Anatomy of Fear (20 page)

“Nate Rodriguez. Forensic artist.”

“Oh, the one who is making the sketches for us.”

“That’s me.” I smiled. “So, what you said about our unsub believing he’s right in his actions, I agree; but what about the emotion that drives him?”

“Well, everyone experiences emotions differently, but with your unsub it’s obviously anger,” said Schteir. “Anger he can’t control.”

“But he
does
control it. He takes his time making drawings of his vics
before
he kills them, right? After that, there doesn’t appear to be much emotion behind the act. It’s sort of like he’s gotten the anger out in the planning and drawing, and the killing becomes perfunctory, wouldn’t you say?”

Dr. Schteir raised an eyebrow and assessed me more fully.

“And anger is usually accompanied by another emotion,” I added.

“Such as?”

“Fear, usually. Fear that the object of your anger—the victims, in this case—poses some sort of threat to you.”

“I see you’ve been studying.” Schteir smiled. “Who in particular?”

“Paul Ekman, for one.”

“Creator of the
Facial Coding System,
of course. I’m familiar with his work.”

“Ekman says we often focus anger on people who don’t share our beliefs, or offend our basic values.” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was showing off, though I was, a little. “I’ve studied anger and fear so I can recognize it on people’s faces and be able to draw it.”

Terri was suddenly by my side. “Nate can draw a face from memory and create one from the flimsiest description.”

“Really? There could be a job for you at Quantico, Nate.” Schteir touched my hand.

“He’s already been there,” said Terri, before I had a chance to speak.

I gave her a look. “It was just a few courses,” I said.

“Stop being modest, Nate,” said Terri.

“She’s right, Nate, don’t be modest.” Schteir tapped my pad. “Anything in there I can take a peek at?”

I wasn’t sure I should, but couldn’t help showing off a little more, so I opened the pad.

“Oh,” said Schteir. “No one has ever done my portrait.”

“They’re just doodles,” I said.

“No, they’re terrific.”

I ripped the page out of the pad and handed it to the profiler. “Here. One day I’d like to do something more serious.

Maybe you could sit for me.”

“You’re embarrassing Dr.

Schteir,” said Terri.

“Not at all,” said Schteir. She reached into her bag, came up with her card, and gave it to me. “Call me.”

I said I would. I wanted to stay longer and explore the possibility, but Terri tugged me away.

“Sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête,” she said, “but this is serious.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Yeah,”
she said. “The
Post
has gotten the story. The connection has been made.”

28

NEW YORK POST

PORTRAITS OF MURDER

By Lou Sands

Three vicious murders appear to have a connection. Though the NYPD would not confirm the link, sources close to the investigation suggest that the victims had drawings, portraits which looked like them, attached to their dead bodies. The families of Harrison Stone of Brooklyn, Daniel Rice and Roberto Acosta, both of Manhattan, would not comment, except to voice their frustration that police have not yet apprehended a suspect. Investigators denied the connection, pointing out that the methods of killing has varied: two victims shot, one stabbed. Chief of Department Perry Denton refused comment. But as one unnamed source said, “A serial killer is never something the police department is eager to confirm.”

A serial killer?

He shakes his head, thinking he should not be surprised, that it is probably a plant, a conspiracy between the press and the government to make him out to be a monster, a villain in the public’s eye.

The fact that the homicides occurred in different locations has brought together several precincts in what appears to be a full-scale, though confidential, manhunt. The recent murder of a young prostitute, whose body was found near Manhattan’s Chelsea Piers complex, may also figure into the case, though it has not yet been confirmed. What has been confirmed is that agents from the Manhattan FBI Bureau and Quantico have been brought into the case.

Of course he knew the FBI had joined the case. He’d expected it. And it does not worry him. Many of the people he most admires have been the subject of FBI investigations, and he is proud to join their ranks.

According to an unnamed source, one of the police department’s most sought-after forensic artists, Nathan Rodriguez, has been brought into the case. It’s been suggested that a witness may have survived an attack and is working with the sketch artist to create a composite image of the killer.

What?
His fingers coil and crimp the edges of the newspaper like an insect’s teeth about to gnaw at it.

A sketch artist? Making a composite? Of me?

But there is no way he has been seen. He is sure of that. And no one
has
survived, so how is it possible?

He heads down the stairs quickly, unlocks the door, flips on the light, his breathing so loud it’s like a growl as he smoothes the newspaper onto his work table and stares until the type blurs.

He paces back and forth, back and forth, trying to get his fury under control, manages to sit, fingers thumping at the keyboard as he signs into a chat room. He finds a few familiar names, proposes a game, and tugs his PlayStation headset over his ears so he can hear the other players, nerve endings tingling as the screen flashes blood-red and one of the players says, “Let’s do some damage.”

He chooses his favorite over-the-shoulder point of view staring down a rifle’s sight line at a surrealistic war zone. Figures dart across the screen, and he fires off virtual ammo at a virtual enemy while the actual men roar racial epithets, their curses and heavy breathing piped through his headset directly into his brain along with the rat-a-tat of gunfire and exploding bombs. The pixilated figures die and spawn, die and spawn, over and over, bouncing back to virtual life seconds after being virtually killed, and it starts to backfire, eroding his confidence rather than building it, and he thinks that he will never accomplish what he needs to do. He tears the headset off and hurls it across the room. It hits the cinder-block wall, cracks, and crashes to the floor. He stares at the cyberspace enemy, who refuse to die, skittering across a now mute screen.

He closes his eyes, but the men are still racing across his retina. He takes a deep breath, then another, and when he opens his eyes and sees the posters on his walls and the sketches on his desk, begins to feel stronger. Then he looks at the newspaper article and his paranoia springs back to life like those spawning figures.

He sits forward, shakes out his limbs, lays his fingers back onto his keyboard, and types an e-mail to the man who calls himself Swift.

From:

Sent: Sunday, March 19, 2006, 2:58
A.M.

To:

Subject: Checking in

Do you have time to talk?

He stares at the screen until an e-mail pops up.

From:

Sent: Sunday, March 19, 2006, 3:03
A.M.

To:

Subject: Warning

Don·t think a call right now is a good idea but what gives?

He’s not exactly sure what to say, why he has e-mailed Swift in the first place. Perhaps it’s because the image of Swift’s basement arsenal made him feel safe. He writes:

Have the feeling someone may be watching me.

Swift responds:

Same feeling here. think something is going down. do not call. repeat. do not call. better to not be in touch at all. erase this message.

W
hat does Swift mean?
Something is going down.

His heart is pounding again.

He closes his eyes, chooses a statement from his readings, and begins to repeat it:

“To give death and receive it. To give death and receive it. To give death and receive it To give death and receive it To give death and receive it to give death and receive it to give death and receive it ogivedeathandreceiveitogivedeathandreceiveit togivedeathandreceiveitogivedeathandreceiveit…

Light-headed from holding his breath, the anxiety begins to lift. From behind closed lids, rays of sunlight appear and the mission statement unfurls like a banner:

And then he hears God’s voice, and the plan He offers up is simple.

29

D
enton used the new cell phone for the first of two calls he would make before throwing it away.

“How’s it going, Joe?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to call me back is how it’s going. I was thinking I might have to call a reporter or something.”

“Take it easy, Joe. No need to do anything rash. I was busy. So what’s the problem?”

“No problem. I was just thinking I’d like to go to Honolulu earlier, say end of the month.”

The cheap phone was breaking up and Denton wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. “Go where? Honolulu? Now?”

“Yeah. And I could use a little cash to get settled.”

“I just gave you the last condo payment.”
You little fuck.
But no, he would not lose his temper. There was no need. “Like how little?”

“Just a few thousand. I wouldn’t want to squeeze an old friend.”

“Real considerate of you, Joe.” He thought a moment. “I’ll bring it by. How’s tonight?”

“How come you’re suddenly in such a hurry?”

“Just want to make you happy, Joe. You going to be in?”

“Yeah, where else do I have to go?”

“It’ll be late.”

“Like I said, I have nowhere to go.”

Denton disconnected and made the other call. “Tonight,” he said, gave the particulars again, then tossed the phone into a trash bin.
Aloha, Joe.

Denton took a deep breath and turned his thoughts to the fact that the media had gotten the story. It was a miracle they hadn’t gotten it sooner, but now he’d have to hold a press conference, do some damage control before they got the rest—a serial killer was bad enough, but race killings, the worst. The minute that got out, every bleeding-heart liberal would be clocking in with their opinion.

He opened the
Post
and glanced at the story. How the hell had they gotten wind of Rodriguez? He guessed if someone was sniffing around the story it would not be too difficult.

You read minds, Rodriguez?

Just faces.

So what’s my face telling you right now?

That you’re a successful and self-satisfied man.

Smug little bastard. So why did it make him uncomfortable? He never should have agreed to let Russo bring him in. No question she was sleeping with the guy. Maybe that’s what was pissing him off. But he was going to keep an eye on Rodriguez. On Russo too.

M
anhattan FBI Headquarters was streamlined and quiet like a conservative law firm, except the employees were wearing JCPenney instead of Brooks Brothers.

Terri and I were following Agent Richardson. They had a suspect in custody.

We headed down an aisle, cubicles on either side, through a maze of hallways, and finally into a waiting room with a two-way mirror. Through the mirror we could see agents Collins, Archer, and the charismatic Dr. Schteir. Richardson told us to wait, but Terri followed him.

Next thing, there she was, on the other side of the glass with the feds.