Anatomy of Fear

PROLOGUE

This is the way he always sees it.

The man, stretched out on the concrete, blood pouring out of his head into the grooves that define the sidewalk. From somewhere beneath the body, more blood is being pumped, an amoeba-shaped pond spreading beyond the torso.

He has heard detectives describe the crime scene, and years later stole the case report so he could read what a medical examiner had written. He knows the details: one shot in the head, two in the chest. He also knows that the shot in the head came later, as the man lay bleeding though still alive, because the medical examiner had noted two things: one, that the heart had bled out, indicating that the body was still pumping blood before it shut down; and two, that there were powder burns on the man’s temple, a clear indication that the assailant fired that last bullet at close range.

This is the way he sees it, often upon awakening, constantly there as he falls asleep, though more often it has kept him awake.

It has become his bedtime story and his waking nightmare for almost twenty years. It is like an artificial limb which, over time, he has learned to detach long enough so he can eat and dress, have conversations, make love, and even laugh. These are the moments when he forgets, but they are few. It is not easy to forget that you killed your father.