Nate raised his hand and spoke simultaneously. “Nazis and neo-Nazis sharing the same excuse, right?”
Dr. Schteir smiled. “Yes. There is something in these men and in your unsub—rather something missing from their psyche and emotional core—that allows them to do what they do. They split their personalities, even their lives.”
“Are you saying he could be living a normal life?”
“I’d say a double life as opposed to a normal one, but yes.”
After the meeting I stopped to talk with the Quantico shrink.
“Very interesting presentation,” I said. “And it sounds like you enjoy your work.”
“Oh, I do. I was never interested in having one of those comfortable practices—you know, dealing with everyday neurotics. Interviewing someone like Duane Holsten is a thrill. How many shrinks ever get to work with a true sociopath in their entire lifetime? Me, I get to do it all the time.”
“And it’s not frightening?”
“Oh, very frightening. Going into maximum security facilities, feeling all of those eyes on you—I can assure you that part is not fun.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you are…?”
“Nate Rodriguez. Forensic artist.”
“Oh, the one who is making the sketches for us.”
“That’s me.” I smiled. “So, what you said about our unsub believing he’s right in his actions, I agree; but what about the emotion that drives him?”
“Well, everyone experiences emotions differently, but with your unsub it’s obviously anger,” said Schteir. “Anger he can’t control.”
“But he does control it. He takes his time making drawings of his vics before he kills them, right? After that, there doesn’t appear to be much emotion behind the act. It’s sort of like he’s gotten the anger out in the planning and drawing, and the killing becomes perfunctory, wouldn’t you say?”
Dr. Schteir raised an eyebrow and assessed me more fully.
“And anger is usually accompanied by another emotion,” I added.
“Such as?”
“Fear, usually. Fear that the object of your anger—the victims, in this case—poses some sort of threat to you.”
“I see you’ve been studying.” Schteir smiled. “Who in particular?”
“Paul Ekman, for one.”
“Creator of the Facial Coding System, of course. I’m familiar with his work.”
“Ekman says we often focus anger on people who don’t share our beliefs, or offend our basic values.” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was showing off, though I was, a little. “I’ve studied anger and fear so I can recognize it on people’s faces and be able to draw it.”
Terri was suddenly by my side. “Nate can draw a face from memory and create one from the flimsiest description.”
“Really? There could be a job for you at Quantico, Nate.” Schteir touched my hand.
“He’s already been there,” said Terri, before I had a chance to speak.
I gave her a look. “It was just a few courses,” I said.
“Stop being modest, Nate,” said Terri.
“She’s right, Nate, don’t be modest.” Schteir tapped my pad. “Anything in there I can take a peek at?”
I wasn’t sure I should, but couldn’t help showing off a little more, so I opened the pad.
“Oh,” said Schteir. “No one has ever done my portrait.”
“They’re just doodles,” I said.
“No, they’re terrific.”
I ripped the page out of the pad and handed it to the profiler. “Here. One day I’d like to do something more serious.
Maybe you could sit for me.”
“You’re embarrassing Dr.
Schteir,” said Terri.
“Not at all,” said Schteir. She reached into her bag, came up with her card, and gave it to me. “Call me.”
I said I would. I wanted to stay longer and explore the possibility, but Terri tugged me away.
“Sorry to interrupt your little tête-à-tête,” she said, “but this is serious.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “The Post has gotten the story. The connection has been made.”
28
NEW YORK POST
PORTRAITS OF MURDER
By Lou Sands
Three vicious murders appear to have a connection. Though the NYPD would not confirm the link, sources close to the investigation suggest that the victims had drawings, portraits which looked like them, attached to their dead bodies. The families of Harrison Stone of Brooklyn, Daniel Rice and Roberto Acosta, both of Manhattan, would not comment, except to voice their frustration that police have not yet apprehended a suspect. Investigators denied the connection, pointing out that the methods of killing has varied: two victims shot, one stabbed. Chief of Department Perry Denton refused comment. But as one unnamed source said, “A serial killer is never something the police department is eager to confirm.”
A serial killer?
He shakes his head, thinking he should not be surprised, that it is probably a plant, a conspiracy between the press and the government to make him out to be a monster, a villain in the public’s eye.
The fact that the homicides occurred in different locations has brought together several precincts in what appears to be a full-scale, though confidential, manhunt. The recent murder of a young prostitute, whose body was found near Manhattan’s Chelsea Piers complex, may also figure into the case, though it has not yet been confirmed. What has been confirmed is that agents from the Manhattan FBI Bureau and Quantico have been brought into the case.
Of course he knew the FBI had joined the case. He’d expected it. And it does not worry him. Many of the people he most admires have been the subject of FBI investigations, and he is proud to join their ranks.
According to an unnamed source, one of the police department’s most sought-after forensic artists, Nathan Rodriguez, has been brought into the case. It’s been suggested that a witness may have survived an attack and is working with the sketch artist to create a composite image of the killer.
What? His fingers coil and crimp the edges of the newspaper like an insect’s teeth about to gnaw at it.
A sketch artist? Making a composite? Of me?
But there is no way he has been seen. He is sure of that. And no one has survived, so how is it possible?
He heads down the stairs quickly, unlocks the door, flips on the light, his breathing so loud it’s like a growl as he smoothes the newspaper onto his work table and stares until the type blurs.
He paces back and forth, back and forth, trying to get his fury under control, manages to sit, fingers thumping at the keyboard as he signs into a chat room. He finds a few familiar names, proposes a game, and tugs his PlayStation headset over his ears so he can hear the other players, nerve endings tingling as the screen flashes blood-red and one of the players says, “Let’s do some damage.”
He chooses his favorite over-the-shoulder point of view staring down a rifle’s sight line at a surrealistic war zone. Figures dart across the screen, and he fires off virtual ammo at a virtual enemy while the actual men roar racial epithets, their curses and heavy breathing piped through his headset directly into his brain along with the rat-a-tat of gunfire and exploding bombs. The pixilated figures die and spawn, die and spawn, over and over, bouncing back to virtual life seconds after being virtually killed, and it starts to backfire, eroding his confidence rather than building it, and he thinks that he will never accomplish what he needs to do. He tears the headset off and hurls it across the room. It hits the cinder-block wall, cracks, and crashes to the floor. He stares at the cyberspace enemy, who refuse to die, skittering across a now mute screen.
He closes his eyes, but the men are still racing across his retina. He takes a deep breath, then another, and when he opens his eyes and sees the posters on his walls and the sketches on his desk, begins to feel stronger. Then he looks at the newspaper article and his paranoia springs back to life like those s
pawning figures.
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:
Sent: Sunday, March 19, 2006, 2:58 A.M.
To:
Subject: Checking in
Do you have time to talk?
He stares at the screen until an e-mail pops up.
From:
Sent: Sunday, March 19, 2006, 3:03 A.M.
To:
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.
29
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.”
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?”
Anatomy of Fear Page 12