Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

Terri nodded. “But it doesn’t tell us why he selected these victims. And it can’t be random.”

“What do we know about the victims’ backgrounds?”

“Vic number one was a college senior, twenty-one, going to get his car parked in a lot three blocks from the bar where he’d been with friends.”

“And the friends didn’t see anything? No one following them?”

“They were at the bar when he was killed. According to their statements they didn’t see a thing.”

“And the second?”

“Harrison Stone. Came out of the subway, walked four blocks, boom, shot dead. There was an elderly couple down the street, but they didn’t see it happen. Woman says she saw someone hovering over the body, but had no idea what was going on till they got closer, and by then whoever was leaning over him was gone.”

“Any description?”

“Male.” She frowned.

“And her companion, he see anything?”

“He’s blind. Literally.”

“What about traffic? Maybe a cabdriver saw something?”

“Dead-end street. Virtually no traffic.”

“You said the victim walked four blocks. So the unsub could have shot him earlier, but waited. So he must have known about the dead-end street.” I closed my eyes and tried to picture it, but couldn’t. “I should go to the scene. And I want to talk to the woman who saw the man leaning over the body. She might have a picture in her mind that she doesn’t even know is there.”

Terri’s face brightened. Clearly, this was what she wanted from me.

“I’ve just got to do some paperwork,” she said. “Give me an hour and we can go to Brooklyn together.”

I liked the idea of that.

“Afterward you can talk to the college kid’s roommate. It’s a long shot. He wasn’t on the scene, but he was there just before it went down.” Russo looked into my eyes. “We’ve got three dead men, Rodriguez. Someone had to have seen something.”

Terri closed the door behind Nate and glanced down at the sketches he’d made-the man in the long coat, the scary close-up of the eye. Maybe the Brooklyn witness could add more. One thing for sure: She’d been right about Rodriguez. And now, with the G looking over her shoulder, she needed all the help she could get.

She thought back to the meeting earlier that morning, Agent Monica Collins throwing around terms like methodology and victimology like she had invented them, asking Terri if she understood. She just smiled, said, “Yes, I think I’ve got it, but thanks so much for asking.” Bitch. Why was it women were always so shitty to one another? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of sisterhood? Not so she ever noticed. At least with the men it was right out there, grabbing your ass or ignoring you. The women, they were all smiles while they cut you off at the knees.

Denton had run the meeting, acting like he actually knew something about the case, though it had been Terri who’d briefed him, written everything in simple prose he could regurgitate. He hadn’t thanked her, not that she expected he would. He was too busy charming Agent Collins, smiling at her with that sexy grin of his, flirting with the bureau, not the woman, though poor Agent Collins didn’t seem to know that. Poor Agent Collins, my ass.

For now, the G team was collecting data and feeding it back to Quantico. Nobody had said anything about the NYPD quitting the investigation, not yet. Three different precincts involved, and now the G. What a mess. The feds wanted full reports and full cooperation. No doubt full credit too.

Terri glanced at the crime scene drawings she’d laid out for Rodriguez. Three men-one black, one Hispanic, one white. If it hadn’t been for the college kid, the white guy, she would be thinking racial angle, but this didn’t make any sense. So what was it that was nagging at the back of her mind?

Perry Denton popped a five-milligram Valium into his mouth and washed it down with decaf. It wasn’t that he needed it-he could quit at any time-it relaxed him, that’s all, and these days he needed to relax. He picked up the phone after the sixth annoying ring.

“What time will you be home, Perry?”

“Why?”

“Because we have guests, remember?”

No, he did not remember. And hadn’t he specifically told his secretary to screen his calls, especially his wife’s?

This morning’s meeting with the feds was still on his mind. He was glad they were taking the case, and before the media got hold of the fact that it was a fucking serial killer and there was a media sideshow that he would have to deal with to calm the city’s residents.

“I’ll be home when I get home, baby. I’ve got a lot of shit to deal with.”

Damn. His job was supposed to be administrative, to oversee the workings of the various NYPD departments; he was not responsible for every fucking psycho who decided to snuff a few blacks and Hispanics. And couldn’t the guy have killed them in the neighborhoods where that sort of thing was acceptable? The college kid was the real problem, from a wealthy family who would be making a lot of noise if they didn’t get some answers, and soon. Denton couldn’t decide whom he disliked more, rich people or poor people.

“What time are you coming home, Perry?” His wife’s singsong voice cut into his thoughts. “It’s embarrassing, always having to make excuses for you.”

“So don’t make them.” He slammed the receiver into its cradle and shouted, “Denise!”

His office door opened and a heavyset woman stood in the frame.

“Where were you? Aren’t you supposed to answer my phone, screen my calls?”

“Yes, sir, but I was down the hall copying those documents you’d asked for.”

Denton sighed, extended his hand and took the papers. Damn it, did he have to do everything himself? He waited till the woman left his office, then found the number he’d written on a Post-it, and stared at it. It was risky, but less risky than his current situation. And he’d already set the wheels in motion, put half the money in an off-shore account. Now he had to buy another crap cell phone and make the final call.

Monica Collins had spent the night going over everything-case reports, background checks, autopsy results, ballistics, crime scene pictures. She was feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety, the result of too many unanswered questions and three cups of coffee. She had forwarded everything to her associates back at Behavioral Science, but knew BSS moved slowly, particularly these days with the “Oakland Sniper” getting all the attention from the media and priority from the bureau. Six killings in six months. Last she heard, the agent who’d been supervising that case had been transferred to somewhere in Washington State, and not one of the scenic parts.

Well, that was not going to happen to her. Not after six years of undergrad and postgrad work, then recruited by the bureau only to sit behind a desk for eight years while her college girlfriends got married and had babies. She had finally gotten out from behind that Quantico desk and she was going to stay out. She looked around her temporary quarters at Manhattan FBI and liked what she saw. She liked the city too. And she liked New York’s Chief of Department Perry Denton, the kind of man who rarely, if ever, paid any attention to her. Maybe it was just the case, but she thought she’d detected something a bit more from him.

She glanced up at the bulletin board and the crime scene photos of the three victims she had tacked to it along with copies of the drawings that had been pinned to their dead bodies.

Serial killers had always held a fascination for her, particularly the handsome ones like Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer, the idea that one could be seduced to their death both terrifying and thrilling. Bundy had been her favorite until she had read about the kid who called himself Tony the Tiger from the Color Blind case two years ago. She’d paid him a visit-strictly for observational and educational purposes-at a state hospital for the criminally insane. She’d never forget it, his almost girlish good looks, blue eyes cold and gorgeous, the seductive, unsettling smile. Thinking about him now brought a chill, and another emotion she did not want to consider.