Anatomy of Fear (28 page)
Santerian gods were in my head, Akadere, who protected the home, Abaile, messenger in charge of moving things from one place to another. I went over to the window and gazed out at Thirty-ninth Street, the face I could not complete shimmering in my mind. The candle my
abuela
had given me for protection was sitting on the sill.
There is a man in that room with you, Nato.
I found a match and lit the candle.
D
olores Rodriguez had slept fitfully, her mind replaying the vision, her
nieto
in a burning room with someone evil.
She had already consulted her shells, and lit candles, made appeals to Santa Barbara, and bought quail eggs as an offering to the powerful Babalu-Aye. But the bad feeling, the
algo malo,
had persisted. It was the strongest feeling she had experienced since her son was killed.
She knew her grandson was not a believer, but it made no difference. She spread a clean white cloth over the
bóveda,
filled seven glasses with water, added a crucifix and a string of rosary beads, glanced up at the photograph of her son, Juan, and asked that he keep a watchful eye over Nato. She believed this was the moment Juan’s
ori
had been waiting for, that it was being called upon to fulfill his destiny on earth; after that, he would stand before Olodumare and Orunla, and they would finally allow his soul to rest.
H
e has had no sleep, but is not tired. He has been here and home and back again, a new drawing tucked into his pocket. He has talked with God. An hour ago he saw the man come home, go into the building, turn on the lights. Now he sees the man in his window.
Two factory workers, dark-skinned women, come out of the building. He lowers his cap, darts across the street, and gets a gloved hand on the door just before it shuts. The women are nattering away in Spanish and barely notice him. He thinks another time he might just as easily have killed them.
Inside, the lobby is quiet. He heads to the back stairwell, removes the small piece of wood he wedged into it earlier, and opens the door.
M
y
abuela
’s candle had burned down, leaving a trace of ginger scent in the air. In the last two hours I’d eaten the quiche, washed all the dishes that had piled up in the sink, swept the floor, scrubbed
the bathroom sink and shower stall, but had been unable to wash away the bad feeling that someone had been in my apartment. I was overtired but too antsy to sleep. I turned on the television, watched a few minutes of a
Seinfeld
rerun, but couldn’t sit still. Plus, I was cold. The heat was off and there were ice crystals forming on my windows. I decided to call the super, a mean-spirited drunk who lived in the basement and was quick to turn down the heat the minute the businesses closed for the evening regardless of the temperature. We had argued about this for years, but being the sole resident in the building I always lost. But this was ridiculous; the radiators were stone-cold.
I called his number but he didn’t answer. I pictured him crapped out in front of his Panasonic, warmed by the booze in his system. The guy was a Dominican and he seemed to hate me, maybe because I was Puerto Rican, and because, according to him, I was a
bohemio
and a
hippi.
I pulled on a sweater, left the TV on for company, and went over to my work table unsure of why I was going. I blew on my hands to warm them, then sharpened a new Ebony pencil, and got to work.
The whole time I was drawing it was as if someone were guiding my hand.
I’d never really believed in anything that could not be explained, a cynic if you got right down to it, but lately
things seemed to be taking on a spiritual significance that was unexplainable.
When I saw what I’d done I was surprised. I hadn’t realized I’d been stuck in one spot. The detail in the eye gave the face a sense of reality that hadn’t been there before. One of my Quantico instructors always said you had to find the anatomy under the facial expression, and I thought I was starting to do that. There was something recognizable in the face, but I didn’t know what. Had I seen him before? In real life? In a dream?
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.
I
t 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.
C
rime 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.”
