Anatomy of Fear

40

Crime Scene shuffled around the room, cotton booties swishing along dusty floors as they collected evidence, difficult to ascertain what was new and what was old, the place a mess. They’d chalked an outline around the body and beyond that an eight-by-eight-foot square, off-limits to everyone other than the medical examiner until they completed their search.

Terri had received the call around 4:00 A.M., tearing her from a dream of Rodriguez on top of her. She was smiling when she’d raised the phone to her ear. This was Midtown North’s jurisdiction, but the drawing had been noted and the bureau had been called, and they were officiating, Terri and her men assigned to supporting roles.

It was now almost 6:00 A.M.

Terri watched the scene, holding her breath, a sourness growing in her stomach. She had not eaten and worried she might be sick.

Across the room, Agent Richardson was asking questions and making notes in a pad.

The ME was leaning over the body and Terri saw him pluck a thermometer out of a wound. Then he rolled the body over and noted the way the blood had pooled under the skin. “Lividity suggests approximately six to eight hours.”

Terri did the math. He’d been killed sometime between ten and midnight.

Another technician was scraping under the nails and bagging the hands.

The ME opened the victim’s shirt. “Four, maybe five stab wounds here. Difficult to tell till we wash him down.”

“A bit more brutal than the others,” said Perez. “Could be he’s getting angrier.”

“Maybe he’ll get sloppier too,” said Dugan, trying to stifle a yawn.

A photographer tiptoed around the body as if he were practicing ballet, snapping pictures, a flash blinding Terri every few seconds.

“Press is going to love this,” said Perez. “But hey, it’s the G’s headache, not ours, right?”

“Shut up,” said Terri.

“Sor-ry,” said Perez, hands up.

Terri took a deep breath and made her way over to Agent Collins. This imbalance of power had gone on long enough. “I need to see that drawing,” she said.

“Go home, detective. We’ve got it under control.”

Terri made a show of looking at the body, then back at the agent, the message clear: Sure as shit doesn’t look like you have it under control. “I need to compare it to the other drawings.”

“Our lab will run the tests,” said Collins. “Type the paper, the pencil, see if it’s a match with the others. I imagine it is, but with all the press there could be a copycat out there who wants to get his name in the funny papers.”

“I understand that, but-”

Agent Archer interrupted. “He’s Spanish, which fits the profile.”

Collins’s cell phone rang. “Yes, sir. No, sir. There’s no press on the scene. Yes, sir. I think we can contain it, keep it under control.”

Terri glared at the agent. Why was the bureau always so concerned about control, the press, keeping everything such a god-damn secret? Didn’t they know it was hopeless? Didn’t they know about Watergate and Travelgate and Monica Lewinsky and Abu Ghraib? Didn’t they know the press eventually got it all?

“Hopefully this one will give us the information we need, sir.” Collins had the cell phone pressed against her ear with one hand, the sketch in the other.

Terri tried to sneak a peek.

Agent Richardson was still across the room asking questions. She should get over there, she thought, but wanted a good look at the drawing first.

She glanced up at Collins.

The woman looked exhausted.

Terri could see she was under a lot of pressure, her job probably at stake-and she knew the feeling. She recalled the look of disappointment on Collins’s face when Schteir had gotten to play the starring role in Karff’s interrogation. Maybe she had more in common with this woman than she had originally thought, and if not, she could play it.

She laid her hand on the agent’s arm. “How are you holding up?”

Collins’s eyes narrowed. “I’m doing just fine, Detective.”

“I know the kind of pressure you’re under and have no intention of adding to it or getting in your way.”

“Well, that’s just great to hear.” Collins let out a deep sigh. “Listen, I know we can look like the bad guys to the locals, but we’ve got a job to do, just like you.”

“I hear you.” Terri offered Collins a sympathetic look. “To be honest, it’s a relief not to have all the responsibility, everyone just waiting for you to screw up.” She paused to see if Collins was taking it the right way. “But I’ve been on the case from the outset and I’m happy to help you out any way I can.” Terri paused. “I understand the drawing has to go to Quantico for analysis, but if I could just see it…”

Collins let out another deep sigh.

“Here,” she said, and handed her the drawing.

“Knock yourself out.”

Terri crossed the room, sketch in her gloved hand.

“You mind if I have a word with him?” she asked Richardson, meaning Nate.

Terri waited till Richardson moved away.

“You okay?”

“I have no idea.”

Terri turned the drawing toward him. “I need you to look at this.”

“I’ve seen it,” said Nate.

“I realize that, but I need you to tell me about it, if it’s the same or…I don’t know, but it looks different. He’s added a little sketch on the side, maybe a close-up of the vic’s mouth? Or maybe it’s something left over from when he started the sketch. I’m not sure. What do you think?”

Nate’s hands were trembling. He’d seen the detail too, and it had sent a shiver down his spine, though he didn’t know why. He’d been up all night, too tired to focus. “It looks…more developed, less sketchy. And that separate mouth on the side…” He felt the chill again, glanced around the room, the windowless basement apartment, rent receipts and papers stacked up on an old fax machine, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the super dead on the floor. He still couldn’t believe it.

“You think it was made by the same guy?”

“Who else could it be?”

“Well, the drawings, the MO, have made it into the media. So it could be a copycat. I just want to be sure.”

Nate squinted at it with tired eyes. “There is something different, it’s a little softer, and I don’t see the pronounced crosshatching, but…maybe he’s just using another kind of pencil-” Another chill shook his body. “Can I take it out of the plastic?”

Terri cadged a glance over her shoulder. Collins was huddled with her men.

She handed Nate a pair of gloves. “Make it fast. And put these on.”

Nate tugged on the gloves and removed the drawing. “Yes, it’s a softer pencil than he ordinarily uses. He’s blending and modeling more too.”

“And what’s this?”

“I can’t tell,” said Nate, but the chill intensified. “Maybe it’s another one of those white supremacist symbols.”

“I need to get it magnified, but there’s no way Collins is going to let me hold on to this.” She glanced over at the fax machine, then back at Collins, who was half turned away, her cell phone at her ear.

Terri didn’t waste any time. She slid the papers and bills off the fax machine and fed the sketch into it. Thirty seconds later she was folding a halfway decent copy into her pocket. She handed the original back to Collins.

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

“It tell you anything new?”

Terri shook her head. “Not really.”

Collins turned to Nate. “You’ve got to come with me to give a statement.”

“I thought I already did that,” said Nate.

“Yes,” said Collins. “But it has to be official.”