Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

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: ‹Nordicman@interstate.com›

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

To: ‹swift@flochart.net›

Subject: Checking in

Do you have time to talk?

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

From: ‹swift@flochart.net›

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

To: ‹Nordicman@interstate.com›

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.

What 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.

Denton 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.

Manhattan 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.

I found the switch, flipped it on, and the actors behind the glass started speaking their lines.

“HQ wants Dr. Schteir to do the interrogation,” said Collins, the edges of her mouth tugged down with disappointment. “You can watch, Russo, but that’s all.”

“Sorry,” said Terri. “But Denton wants the NYPD represented. He specifically asked me to be in on this.” She sucked her lip and rubbed a hand across her eyes, two things people do when they’re lying.

Collins sighed so loudly, I could hear it through the speaker. “Okay, but stay out of Dr. Schteir’s way. We already have too many people in here.”

Schteir turned to Collins. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside too.”

Collins’s mouth opened and stayed open, but no words came out.

“Sorry,” said Schteir. “But I don’t want the suspect to be distracted, and I think two women are already enough. It would be really helpful to me if you watched the interrogation at a distance, to see if I’ve missed anything, okay?” She smiled and said, “Thanks,” before Collins could get her mouth and brain to work in tandem, the shock of being excluded obviously too much for her to take in.

Then Schteir turned to Archer and asked him to stay.

A second later Collins came out looking like someone who’d just been told her puppy had died.

I moved over to give her some room, but she ignored my gesture and remained standing, staring through the glass and the people behind it like a kid with her nose pressed against a candy counter.

Then the door at the back of the interrogation room opened.

The suspect’s hands were cuffed; ankles too. I leaned forward to get a good look at him. His features were bland and indistinct.

The guard pushed him into a seat and Schteir said, “Easy.” He gave her a look as the guard attached the ankle shackles to a metal ring in the floor.

“Why all the hardware?” I asked.

“He had a personal arsenal,” said Richardson. “According to the agents that brought him, there were more WMD than Saddam ever had. Looked as if he was preparing for World War III, in Queens, of all places.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Name’s Carl Karff. And his arsenal included the same kind of gun that killed the two victims. No matter what, we’ve got him on illegal weaponry and conspiracy to incite.”

“Onetime leader of the World Church of the Creator,” said Collins without turning around. “He’s not the grand pooh-bah anymore, but still a big cheese in the organization.”

“Spent three years up at Fishkill Correctional for assault,” said Richardson.

“Was this part of a general roundup of local white supremacists, or what?” I asked.

“Bureau ran a trace of the gun brand,” said Richardson. “Lots of names popped up, Karff’s among them. The bureau’s been watching him-and others like him-for a long time. He spends a lot of time in chat rooms, easy to hack into. And at one time he made his living as a commercial artist. Lots of markers made his name stand out.”