76ers were winning in Philadelphia and the Communists were losing everywhere—perfect cover to discuss murder and other gruesome subjects. If lunch was disappointing, he could still advance his seduction of his favorite waitress. It was a win-win.
“Richard is the best profiler I’ve ever worked with,” Bender said eagerly.
Walter winced. “Quite true. There are only five of us in the world who know what we’re doing. Frank doesn’t know any of the others, I’m afraid.”
Fleisher laughed heartily, enjoying himself more than he had in a while. He was especially intrigued to see the wan psychologist and manic artist together for the first time. He had been stunned like every other cop in America by the duo’s prophetic work on the John List case, and now he wasn’t disappointed. He considered Frank a genius, and, he later noted, “It didn’t take long to see that Richard had an unsurpassed knowledge of the criminal mind.” Walter was equally impressed with Fleisher. “The Customs chief was quite affable and extremely bright. He had a remarkable memory for every case he ever worked.”
Wendy came to the table. Bender began to sketch her face on a napkin, demonstrating a technique to her. “A cheeseburger,” Fleisher said. “No fries.” The waitress wrote down his order. Fleisher was grinning. “Atkins is going to save my life.”
Walter ordered a cup of coffee, black.
Bender ordered a teriyaki salad, coffee, and cherry pie.
“You have quite an appetite today,” Fleisher deadpanned.
Bender watched the brunette’s hourglass figure return to the kitchen. “Look at that,” he whispered. Fleisher chuckled.
Walter stared into the gray afternoon as if he’d rather have been watching iron oxidize than Bender’s libido on exhibit.
Before the food came, the three men fell into an easy camaraderie talking murder and mayhem, including the case that connected them. They’d all worked on the U.S. Marshals’ pursuit of the fugitive killers Hans Vorhauer and Robert Thomas Nauss. “It’s because of Bill sharing his investigation with the FBI that I got a breakthrough that helped lead to Vorhauer’s capture,” Bender said. “And Richard helped me with a profile of Nauss. I still think we’ll get him one of these days.”
Bender’s face reddened in sudden anger. “That’s how it should work. But when I went to Washington to see the FBI about the List case, they were practically hostile to me. They wouldn’t give me anything. I think they had a profile of List they wouldn’t share.”
Fleisher and Walter nodded in agreement. “I’ve seen victims victimized by the justice system for thirty years,” Fleisher said sadly. His brown eyes had a faraway look.
“But why is solving a murder so hard?” Bender went on. As an artist relatively new to forensics, he was frustrated by the rigid thinking of most policemen. “They never think out of the box!”
“Police are very procedural,” Walter said, frowning. “It’s the foundation of investigative procedure, to build a case on what’s there. But sometimes what’s not there is even more important.” He smiled wickedly. “For instance”—he chuckled—“if I were sitting here naked, what was missing would become very relevant, as old and ugly as I am!”
Walter well knew the virtues of sharing information. He told them of the infamous Case of the Underwear Killer. He had just finished speaking about murder personality subtypes at a forensic conference in Atlanta when Georgia police approached him for help on the baffling case. Three women’s slips had been found strewn across the bushes of a park. The slips were bloodied and appeared to have been slashed down the middle with a knife. The garments had the letter “J” sewn into them. But there was no body. No sign of a struggle. What did it all mean?
“The police looked at it and said, ‘What happened here?’ ” Walter said mockingly. “Well, what the fuck do you mean what happened here? Anyone with half a brain can see a murder happened here. But often one doesn’t have to have half a brain to be in law enforcement.” Cutting and slicing were evidence of picquerism, Walter told them, the pleasure of causing pain through puncturing or slashing. It was the grave sign of a sadistic serial killer on a learning curve, like Ted Bundy, who evolved into even worse behavior, such as murder for the pleasures of necrophilia or cannibalism.
Fleisher looked up from his cheeseburger. “Thanks for mentioning it.”
“Not at all. The point is that some weeks later I was at a forensic conference in St. Louis listening to Roy Hazelwood, the FBI agent, describe a murder. It