Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

I’d have to show it to Terri and the witnesses, but there still wasn’t enough of a face to identify. Even if there was, none of the witnesses had seen the guy close up, some not at all.

The lamp above my table hurt my eyes, but I waited a few minutes to see if anything else came to me. When it didn’t I turned off the light and sat in the darkness thinking about Terri Russo, my father, and the face I’d just drawn that was shimmering as strongly in my mind as it had on paper.

From across the street he watches the light die in the window. An afterimage of yellow orbs dance in front of his eyes, then fade to black as he makes his way toward the Times Square subway station thinking about the images he has collected and recorded in his brain and what he is going to do with them.

Harvey Tutsel’s desk reminded Terri of a teenager’s bedroom: brown-ringed coffee cups with varying amounts of sludge at the bottom, a Dannon yogurt container well on its way to becoming a biology experiment, crumpled napkins, and an opened gym bag with a pair of rumpled socks sticking out.

“What brings you to Deadwood?” he said, lifting one coffee cup, then another, trying to decide which was the most recent. He sniffed at a third, made a face and put it back down.

“That’s about three days old.” His partner, Mary Perkowski, came into their shared office with two Starbucks and a couple of fresh bagels, swiped the mess off Tutsel’s desk into the trash, and dropped his gym bag onto the floor before placing the new coffee and bagel down in front of him.

“How’s it going, Mary?” asked Terri.

“Busy, but sharing an office with this slob makes it all worth it.”

Tutsel gave his partner a look. “Guess this isn’t a social call, is it?”

Terri handed him the murder book on Rodriguez. She’d spent some time in a dusty room looking for it, had read it through and come up empty, same as the cops who had worked the case back in ’86.

“Juan Enrique Rodriguez,” said Tutsel. “This have anything to do with what you’re working on?”

Terri just shrugged. She had her reasons, but didn’t want to share them.

“We got a lot on our plate right now, Russo.” He laid his hand onto a stack of folders. “See these? They go back over ten, fifteen years. And this is just a fraction.”

“I realize you guys are busy,” said Terri. “But Rodriguez was a cop-one of us-and they never found the shooter. It could have been a case he was working on or…I don’t know. According to the file, there was blood on the gun and it didn’t all belong to the vic.”

“In 1986…” Perkowski cocked her head. “That would have been before DNA, no, just on the cusp, so it wouldn’t have been tested back then. But if there was blood or tissue, it’s possible the DOJ have it on ice.”

“Can you check?”

“Hey, we’d like to help you, Russo, but we’re real short on staff.”

Terri could see the murder book on Juan Rodriguez was going to end up under yogurt containers and coffee cups. “I’d rather not wait another twenty years,” she said. “Oh, and by the way, Toots, that nephew of yours who wants to intern in Homicide this summer-”

“My sister’s boy, yeah, really bright kid, needs two credits to graduate John Jay.”

“Right,” said Terri. “I know. His letter landed on my desk, of all places.”

Tutsel gave Terri a knowing smile and reached for the book on Rodriguez. “You know, I think one of our guys might have a little time.” He turned to his partner. “Horton’s free, isn’t he, Perkowski?”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I hear he’s working on Juan Rodriguez.”

The hallway was dimly lit and the stairs creaked despite his rubber-soled shoes, though it did not worry him. He was a professional and he knew what he was doing. He had been watching the apartment for the past two hours. He had seen the man hobble in with a bag of groceries and had not seen him come out. The job had to be taken care of tonight, something about the guy wanting to take off for the Caribbean or someplace, which he had not paid attention to because the less he knew about a contract, the better.

At the top of the stairwell he checked to make sure he had everything ready, then rapped on the door and mumbled the name he was told to say.

A voice from inside called out, “It’s open.”

He walked into the apartment and followed the flickering TV light down a narrow hallway until he saw the man sitting in a chair eating ice cream out of a container. The man had just put a spoonful of Cherry Garcia in his mouth.

He put two shots into the man’s heart. The chair tipped backward and fell over, and the body hit the ground with a dull thud.

The shooter waited a minute, distracted by an old black-and-white movie on the TV screen, Richard Widmark pushing a wheel-chair-bound old lady down a flight of stairs, and cackling. He laughed along with the actor, then leaned over to check the man’s pulse and noticed the Rolex. It surprised him, a good watch like that on a man who lived in such a fleabag, but he didn’t give it much more thought. Even if he were not being paid for the job he would not steal it; stealing went against his principles. He pulled his leg back, kicked the man in the mouth, and checked to make sure he’d shattered his teeth. Then he removed a small tin of lighter fluid from his inside jacket pocket, emptied it on the man, and struck a match.

The briefing room was full, standing room only.

Archer and Richardson were in the front row with a few unfamiliar gray suits. New recruits, I suspected, and not a good sign for the NYPD. Terri and her men were just behind them, the pecking order clear.

She glanced up when I came in. Our eyes met, and she looked away.

I moved toward the back of the room and leaned against the wall as a few more precinct chiefs filed in, finally Chief of Department Perry Denton and Special Agent Monica Collins. Denton was whispering something in her ear, hand on her shoulder in a way both conspiratorial and flirtatious. From the look on Agent Collins’s face she was enjoying it. The man had an effect on women that was lost on me.

Denton asked for everyone’s attention, though he already had it-the room had gone quiet the moment he’d entered with Collins. He went on to discuss the various news stories, Carl Karff, and the ensuing investigation into the names he had supplied. He stressed it was now a “federal case,” and that the FBI would be running the show from here on in. He asked for all NYPD files and information gathered in the course of the investigations to be handed over to Collins and her crew, then turned the meeting over to Collins, who introduced the new BSS and CIU agents and said that everything would now be processed through the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime.

“All existing evidence will be reexamined, the victims’ bodies transferred to a Washington lab for further testing.” She looked over the room without making eye contact with anyone. “Naturally the bureau will expect full cooperation.”

I couldn’t see Terri from where I was standing but expected any minute to see a cloud of steam rising and be able to find her.

I wasn’t sure if this meant the PD was in or out. If the feds wanted the local police to cooperate, they were in, right? It was hard to figure. But I realized something: I wanted to stay in.

“We will confer with the NYPD on a routine basis,” Collins finally said. “And naturally, if anything should turn up in regard to this investigation, we expect to be notified immediately.”