up filing cabinet, and an answering machine.
When Janek appeared in the doorway, he was in the midst of sweeping out an accumulation of used Styrofoam coffee cups, empty potato chip bags, and cigar ash from the last special squad to occupy the space. "I see we're slumming," Janek said.
"It's okay, Frank." Aaron gestured toward a dustpan. Janek handed it to him. "Remember last spring when the President was here?
Secret Service unit used this for a command post. That's why we got so many phones. Connected, too."
Janek looked at the phones, six five-button models, three on each desk.
Then he sniffed the air. The room was overheated and much too dry.
He turned to the ceiling; the fluorescent lights buzzed. He peered around, noticed a disgusting crust on the far wall, most likely pizza sauce, he hoped not blood. A radiator hissed out steam. He looked at Aaron, who nodded back, mutual acknowledgment that though their office was a shithouse, it was at least their own.
He helped Aaron sweep out the remainder of the junk, then returned the brooms and trash can to the cleaning closet. The corridor smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
When he returned to the office, he noticed his rubber boots were leaking. He pulled them off and stared out the window. It had stopped snowing. On the street the buildup of perfect flakes was already turning gray. He knew what he wanted to do: talk to everyone who'd had close contact with Jess, particularly the last few days of her life. He wanted to chart every hour of her final days: where she'd gone; what she'd done; the name of every person she'd spoken to.
He drew up a rough grid chart, showed it to Aaron, instructed him to get a police artist to paint it on their largest wall.
"And while he's in here with a brush," Janek said, pointing, "maybe he can do something about that crust."
He also assigned Aaron to talk to all the members of the Greg Gale group.
"Check them all out; get them alone; squeeze them hard. If you smell anything murderous or that smacks of a cult, let me know. But please keep the details of the fun and games to yourself. I'd just as soon not hear any more about Jess's sex life."
Aaron understood.
Janek had set himself another task. He taxied to La Guardia Airport, found a seat on the noon shuttle to Boston, then sat in the plane for an hour before it left the gate.
There were numerous announcements from the pilot: Air traffic was snarled up and down the eastern seaboard; half a foot of snow had fallen on Logan in Boston. Stewardesses prowled the cabin, offering tiny cellophane bags containing honey-roasted cashews. Then everyone was ordered off the plane. Then, suddenly, mysteriously, they all were ordered back on. And then, with undue haste it seemed to Janek, the plane reved up and took off with a roar.
When he reached Boston, it was nearly three o'clock Janek took one look at the taxi line, found his way to the subway, transferred at Park Street, and fifty minutes later got off at Harvard Square. Some helpful students guided him to the Law School, an immensely long building, where numerous assistant D.A.s of his acquaintance had, in their student days, undergone excruciating torture.
Janek appeared in the doorway of Dr. David Chun's second-floor office just as the psychiatrist, already in his overcoat, was stuffing file folders into a briefcase.
Chun was not pleased to see him. "You should have called, Lieutenant. Unfortunately I can't talk to you now. I'm going home before the snow gets too deep." "The snow stopped falling a couple hours ago, Doctor," Janek replied. "If you wait another hour, everthing'll be shoveled out."
Chun stared at him. "You know better than to show up here without an appointment. Please tell me why didn't you call."
"I didn't think you'd see me. So I came up anyway, took a chance."
Chun sat down. "Why didn't you think I'd see you?"
Janek sat, too. He'd gotten the psychiatrist's attention. Now all he had to do was hold it.
"You were upset down in Quantico. I had the feeling you wished Sullivan had never involved you in the case. Something frightens you about it, something you don't want to discuss. I need to hear you discuss it, Doctor. That's why I came."
Chun studied him. "You're different from Sullivan. You're a listener.
II try to be.
Chun thought a moment before he spoke. "Okay, Lieutenant, take a seat outside. I'll give my wife a call; then we'll talk."
When Chun came out, he was carrying his briefcase and still wearing his overcoat. Uh-oh, Janek thought, he's changed his mind. But Chun was no less anxious to talk; he just didn't want to do it in his office.
He guided Janek across Harvard Yard. Students were walking briskly on the freshly shoveled paths, and some freshmen were putting finishing touches on a snowman that bore a vague resemblance to Fidel Castro.
Janek watched while a rosy-cheeked girl in a white ski parka struck a piece of black wood into the effigy's mouth to simulate a cigar.
At Harvard Square the snow had turned to slush. A newsdealer hawked hometown papers. Chun led Janek through the Coop, past counters displaying Harvard running shorts and T-shirts with amusing slogans, then out a rear door and across a narrow street.
As they entered the dark lounge called Casablanca, Janek was struck by a throaty torch song rendition of "As Time Goes By." The place, dominated by a huge blowup of Humphrey Bogart, was empty except for a few student couples. Janek glanced at the jukebox. It offered esoteric selections, old love songs from the forties and fifties, renditions by Dietrich and Piaf.
"Oh, yes, something is bothering me, Lieutenant," Dr. Chun said after they were seated and the doctor had ordered himself a double martini. "But you see, there's a strange thing about these serial cases. You work with them awhile, you're bound to go a little crazy. It's quite common to become depressed. Dealing with killers, talking to them, interviewing them-that can bring you down a lot sometimes."
He smiled, a crisp, neat little smile, then gulped from his glass.
Waiting for the doctor to continue, Janek sipped some scotch.
"Those of us who do this kind of work are aware of that. Inspector Sullivan, too. He's a bright man, stubborn at times, but like yourself, he's a hunter, so for him there's always the challenge of the chase. Not for me. My job is to profile. And to do that, I have to go inside a killer's mind. I never had any trouble with that before. But this case is different. Please tell me, Lieutenant, if you will, why you think it's different."
"I never said it was different."
"But you believe it is or you wouldn't have come all this way."
The same small, neat smile again. Chun lifted a toothpick from the holder on the table, used it to stab his martini olive.
Janek nodded. "I foun
d your presentation fascinating. A confident, organized, highly competitive killer, sexually dysfunctional and all of that. But I missed something important, an explanation of why the victims were chosen."
Chun popped the olive into his mouth. "You've seen the hole. You're a perceptive man." He cleared his throat. "People who are murdered by a serial killer are not chosen for death by accident. In a sense, for which we must remember never to blame them, the victims select themselves. By the way they look or dress or talk they become attractive to the killer. Sometimes they become stand-ins for a parent or another person who has played a significant role in the killer's life. When we first started to work on Happy Families, we assumed that one person in each family, most likely a female, was the target and the the others were killed out of collateral rage or simply because they were witnesses. Then we found the case of the two brothers. So the gender thing broke down right there. to put it in a nutshell, I have analyzed these victims very carefully, charting every observable trait. And I cannot come up with a single common element of attractiveness. Except, of course, the families."
"But everyone is a member of a family, Doctor. If that's the only common element, why these particular families? For me the idea of families doesn't pattern out."
Chun swallowed the remains of his martini. "You're right, of course, and that, you see, is what frightens me so much about this case.
That's why I wish Sullivan had never brought me into it." He screwed up his features the way he had in Quantico. "What I feel here is… I don't know quite how to express it. It's as if there's nothing here, nothing particular-do you follow what I'm saying? It's as if this killer doesn't care about anything. As if nothing attracts him. As if he only wants to kill. And as monstrous as a serial killer always is, usually there's some little thing, some small fascination with people no matter how twisted or perverse, that can help us to understand him, maybe even to sympathize a little bit. But here there's a void, a nothingness. I've never faced anything quite like it. It scares me, the blankness of it, the nihilism, the zeroness. Look at me, Lieutenant." Chun presented his face to Janek. "Can you see how terrified I am?
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