their blood?
Could little Beverly wield the pick?
'It's getting interesting,' Aaron said.
Janek had just returned from one of his walks. The moment he came through the door he could feel a certain cocky confidence in the room.
'Tie-in with Archer?'
'A very nice one.' Aaron grinned. 'Old Bertha Parce, the retired schoolteacher in Miami-seems she taught forty years at Ashley-Bumett, a snazzy private girls' school in Shaker Heights. And guess who happened to attend Ashley-Bumett during that same period?'
'Little Beverly Archer.' 'You got it, Frank.'
Janek sat down. He needed a few moments to think through the implications.
'So now it's not just Cleveland; it's a small exclusive school in Cleveland,' he said. 'Jess's shrink, Bertha Parce's student-' He looked up at Aaron. 'It's almost too good to be true.'
Aaron nodded. 'I like it. It's starting to come together. But we're going to need a hell of a lot more. The subtle telephone approach can take me only so far. You know what I want to do, Frank: go out to Cleveland and make a real investigation into the lady's past.'
Janek shook his head. 'Too early. Expose our theory, and we run the risk of it getting back to her, plus we could screw ourselves permanently with Sullivan. Which wouldn't matter if we turn out to be right. But if we're not 'So what do you want me to do?'
'Keep plugging on the Connecticut brothers, the MacDonalds. Match them with Archer and you win a ticket to Cleveland.'
'And if I can't match them?' Janek shrugged. 'We'll have to take another approach.'
There was something about the weeds, a way they were connected, that haunted him on his walks. it was something that he'd seen but that hadn't registered yet, a binding metaphor that remained just beyond his grasp. He found that the harder he struggled to dig it out of himself, the stronger his resistance to giving it up.
Exhausted after three days of endless reruns of his self-made murder movies, he decided to try to freeassociate. He remembered the moment the process began. He was walking in an area of old coffee and cheese warehouses on Desbrosses Street when, strangely, he detected the aroma of dead flowers in the air.
The weeds: No question that Aaron was right; the ugly dour little plants contained a message. But what was it? What did they say? they had been left so they would be easily found; that could account for the fact that Sullivan's people didn't notice them at first. Left in plain sight, they were perhaps too obvious.
When, after four killings, Suilivan's team finally did not ce them, the weeds from the earlier cases had long since been swept away. But research revealed that they'd been there as well, their presence validated by photographs taken by local investigators.
Once focused on the weeds, Sullivan's forensic ex perts were relentless. they carefully collected the scruffy little specimens, then sent them to the FBI lab for analysis. Alas, no secret writings were discovered inside, nor were any poisons or stains found upon their surfaces. So if the weeds did not conceal a message, then they must be the message. But again Janek wondered: What did they say?
Not orchids or roses or carnations, Sullivan had told them in Quantico, meaning, Janek supposed, not the noble flowers left by mystery-story killers, But if the weeds were, in fact, ignoble, could they then be taken as ironic comment on those elegant, glamorous fictional murderers?
That was one possibility.
Another was that the killer saw himself (or herself if it was Archer) as unglamorous, ignoble, homely. And with that thought the binding metaphor sprang suddenly into Janek's brain.
He mulled over his idea for a moment, then stopped on a street corner, stood still, and closed his eyes. Carefully he recalled the various crime scene photos in which the weeds appeared. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, he forced the pictures to flash successively on a screen inside his brain. Yes, the metaphor was pretty, but would it hold? He would have to go back to the office and examine the pictures again.
His heart was racing as he entered the Police Property Building, tore up the stairs, then down the hall. With sweat breaking out on his forehead, he rushed past Aaron to confront the pictures on the walls.
As he looked at each one in turn, the metaphor locked more firmly into place. But still there was ambiguity:
The killings had taken place indoors, inside rooms each of which had four walls.
It was time now, he knew, to look closely at the pictures of Jess. And when he did, the metaphor was validated. Up in Riverside Park the weeds had been left leaning against the same little stone wall where he had seen the remnants of candles and flowers left by moumers.
Exhilarated, he turned to Aaron, who, phone in hand, was gazing at him skeptically from his desk.
'It's the weeds,' he said. 'They're always placed beside a wall.'
'So?' Aaron asked, waiting for the punch line.
'That's it,' Janek said.
'What?'
'The meaning.'
'Meaning? If you don't mind, Frank, please tell me what you're talking about?'
'It's how she sees herself, Aaron. It's her message, her calling card.'
'So how does she see herself?' Aaron asked impatiently.
Janek turned to stare out the window. 'As a shy and homely girl without a partner at the dance. As a wallflower,' he added moumfully.
Later, when they pulled out the seven pictures and lined them up together, it was so clear Aaron wondered aloud how Sullivan's people could possibly have failed to see it.
'It was their own word 'weeds' that threw them off,' Janek said. 'they locked themselves in with that. If they'd started out calling them flowers, degraded, ragged flowers, they probably would have figured it out.' But still, he knew, it was the,placement near Jess that really was the clincher. And perhaps, too, before one could read the message, one would need to have a certain sort of woman in mind-a woman who could be considered a wallflower at the dance of life.
Janek met Fran Dunning at a coffeehouse around the corner from her dorm.
It was one of those sixties-type places, with little marble tables, uncomfortable European cars chairs, and a lone, slow, and very spacey waitress.
Fran had had three sessions with Beverly Archer. She found her a highly professional and compassionate shrink.
'She's really nice,' Fran said, 'the way she makes you feel so comfortable and all. It was kind of intimidating to walk in there, not knowing what to expect. But then I started talking about Jess, and I could see she was moved.' Fran paused. 'There were tears in her eyes, Lieutenant. She cared for Jess; I know she did.'
Fine, thought Janek. It works better if Fran likes her.
Fran hadn't seen much of the house. The lavatory was on the first floor, off the therapy room. On her way to it she'd passed through a small office containing a couple of locked filing cabinets and a framed poster for a Botero exhibition. She'd also noticed a burglar alan-n system, keypad and siren, inside the coat closet off the front hall. 'Did you mention the knife show?' Janek asked. 'Not yet.'
Fran paused. 'Want me to?' Janek shook his head. 'You've done enough, Fran. No need to see her again. Thanks for all your help.'
Fran stared at him, concerned. 'I wish you'd tell me what this is about, Lieutenant. I just can't believe Dr. Archer had anything to do with, you know Janek nodded. He knew he had to give her a reason. 'It's not a question of whether she had anything to do with it. It's more a matter of whether she knows something and is holding back. Whenever I ask her about Jess, she talks about patient-therapist confidentiality and how it applies even after death. I find that strange, don't you?'
'I guess so. I never thought about it actually.' Suddenly the robust girl athlete seemed terribly fragile. Her smile was weak; her eyes were confused. Janek patted her reassuringly on the hand.
Aaron wanted to bust into Archer's house.
'Just for a look-see, Frank. Me, alone, on a Tuesday night, when she's teaching her class downtown. I'll slip in and out. She'll never know I was there. You won't either, 'cause I won't tell you about it.'
