Wallflower by William Bayer Page A

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,