Wallflower by William Bayer Page B

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