Anatomy of Fear (22 page)

Karff’s face hardened again, features pulled toward the center and tensed. “My Aryan brothers will protect me.”

I knew he was referring to the Aryan Brotherhood, The Brand, as they liked to call themselves, which had started back in the sixties in San Quentin, a way for the whites prisoners to protect themselves against the blacks and Latinos.

“Oh, I think we can find a place where the Aryan Brotherhood is outnumbered,” said Terri.

Schteir nodded. “So, what do think, Mr. Karff? It’s either you or someone you know who is responsible for these killings. And even if it isn’t you, we’re going to hold you—which we can do for a very long time—if even one of the
forty-six
guns recovered from your home is not licensed. And that’s just for starters. So, any of this getting through to you?” She turned to Archer. “I’d like a set of close-ups of this African American gentleman in the wig and hot pants and his statement as well. It’s in the large file on Mr. Karff. I believe the gentleman goes by the name of Veronique, who, by the way, Mr. Karff, will testify that you are the man in the Ford station wagon that she, excuse me—
he
—has been servicing for quite some time now.”

Karff raised his head, ice-blue eyes gazing at the ceiling. “Any day now the angels will sing and the trumpets will herald the end of days, and chains like these”—he yanked at his handcuffs and rattled the shackles at his ankles—“will fall from my body, and we will take up arms and all will be restored with the world.”

“Yeah,” said Terri, hissing the word. “While you rot in a prison cell.”

Schteir slid the victims’ photos back in front of Karff, but it was no good. He was gone, hiding behind rhetoric.

Terri took a step toward Karff, ready to go at him again, but Schteir stopped her.

Karff had neutralized his face, but his fingers were twitching.

It gave me an idea.

“Get him to draw,” I said.

“What?” said Collins.

“Have Karff draw something. Anything. So we can compare it to the sketches left at the scenes.”

“He’s not going to do it just because we ask him to.”

She had a point, but I could see she was considering it. She
wanted to be in there, to contribute something. I just had to convince her.

“Look, just take his cuffs off, leave a pencil and paper on the table, and let him sit there for a while, alone. He was a commercial artist, right? People who draw, just do. They doodle all the time. It’s like a reflex.”

Collins didn’t say anything, but the next thing I knew she was on the other side of the glass, whispering to Dr. Schteir. A moment later they took the cuffs off Karff. Archer disappeared and came back with a big cup of coffee. Schteir gathered up the photographs and files, but made it look accidental when she left a few blank sheets of paper behind. She also left a black pen.

“Nice idea,” said Schteir when she came out. “But he’s probably too smart to fall for it.”

“Well, he’s not going to do some full-out drawing for us, but maybe a doodle.” I turned to Terri. “You did good in there.”

“Not good enough,” she said, directing her comment to Schteir. “You see how he reacted when Archer touched him or when I was in his face? He didn’t like it one bit—a black man and a woman invading his space. We could have done more with that if—”

“Detective.” Schteir spoke quietly but clearly. “You were a participant by our permission. Lest you forget this is a bureau interrogation. We do things a bit differently. You did…just fine. But we’ll take it from here.”

Terri pressed her lips together, hard, containing her rage.

“At least the coffee is going make him want to pee,” said Archer. “And I’m not letting him out of there for…a long time.”

“I think you showed great restraint,” I said to Archer.

“So far,” said Archer.

Then we all stared at Karff like a bug behind glass.

After a few minutes he picked up the pen and we leaned forward. He put it down and we sat back.

We watched for a few minutes and I filled the time chatting with Dr. Schteir, which seemed to annoy Terri, who had gone unusually quiet.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed, then Schteir had to leave, and a moment later Collins did too. She took Archer with her.

“Lest,”
Terri whispered to me. “Does anyone actually use the word
lest
?”

“Apparently,” I said.

When Karff didn’t do anything for another fifteen minutes, I started to think I’d miscalculated. Richardson starting talking about the Mets, how they were already off to a bad start. He asked me what it was like to be a sketch artist and I asked him what it was like to be a G man. We were filling the time. It was better than watching Karff pick his nose or yawn.

Then Karff picked up the pen and while looking at the ceiling he started doodling away on the paper.

30

C
arl Karff had really gotten into it, a half hour of serious doodling. But he had a limited repertoire. He was also left-handed, and I didn’t have to explain what that meant to the bureau or the NYPD.

I was back at the station with Terri, both of us keyed up but tired.

“Could he be faking it?” she asked.

“Only if he’s totally ambidextrous, and I never saw him use his right hand except to pick his nose.”

Terri’s phone kept ringing, but she ignored it.

A suspect’s arrest was big news. Though Karff’s name was being temporarily withheld, CNN had already broadcast a segment called “Behind the Scenes with America’s Hate Groups.” By tomorrow, newspapers would be running stories and Op Ed pieces, and from what I’d heard, the surveillance pictures of Karff and “Veronique” were on their way to the tabloids. Karff would be
crucified in the press, though Ballistics had already proved it had not been one of his guns that had fired either of the fatal shots.

“He’s already out on bail,” said Terri. “Some slick World Church lawyer came to his defense. Don’t you just love it when these guys start crying that their civil liberties are being stepped on?”

“Yeah, they want to overthrow the government, but try to touch them and they invoke the constitution,” I said. “Tell you the truth, I would have enjoyed seeing Archer pummel him.”

“I would have lent a hand if Schteir hadn’t stopped me.” Terri sighed. “At least Karff supplied a list of names before his lawyer showed up. I’m guessing he gave up names the G already had, but maybe something will come of it.” She glanced over at her ringing phone.

“Not going to get that?” I asked.

“I don’t need to hear J. Q. Public and every one of his crazy neighbors give their opinion.”

When the ringing stopped she picked it up, asked for the desk sergeant and told him to stop putting calls through to her office. “That’s why we have a tip line,” she said. “Yes, I realize the calls are coming in faster than they can be logged, but I don’t want them coming to my personal line, is that clear?” She slammed down the phone and turned to me. “If I don’t get out of here I’m going to explode.”

I
t was dark outside. I had lost track of the time, and so had Terri. We were still keyed up, so I suggested a drink and was surprised when she said yes.

It was a nice night and we decided to walk west. We ended up at Market, a local place over on Ninth, and sat at the bar. I ordered a beer and Terri ordered a vodka martini.

“I would never have taken you for a martini girl,” I said.

“You’re thinking strictly a Bud girl, that it? Well, I am, but I’m teaching myself to drink this paint thinner. It’s part of my Terri Russo Improvement Plan.”

“Terri Russo seems fine to me as she is.”

She smiled and patted her hair, which was down and framing her face in a way that made her look softer. She clinked her glass against my bottle. “Here’s to the white supremacists going straight to hell.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Terri took a sip and made a face. “You were impressed with Schteir, weren’t you?”

I had a feeling it was a trick question, so I shrugged.

“Oh, come on, Rodriguez. You drew her
portrait,
for Christ’s sake.”

“It was a…reflex.”

“Yeah, I can think of another reflex. Give me a break.” She tried another sip of her martini and made the same face.

“Maybe you should stick to beer.”

“And maybe you should stick to regular girls.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

I aimed my beer bottle at her. “Out with it, Russo.”

“It’s just that women like Schteir piss me off. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous. She pushes my buttons, and I can’t help it. Did you read her bio?”

“How would I do that?”

“Easy. Look her up online. I did. So sue me. She went to Smith College for undergrad, Columbia for a master’s, and Harvard for a Ph.D. I mean, give me a fucking break.”

“Hey, you can’t hate the woman for going to pedigree schools.”

“Who says? And she’s a profiler, not a cop. She shouldn’t have been doing the interrogation.”

“She wasn’t bad.”

“She didn’t nail him, did she?” She sighed. “So where did you go to school? Never mind. I know. Hunter College. A city school.”

“You looked me up too?”

“Didn’t have to. It’s in your file.” She grinned.

“Detective Russo does her homework.”

“Naturally. I’m a cop.” She arched her eyebrows for emphasis. “It’s bad enough Schteir has all the fancy degrees, but does she have to be good-looking too? I mean, shit, that’s just not fair. And I can tell you that outfit she was wearing was not from Target.”

“And when was the last time you shopped there?”

“Yesterday. I was visiting the homestead on Staten Island. Believe me, Target was like an escape to paradise.” She snared a piece of her jersey between thumb and forefinger. “Eight bucks. I bought three.”

“So you’re a good shopper.”

“No, I’m a schlepper. But what the hell.” She tried her martini and it seemed to go down easier.

“Going back home is difficult?”

“No, it’s a fucking nightmare. My dad sits in front of the TV and orders my mom around like she’s his slave. Mom is clinically depressed and will never do anything about it. She married a mean, withholding son of a bitch who will never give her anything, but it’s too late for her to get out. I’m sure the guy was a shit from day one. He used to beat the crap out of us, me and my brother, but…oh, God, why am I unloading this on you? Forget it.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to it. I mean, it’s the past, right? Over.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to feel the way she did, that the past was over. I didn’t think it ever would be for me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, great.” I started chewing on a cuticle, realized it, and replaced the finger with my beer bottle.

“Sure you are,” she said. “Me, I try to avoid going home as much as possible. What about you?” She finished her drink and ordered another.

I checked my beer. “No, I’m fine.”

“Not your beer. I meant your home life.”

“Oh. I grew up here, in Manhattan, and it was fine. Well, except, you know, the part…about my father.” I finished my beer and tapped the bar for another. Just talking about my father had that effect on me. “My mother lives in Virginia Beach. She’s a therapist. There’s a naval base there. She says it produces more peacetime casualties than war, though the wounds are not so easy to see with the naked eye.”

“You see her much?”

“Not really. Once or twice a year.” I didn’t want to talk about my mother either.

“No sisters or brothers?”

“You read my file, didn’t you?”

“Right. Forgot.” She smiled. “You don’t seem like one of those spoiled only children types.”

“Thanks. I think.” I smiled and Russo smiled back.

“It must have been hard after your dad died.”

“It was.” My muscles tensed. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about this? It’s not my favorite topic.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to overstep my bounds.” She laid her hand on mine and said she was sorry again.

“It’s okay,” I said, aware of her hand, the heat it was producing.

She smiled up at me, lifted her hand, but kept smiling.

“You’re quite something, you know that, Russo?”

“How do you mean?” She tilted her head back and waited for my answer.

“For one, the way you handled Karff in that interrogation; you were good, a little scary too.”

“Oh. That.”

“What’s the matter? You expected me to say something else?”

“Yes,” she said, looking into my eyes.

A moment passed, the two of us sharing a look, then Terri took a big slug of her martini, stood up, and peered down at me.

“What?” I said.

“I was just wondering…You feel like taking me home?”

31

T
erri’s apartment was a one-bedroom on East Thirty-seventh in the Murray Hill section. She’d fixed it up nicely, walls painted in shades of gray, a big brown leather couch with lots of pillows. She said most of her salary went to pay for the place, but it was worth it because she loved the city.