Anatomy of Fear (11 page)
I knew what it was—a variation on an image that had been in my mind for years.
I finished the beer, switched my iPod to an upbeat playlist of Reggaeton, Spanish rap over Jamaican dance hall with a little salsa thrown in, Daddy Yankee rapping
“A ella le Gusta la Gasolina”
—she loves gasoline—a double entendre if ever there was one, but the music didn’t work to distract me. My father was in my head, and I knew he was not going to quit anytime soon.
My father: who had been Superman, Batman, and every other Marvel and DC superhero to me. I thought about the good times—my father teaching me how to swing a bat and rhapsodizing about his hero, Roberto Clemente, the first Puerto Rican major league ballplayer; night games at Yankee Stadium and Shea, trips to the Planetarium. He’d initiated my love of music and he took me to a
hundred movies, and when my tough-hombre dad cried during
The Incredible Journey—
a cornball movie about a lost dog and cat that I will never forget—I knew it was okay for me to cry too.
I pictured him when I was a little kid and he’d worn the uniform, standard blue, and then, when I was twelve, how he’d exchanged it for the narc’s costume of jeans and heavy bling.
Bits and pieces of those years started playing in my head: skipping school, taking the subway uptown to meet Julio in the middle of the day, smoking pot and snorting coke in alleyways and abandoned buildings, and there I was, back to the night my father found the drugs.
After he stormed out of the apartment I went to meet Julio, both of us edgy and eager to get stoned. El Barrio was stifling that night, everyone out on the streets, old men on milk crates playing dominoes; hydrants open, kids playing in the water; boom boxes blasting salsa music, men and women dancing. It was beautiful, the grit and garbage of the slum veiled by the darkness, moonlight painting the sweat on the dancers’ skin and the sprays of water silver.
Julio and I wandered the streets, sharing a few joints and a bottle of rum. We ended up in a movie theater and stared at the screen, but all I could see was my father’s face, and him yelling at me. Sometime around 3:00
A.M.
, I sobered up enough to realize I was going to have to face him. I begged Julio to come home with me as a buffer, but he wouldn’t do it.
That night was washing over me like a wave that knocks you down and drags you under. I drank another beer and turned the music way up, a raunchy number by some Puerto Rican duo, lots of drums and percussion. I managed to exchange the memory for the case, and worried I might not be up to it, that I hadn’t worked a homicide before.
Then I realized I had worked hundreds of homicides, just differently. I went to the closet and pushed stuff around till I found it, the Smith & Wesson NYPD-issued .38 Special heavy-barrel revolver. I hadn’t touched it since I left active police work, though I had kept up the permit. I got my hand around the stainless-steel grip. It felt good, but I remembered why I’d exchanged it for a pencil.
I went back to my work table and started a new drawing.
I had no idea why or where this was coming from, but stayed with it.
When I looked at it I shuddered. What the hell was
this
?
Maybe I was a little drunk.
But the drawing made me feel sober.
I thought about my father again, how he had always encouraged my art. He’d take my best drawings to the station and tape them inside his locker. He was proud of me, of my talent. The night he’d found my drugs, he had not only berated me but reminded me that I was special, that I’d been given a gift, and one day, he prayed, I would stop wasting my life and put it to use.
I wished he were here so I could tell him I had done what he asked. But sometimes you don’t get a second chance.
I
was back at Midtown North with Terri Russo standing over me. I showed her the sketches.
She came in close and looked at the ones of the eye. “What the hell is this?”
“That’s what I asked myself. I don’t know. I might have been a little drunk.”
“Oh, great.”
“It was just a few beers. But I wasn’t drunk when I drew the others.”
“The guy in the coat?”
“Right. It’s not much, but—”
“You got this from Acosta’s wife?”
I explained about the man on the corner.
“It’s something,” she said. “I’ll make copies. Cops can show it around to the neighbors. Maybe it’ll jog someone’s memory.” She spread copies of all the crime scene sketches across her desk.
“I want to be sure it’s the same guy doing all the drawings. Last time you told me that the guy was right-handed, neat, and compulsive. Now there are three drawings, so I thought you might see something more.”
“You have any aspirin?”
She rummaged through her bag, came up with Excedrin, handed me a bottle of Poland Spring. “You’re not a drunk, are you?”
“This is the result of three beers. I’m half Jewish; what more can I say?”
She laughed.
I washed down the pills and looked at the drawings. “Okay. Yeah, there’s the same mark-making, same angled stroke, same confident drawing style. There’s some talent here too. These are hard poses to draw, particularly the two with all that perspective. There’s a famous painting of Christ laid out in this kind of perspective, by an Italian Renaissance artist, Mantegna.”
“Is this the art history lesson?”
“It came into my mind because there’s something religious about these drawings, like the victims have been crucified.”
“You think it’s got any significance?”
“Maybe he sees his victims as martyrs, or himself as one. Or it could be he’s just showing off, you know, how good he is at drawing—and murder.” I looked from one to another and a thought came to me. “It’s like he imagined their deaths ahead of time.”
“Well, they’re premeditated, of course.”
“Yes. But it’s more than that. It’s like he
sees
how he’ll kill them by drawing it first, like he’s visualized the murder ahead of time.” I tapped the drawing of the black man from Brooklyn. “Here, a guy taking a bullet to the chest. He’s drawn it, then carried it out. Maybe it’s his process, his ritual.”
Terri nodded. “But it doesn’t tell us
why
he selected these victims. And it can’t be random.”
“What do we know about the victims’ backgrounds?”
“Vic number one was a college senior, twenty-one, going to get his car parked in a lot three blocks from the bar where he’d been with friends.”
“And the friends didn’t see anything? No one following them?”
“They were at the bar when he was killed. According to their statements they didn’t see a thing.”
“And the second?”
“Harrison Stone. Came out of the subway, walked four blocks, boom, shot dead. There was an elderly couple down the street, but they didn’t see it happen. Woman says she saw someone hovering over the body, but had no idea what was going on till they got closer, and by then whoever was leaning over him was gone.”
“Any description?”
“Male.” She frowned.
“And her companion, he see anything?”
“He’s blind. Literally.”
“What about traffic? Maybe a cabdriver saw something?”
“Dead-end street. Virtually no traffic.”
“You said the victim walked four blocks. So the unsub could have shot him earlier, but waited. So he must have known about the dead-end street.” I closed my eyes and tried to picture it, but couldn’t. “I should go to the scene. And I want to talk to the woman who saw the man leaning over the body. She might have a picture in her mind that she doesn’t even know is there.”
Terri’s face brightened. Clearly, this was what she wanted from me.
“I’ve just got to do some paperwork,” she said. “Give me an hour and we can go to Brooklyn together.”
I liked the idea of that.
“Afterward you can talk to the college kid’s roommate. It’s a long shot. He wasn’t on the scene, but he was there just before it went down.” Russo looked into my eyes. “We’ve got three dead men, Rodriguez. Someone had to have seen something.”
T
erri closed the door behind Nate and glanced down at the sketches he’d made—the man in the long coat, the scary close-up
of the eye. Maybe the Brooklyn witness could add more. One thing for sure: She’d been right about Rodriguez. And now, with the G looking over her shoulder, she needed all the help she could get.
She thought back to the meeting earlier that morning, Agent Monica Collins throwing around terms like
methodology
and
victimology
like she had invented them, asking Terri if she understood. She just smiled, said, “Yes, I think I’ve got it, but thanks so much for asking.”
Bitch.
Why was it women were always so shitty to one another? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of sisterhood? Not so she ever noticed. At least with the men it was right out there, grabbing your ass or ignoring you. The women, they were all smiles while they cut you off at the knees.
Denton had run the meeting, acting like he actually knew something about the case, though it had been Terri who’d briefed him, written everything in simple prose he could regurgitate. He hadn’t thanked her, not that she expected he would. He was too busy charming Agent Collins, smiling at her with that sexy grin of his, flirting with the bureau, not the woman, though poor Agent Collins didn’t seem to know that.
Poor Agent Collins, my ass.
For now, the G team was collecting data and feeding it back to Quantico. Nobody had said anything about the NYPD quitting the investigation, not yet. Three different precincts involved, and now the G. What a mess. The feds wanted full reports and full cooperation. No doubt full credit too.
Terri glanced at the crime scene drawings she’d laid out for Rodriguez. Three men—one black, one Hispanic, one white. If it hadn’t been for the college kid, the white guy, she would be thinking racial angle, but this didn’t make any sense. So what was it that was nagging at the back of her mind?