Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

We watched for a few minutes and I filled the time chatting with Dr. Schteir, which seemed to annoy Terri, who had gone unusually quiet.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed, then Schteir had to leave, and a moment later Collins did too. She took Archer with her.

“Lest,” Terri whispered to me. “Does anyone actually use the word lest ?”

“Apparently,” I said.

When Karff didn’t do anything for another fifteen minutes, I started to think I’d miscalculated. Richardson starting talking about the Mets, how they were already off to a bad start. He asked me what it was like to be a sketch artist and I asked him what it was like to be a G man. We were filling the time. It was better than watching Karff pick his nose or yawn.

Then Karff picked up the pen and while looking at the ceiling he started doodling away on the paper.

Carl Karff had really gotten into it, a half hour of serious doodling. But he had a limited repertoire. He was also left-handed, and I didn’t have to explain what that meant to the bureau or the NYPD.

I was back at the station with Terri, both of us keyed up but tired.

“Could he be faking it?” she asked.

“Only if he’s totally ambidextrous, and I never saw him use his right hand except to pick his nose.”

Terri’s phone kept ringing, but she ignored it.

A suspect’s arrest was big news. Though Karff’s name was being temporarily withheld, CNN had already broadcast a segment called “Behind the Scenes with America’s Hate Groups.” By tomorrow, newspapers would be running stories and Op Ed pieces, and from what I’d heard, the surveillance pictures of Karff and “Veronique” were on their way to the tabloids. Karff would be crucified in the press, though Ballistics had already proved it had not been one of his guns that had fired either of the fatal shots.

“He’s already out on bail,” said Terri. “Some slick World Church lawyer came to his defense. Don’t you just love it when these guys start crying that their civil liberties are being stepped on?”

“Yeah, they want to overthrow the government, but try to touch them and they invoke the constitution,” I said. “Tell you the truth, I would have enjoyed seeing Archer pummel him.”

“I would have lent a hand if Schteir hadn’t stopped me.” Terri sighed. “At least Karff supplied a list of names before his lawyer showed up. I’m guessing he gave up names the G already had, but maybe something will come of it.” She glanced over at her ringing phone.

“Not going to get that?” I asked.

“I don’t need to hear J. Q. Public and every one of his crazy neighbors give their opinion.”

When the ringing stopped she picked it up, asked for the desk sergeant and told him to stop putting calls through to her office. “That’s why we have a tip line,” she said. “Yes, I realize the calls are coming in faster than they can be logged, but I don’t want them coming to my personal line, is that clear?” She slammed down the phone and turned to me. “If I don’t get out of here I’m going to explode.”

It was dark outside. I had lost track of the time, and so had Terri. We were still keyed up, so I suggested a drink and was surprised when she said yes.

It was a nice night and we decided to walk west. We ended up at Market, a local place over on Ninth, and sat at the bar. I ordered a beer and Terri ordered a vodka martini.

“I would never have taken you for a martini girl,” I said.

“You’re thinking strictly a Bud girl, that it? Well, I am, but I’m teaching myself to drink this paint thinner. It’s part of my Terri Russo Improvement Plan.”

“Terri Russo seems fine to me as she is.”

She smiled and patted her hair, which was down and framing her face in a way that made her look softer. She clinked her glass against my bottle. “Here’s to the white supremacists going straight to hell.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Terri took a sip and made a face. “You were impressed with Schteir, weren’t you?”

I had a feeling it was a trick question, so I shrugged.

“Oh, come on, Rodriguez. You drew her portrait, for Christ’s sake.”

“It was a…reflex.”

“Yeah, I can think of another reflex. Give me a break.” She tried another sip of her martini and made the same face.

“Maybe you should stick to beer.”

“And maybe you should stick to regular girls.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

I aimed my beer bottle at her. “Out with it, Russo.”

“It’s just that women like Schteir piss me off. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous. She pushes my buttons, and I can’t help it. Did you read her bio?”

“How would I do that?”

“Easy. Look her up online. I did. So sue me. She went to Smith College for undergrad, Columbia for a master’s, and Harvard for a Ph.D. I mean, give me a fucking break.”

“Hey, you can’t hate the woman for going to pedigree schools.”

“Who says? And she’s a profiler, not a cop. She shouldn’t have been doing the interrogation.”

“She wasn’t bad.”

“She didn’t nail him, did she?” She sighed. “So where did you go to school? Never mind. I know. Hunter College. A city school.”

“You looked me up too?”

“Didn’t have to. It’s in your file.” She grinned.

“Detective Russo does her homework.”

“Naturally. I’m a cop.” She arched her eyebrows for emphasis. “It’s bad enough Schteir has all the fancy degrees, but does she have to be good-looking too? I mean, shit, that’s just not fair. And I can tell you that outfit she was wearing was not from Target.”

“And when was the last time you shopped there?”

“Yesterday. I was visiting the homestead on Staten Island. Believe me, Target was like an escape to paradise.” She snared a piece of her jersey between thumb and forefinger. “Eight bucks. I bought three.”

“So you’re a good shopper.”

“No, I’m a schlepper. But what the hell.” She tried her martini and it seemed to go down easier.

“Going back home is difficult?”

“No, it’s a fucking nightmare. My dad sits in front of the TV and orders my mom around like she’s his slave. Mom is clinically depressed and will never do anything about it. She married a mean, withholding son of a bitch who will never give her anything, but it’s too late for her to get out. I’m sure the guy was a shit from day one. He used to beat the crap out of us, me and my brother, but…oh, God, why am I unloading this on you? Forget it.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to it. I mean, it’s the past, right? Over.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to feel the way she did, that the past was over. I didn’t think it ever would be for me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, great.” I started chewing on a cuticle, realized it, and replaced the finger with my beer bottle.

“Sure you are,” she said. “Me, I try to avoid going home as much as possible. What about you?” She finished her drink and ordered another.

I checked my beer. “No, I’m fine.”

“Not your beer. I meant your home life.”

“Oh. I grew up here, in Manhattan, and it was fine. Well, except, you know, the part…about my father.” I finished my beer and tapped the bar for another. Just talking about my father had that effect on me. “My mother lives in Virginia Beach. She’s a therapist. There’s a naval base there. She says it produces more peacetime casualties than war, though the wounds are not so easy to see with the naked eye.”