Anatomy of Fear

27

The NYPD had combined efforts with the bureau, the results of which had produced reams of paper documenting America’s leading white supremacist groups. Terri had stayed up most of the night reading and by morning had reached the conclusion that mankind was hopeless.

She had arrived at the meeting with a throbbing headache, washed down two Excedrin with a cup of machine-brewed coffee, and though the headache had abated, her feet were now tapping, nerves jangling from caffeine overdrive.

The G could not dispute the fact that the locals had been supplying some of the best information-thanks to Nate’s detection of the logo from The White Man’s Bible-and Terri was feeling just a little proud for having brought him on the case.

She suspected Denton would have been happier if the PD had been taken off the case, full responsibility falling on the fed’s broad shoulders, but that was his problem. He was notably absent, some business with the city council, or so he said, though Terri could not imagine what could be more important.

Terri had invited Nate along with her men, anxious for all of them to hear if the Quantico profiler could add anything new to the case.

Collins gave an introductory briefing, basically what the NYPD had provided, then introduced the woman who had already snagged Nate’s attention, tall and slender, black suit jacket unbuttoned to expose her fitted white blouse, everything about her flawless except for her auburn hair, twirled into an ad hoc bun that threatened to topple, providing an unexpected louche touch.

“Dr. Schteir comes to us from BSS,” said Collins. “She has written extensively about the sociopathic mind, and published several articles on hate crime and its effects on-”

“Thanks,” said Schteir, cutting her off. “But I don’t think anyone gives a rat’s ass about my CV.” She flashed a quick smile, and Nate thought he’d fallen in love.

“I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to read the profile I worked up, which is in your folders, so I’ll summarize. We’ll first do a little Sociopath 101, and after that I’ll talk about the hate-crime component.” She glanced around the room, and Nate made a point of catching her eye and smiling.

Terri cadged a glance in his direction.

Dr. Schtier counted off on her fingers. “One: The sociopath is unable to give or receive love, though they can fake it quite well when they want to. They are unusually skilled manipulators. Many are the result of abuse and have learned to survive terribly sadistic situations by turning off their feelings. I am not making a case for sympathy, simply stating statistics. Two: They do not feel remorse or guilt like normal human beings. Three: They are egocentric, totally self-centered. These are the general rules-if one can even call them that-which are constantly shifting, and vary from individual to individual. Modern psychology is constantly reassessing them. One must always be prepared for a new manifestation and how the sociopath will exhibit it in a new and novel way.” Her eyes were shining; it was obvious that for Dr. Schteir, sociopaths were a sexy topic.

“I’ll stop counting,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. A sense of superiority. Very important. The sociopath feels he is better than you or me, better than anyone. He is above the rules of normal society, just one of the things that aids him in committing his heinous acts. On the other hand, it can be his Achilles heel. Arrogance can lead to mistakes, tempt him to tease the authority he disdains. It is not uncommon for sociopaths to get close to the press and to the police, as I’m sure you know.” She unconsciously plucked a comb from her hair, and her auburn locks tumbled to her shoulders.

Nate opened his drawing pad and started sketching.

“In the case of your unknown subject, there is no psycho-sexual release, though he undoubtedly receives pleasure from his acts.” She paused. “So, the hate-crime killer…generally, he regards his victims as lesser human beings, or not even human. It’s a tactic employed by soldiers, torturers, and sometimes even politicians.”

This produced a few laughs.

“But seriously…” She pulled her hair back and secured the comb in place. “It’s important to remember that he is driven by the belief that he is right. Just keep in mind a man flying a plane into a skyscraper, dying for a god and ideology he believes in, and you will begin to understand the kind of personality you are dealing with.” She paused to let that sink in. “There are two profiles in your folder. The supposition on your unsub, along with a profile I did two years ago on Duane Holsten, who is serving a life sentence at a criminal-psyche facility for killing eight people-four nurses and two patients at an abortion clinic. Holsten maintains he was doing God’s work, and therefore feels no remorse at all.”

Agent Archer raised his hand. “You said eight people. That’s only six.”

“The other two were his sister-in-law and her unborn child. He slashed her throat before going to the clinic where she was scheduled to have an abortion.”

“So he had a motive,” said Archer, “other than God.”

“Yes, but he does not admit that his sister-in-law’s impending abortion provided any impetus for his crime. He avers that he had been consulting with God for some time, and that God told him to kill these people.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“It is indeed questionable, Agent Archer, an excuse for a hideous crime, and not an uncommon defense for hate-crime killers. But I interviewed Holsten over the course of a year and he never once changed his story. He is absolutely convinced he was right, that he was correcting an affront to God. When I offered the logical argument that he might be the one who offended God, since by stabbing his sister he had terminated a pregnancy, he told me I did not understand. He has never once wavered in his belief and continues to insist that God told him to kill, and therefore he did nothing wrong.”

“Nut job,” said Archer.

“You’ve got that right.” Schteir smiled. “As for your unsub, he may be choosing victims at random, or the acts may have a personal component. You may not discover that until he is caught.” She reached for a paper with the symbol Nate had found from The White Man’s Bible. “Though your man appears to be working solo, he is probably in touch with members of various hate organizations. This sort of personality derives strength from being part of a group. Duane Holsten was a member of both the World Church of the Creator and Christian Identity for at least ten years before his crime. Christian Identity is not an organized group, a shame because it would make our jobs a lot easier. It’s a loose-knit network of fanatics that stay in touch via Internet chat rooms. Holsten’s computer showed that he spent more than half his day in chat rooms. He had a basement full of neo-Nazi propaganda and three years’ worth of journals that documented his personal conversations with God-which is why he’s in a psyche ward and not on death row.”

“Couldn’t he have fabricated the journals after the fact?” Terri asked.

“Absolutely,” said Schteir. “And it’s possible, though Holsten convinced me he was speaking directly to God, something more than one religious-right sect is pushing these days. It’s called divine revelation.”

“Direct line to God,” said Archer. “Handy.”

“Indeed. This sort of man is determined and righteous.” Schteir looked around the room. “If you believed you were absolutely right-that God told you the world’s salvation depended on you-would you carry out his bidding? Would you dare not to?” She paused. “Holsten, as I said, feels no remorse because he was following orders. Sound familiar?”

Nate raised his hand and spoke simultaneously. “Nazis and neo-Nazis sharing the same excuse, right?”

Dr. Schteir smiled. “Yes. There is something in these men and in your unsub-rather something missing from their psyche and emotional core-that allows them to do what they do. They split their personalities, even their lives.”

“Are you saying he could be living a normal life?”

“I’d say a double life as opposed to a normal one, but yes.”

After the meeting I stopped to talk with the Quantico shrink.

“Very interesting presentation,” I said. “And it sounds like you enjoy your work.”

“Oh, I do. I was never interested in having one of those comfortable practices-you know, dealing with everyday neurotics. Interviewing someone like Duane Holsten is a thrill. How many shrinks ever get to work with a true sociopath in their entire lifetime? Me, I get to do it all the time.”

“And it’s not frightening?”

“Oh, very frightening. Going into maximum security facilities, feeling all of those eyes on you-I can assure you that part is not fun.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you are…?”

“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.”