Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

I looked through the glass as Archer took a seat opposite Karff. It was obvious why Schteir had chosen him to stay with her and it wasn’t because he was big; it was because he was black.

Karff made an attempt to fold his cuffed hands and I caught a glimpse of small blue swastikas tattooed on the inner sides of his wrists.

Terri was pacing, but she never took her eyes off Karff. Her face had hardened in a way I hadn’t seen before, lips drawn into a tight line, eyes lidded and squinting. She looked mean as hell.

Schteir was going through her notes, muttering things like, “Wow,” and “Oh, brother.”

I recalled a visiting lecturer to my Quantico course, a retired FBI agent experienced in the art of interrogation, saying, “Everyone has something to hide, something they are ashamed of-you just have to let your subject think that you know what it is.”

I guessed that’s what Schteir was doing now.

Archer read Karff his rights, and reminded him he could have a lawyer present.

“God is representing me,” he said.

Terri let out a short, disdainful laugh.

“Duane Holsten sends his regards,” said Schteir.

Karff turned to look at her, facial muscles neutralized, impossible to read. “I have never met Mr. Holsten.”

“But he’s a member of your church.”

“There are many members of the World Church of the Creator-perhaps you will meet them one day.” A smile passed over his lips. “As for Mr. Holsten, I have followed his case with some interest. I understand he recently filed an appeal.”

“It was declined,” said Schteir. “You wasted your money. We know the World Church has been raising money for his case. The FBI has been charting its activities for some time, and watching you as well, Mr. Karff, your comings and goings.” She opened a file and ran her finger down the page. “The name Swift ring any bells?”

A micro-expression of anxiety, eyelids and lips ticking, rattled his composed face, but didn’t last.

“That’s okay, Swift. Would you prefer I call you that?”

Karff didn’t answer, his facial muscles under control, mask back in place.

“So, your comings and goings,” said Schteir. “For starters, we know where you go when you get into your Ford station wagon late at night, after your daughter is tucked into bed and you have kissed your wife good night.”

Karff’s jaw tightened.

“But let’s wait with that. Tell me, Mr. Karff, are you a Christian?”

“Most Christians have abandoned God and their race.” He squinted at her name tag. “Schteir? Not a Christian name, is it?”

“It’s a Jewish name, Mr. Karff. Does that offend you?”

“Your people have been part of a plot to upgrade the blacks and pull down the white race.”

“And no doubt you and your fellow World Church members have a plan to deal with that.”

“A very simple one.” Karff raised his chin and the hint of more tattoos on either side of his neck poked out of his shirt collar.

“What’s that on his neck?” asked Richardson.

“Lightning-bolt tattoos,” I said. “Like the ones on Nazi soldiers’ uniforms.”

“The blacks will be shipped back to Africa where they belong,” said Karff. “The Jews driven from power, and as for the Christian traitors, they will be hanged in public squares.”

Anthropologists make the case that humanity has evolved, and if you’re talking about ape to upright man, I guess that’s true, but at the moment I didn’t think the species had evolved much at all.

Terri stopped pacing and leaned into Karff’s face. “Oh, someone will be hanging in those public squares, Carl, you can be sure of that.”

Karff pulled back, but Terri trailed him like a magnet.

Schteir let her stay there a minute, then tapped her arm. “Let the man breathe, detective.”

“For now,” said Terri, backing up.

Archer looked ready to pummel Karff, his hands knotted into fists, and Schteir made sure he noticed. She touched the agent’s fists, whispered, “Relax, you’ll get your turn.”

Without discussing it, they’d all assumed roles: Terri’s bad cop to Schteir’s good one; Archer the brute enforcer, just barely under control. I was itching to join the act, maybe play my sketch-artist card, do a drawing of the guy to add to his discomfort, and I suggested it to Collins.

“You kidding?” she said, without turning around.

I got the point. If she couldn’t be in there, no way she was letting me in.

“And you will enact your plan, how?” asked Schteir. “With the guns and knives you-and others like you-have amassed in basements and attics?”

“We will do what we have to do,” said Karff. “Heed my warning. The war is coming.” He looked over at Archer and said, “RAHOWA!”

“Ah, yes,” said Schteir, affecting ennui. “RaHoWa. Ra for Racial, Ho for Holy, Wa for War. Your group’s battle cry. You know…it sounds very much like the language used by a tribe in Papua, New Guinea. Fascinating people. I wonder if that’s where it comes from.”

“You think you’re so smart, like all of your kind.” Karff’s eyes had narrowed. “We’ll see how smart you are when the war comes, you Jew bitch-”

Archer grabbed hold of Karff’s arm. “Watch your mouth.”

Karff eyed Archer’s dark hand on his pale white flesh.

Schteir allowed the agent to do a little damage-Karff would be bruised by morning-then she laid her hand gently over Archer’s, and said, “I think that’s enough-for now.”

Archer gave the man’s arm another good squeeze before he let go.

“So, Mr. Karff, let’s get back to the present war, the small, sad little war you and your fellow World Church members are fighting, the one where you kill off one person at a time.” She slid crime scene pictures of the victims onto the table.

“Who are these mud people and race traitors supposed to be?”

“Come now, Mr. Karff, you can do better than that,” said Schteir.

“I have no idea what you want me to say.”

“Say whatever you want to say, Mr. Karff. After all, this is a free country, a country that allows you to espouse your religious and racial views without threat of punishment. So speak your mind. Go on. Tell me what you think of me, of Agent Archer here, of the people you refer to as the mud people and race traitors.” She slapped her hand down hard onto the photos and Karff flinched.

Terri snatched the photos up and one by one raised them to his face.

“These are people, ” she said. “Do you even get that concept? I realize it might be difficult for an emotional cripple like you, but try. ”

Karff stared straight ahead, freezing his expression.

Was this the face I had been trying to see? I wasn’t sure. There was something generic about it, the kind of man you might pass in the street without noticing.

Terri dropped the photos and planted her face into Karff’s, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. “Your weapons have been confiscated, Carl. So what are you now, huh? Just a sad little man with Nazi tattoos that make you feel tough.” She laid her fingers onto one of his blue-inked swastikas. “You’re being watched, Carl, like the song says: “…every move you make.”’

Karff continued to stare, but his lids were flickering; she was getting to him.

“We’re seeing it. All of it, Carl. My friends here at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, hell, they’re just itching to publicize your anti-American activities. Not a popular subject these days, and getting less popular by the minute. We’re going to take you down, Carl. Way fucking down.”

I’d never seen Terri like this, and believed she could take him down.

The veins in Karff’s neck were standing out in high relief as he strained his head back like a turtle’s.