Jonathan Santlofer - Anatomy of Fear

My abuela used to say that I was intuitivo, but the only time I ever felt intuitive was when I was doing a police sketch. Now it seemed to be true at unexpected moments, like seeing into Denton’s head, for one. I couldn’t quite believe it, but something had definitely happened in that moment.

A man in flames.

It seemed strangely connected to my grandmother’s vision.

Could Chief Denton be the man in the room, the one my grandmother had warned me about? I glanced back at the eye I had just drawn. It didn’t look anything like Denton’s.

I picked up my pencil, but whatever force had been guiding my hand was gone. I laid the pencil down and tuned into the ambient noise: television playing; car alarm going off somewhere not far away; and something that sounded like scraping, maybe rats in the walls, which I did not want to think about.

I got up and tapped my hand against a heat pipe. It was still cold. I plugged in an old space heater, but it sparked and died.

That did it.

It has taken nearly two hours for the heat to die down after he switched it off.

Now, as he tiptoes down the dimly lit hallway, he mutters his favorite new word, Rassenhygiene, German for race hygiene.

He finds the rusting metal door and stops to unsheathe his new mail-order hunting knife. He leans an ear to the door and hears a TV sitcom laugh track, and is thankful for the distraction it will provide. It takes him less than a minute to pop the lock.

Crime Scene shuffled around the room, cotton booties swishing along dusty floors as they collected evidence, difficult to ascertain what was new and what was old, the place a mess. They’d chalked an outline around the body and beyond that an eight-by-eight-foot square, off-limits to everyone other than the medical examiner until they completed their search.

Terri had received the call around 4:00 A.M., tearing her from a dream of Rodriguez on top of her. She was smiling when she’d raised the phone to her ear. This was Midtown North’s jurisdiction, but the drawing had been noted and the bureau had been called, and they were officiating, Terri and her men assigned to supporting roles.

It was now almost 6:00 A.M.

Terri watched the scene, holding her breath, a sourness growing in her stomach. She had not eaten and worried she might be sick.

Across the room, Agent Richardson was asking questions and making notes in a pad.

The ME was leaning over the body and Terri saw him pluck a thermometer out of a wound. Then he rolled the body over and noted the way the blood had pooled under the skin. “Lividity suggests approximately six to eight hours.”

Terri did the math. He’d been killed sometime between ten and midnight.

Another technician was scraping under the nails and bagging the hands.

The ME opened the victim’s shirt. “Four, maybe five stab wounds here. Difficult to tell till we wash him down.”

“A bit more brutal than the others,” said Perez. “Could be he’s getting angrier.”

“Maybe he’ll get sloppier too,” said Dugan, trying to stifle a yawn.

A photographer tiptoed around the body as if he were practicing ballet, snapping pictures, a flash blinding Terri every few seconds.

“Press is going to love this,” said Perez. “But hey, it’s the G’s headache, not ours, right?”

“Shut up,” said Terri.

“Sor-ry,” said Perez, hands up.

Terri took a deep breath and made her way over to Agent Collins. This imbalance of power had gone on long enough. “I need to see that drawing,” she said.

“Go home, detective. We’ve got it under control.”

Terri made a show of looking at the body, then back at the agent, the message clear: Sure as shit doesn’t look like you have it under control. “I need to compare it to the other drawings.”

“Our lab will run the tests,” said Collins. “Type the paper, the pencil, see if it’s a match with the others. I imagine it is, but with all the press there could be a copycat out there who wants to get his name in the funny papers.”

“I understand that, but-”

Agent Archer interrupted. “He’s Spanish, which fits the profile.”

Collins’s cell phone rang. “Yes, sir. No, sir. There’s no press on the scene. Yes, sir. I think we can contain it, keep it under control.”

Terri glared at the agent. Why was the bureau always so concerned about control, the press, keeping everything such a god-damn secret? Didn’t they know it was hopeless? Didn’t they know about Watergate and Travelgate and Monica Lewinsky and Abu Ghraib? Didn’t they know the press eventually got it all?

“Hopefully this one will give us the information we need, sir.” Collins had the cell phone pressed against her ear with one hand, the sketch in the other.

Terri tried to sneak a peek.

Agent Richardson was still across the room asking questions. She should get over there, she thought, but wanted a good look at the drawing first.

She glanced up at Collins.

The woman looked exhausted.

Terri could see she was under a lot of pressure, her job probably at stake-and she knew the feeling. She recalled the look of disappointment on Collins’s face when Schteir had gotten to play the starring role in Karff’s interrogation. Maybe she had more in common with this woman than she had originally thought, and if not, she could play it.

She laid her hand on the agent’s arm. “How are you holding up?”

Collins’s eyes narrowed. “I’m doing just fine, Detective.”

“I know the kind of pressure you’re under and have no intention of adding to it or getting in your way.”

“Well, that’s just great to hear.” Collins let out a deep sigh. “Listen, I know we can look like the bad guys to the locals, but we’ve got a job to do, just like you.”

“I hear you.” Terri offered Collins a sympathetic look. “To be honest, it’s a relief not to have all the responsibility, everyone just waiting for you to screw up.” She paused to see if Collins was taking it the right way. “But I’ve been on the case from the outset and I’m happy to help you out any way I can.” Terri paused. “I understand the drawing has to go to Quantico for analysis, but if I could just see it…”

Collins let out another deep sigh.

“Here,” she said, and handed her the drawing.

“Knock yourself out.”

Terri crossed the room, sketch in her gloved hand.

“You mind if I have a word with him?” she asked Richardson, meaning Nate.

Terri waited till Richardson moved away.

“You okay?”

“I have no idea.”

Terri turned the drawing toward him. “I need you to look at this.”

“I’ve seen it,” said Nate.

“I realize that, but I need you to tell me about it, if it’s the same or…I don’t know, but it looks different. He’s added a little sketch on the side, maybe a close-up of the vic’s mouth? Or maybe it’s something left over from when he started the sketch. I’m not sure. What do you think?”

Nate’s hands were trembling. He’d seen the detail too, and it had sent a shiver down his spine, though he didn’t know why. He’d been up all night, too tired to focus. “It looks…more developed, less sketchy. And that separate mouth on the side…” He felt the chill again, glanced around the room, the windowless basement apartment, rent receipts and papers stacked up on an old fax machine, dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the super dead on the floor. He still couldn’t believe it.