Wallflower by William Bayer

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.
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    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,