Anatomy of Fear Read Online Free PDF

She scanned my face a moment, and once again I could see her weighing a question. “But what about the transference thing?”
    “Well, yes, but I need someone to have it with.”
    “Right,” she said. “Of course.”

6
     

     
     

     
    T he images have begun to appear, just a few repeated fragments, but enough to record.
    A new sheet of paper, a few more fragments drawn, but still they refuse to coalesce.
    Relax.
    A long deep breath, eyes closed, trying to imagine what he will do and how they will die. But still the images resist, fragments doing a jitterbug in and around his optic nerve, not quite ready to make the journey from brain to eye to paper.
    He pushes away from the table with a hissing sigh, gazes at the pictures he has affixed to his walls for inspiration, and the fragments in his mind start up again.
    The puzzle pieces have begun to take on meaning, each one adding to the whole: a stroke, a shape, an abstract blob, comingtogether to tell him what he needs to know. He sets one against another, fleshing out the picture, time passing, more and more fragments committed to paper, the image finally harvested.
     

     
     

     
    He sits back, eyes closed, and pictures the event: collecting his gear, changing his clothes, riding the subway, stalking his prey.

7
    T erri Russo turned toward the commotion, two cops dragging a guy into the booking room.
    “Get the fuck off me, assholes!”
    “Who’s the asshole, huh?” said one of the cops, face bright red. He elbowed the cuffed man in the ribs while the other cop slammed him into a metal chair and cuffed him to it—a good thing, as the guy was bucking like one of those kiddy rides they used to have in front of dime stores and supermarkets.
    Detective Jenny Schmid of Sex Crimes made her way across the room to greet the detectives and their prey.
    “This the piece of shit?” she asked.
    The red-faced cop said, “No question. We got a call, a break-in, and look who we find.” He handed Schmid a paper with a picture on it.
    “You read him his rights?” asked Schmid, leaning over the guy, who was huffing like a horse after a run, his nostrils flaring. She held the picture up.
    Terri glanced from the police sketch in the detective’s hand to the guy cuffed to the chair.
    Schmid dangled the sketch in front of the perp’s face. “Lookslike you fucking posed for this.”
    The other cops in the room stopped writing up reports and turned toward the show, practically twitching in their chairs, waiting for an excuse to take a pot-shot at the perp. And they might have if some office type in khakis and a button-down shirt hadn’t come in with a big carton of folders, which he plopped onto a desk so he could get a good look too.
     

     
    Schmid peered at him over the top of her glasses. “And you are?”
    “Office of Public Info,” he said. “Just delivering some stuff for Detective Towers.”
    “Well, deliver it,” she said. “And go.”
    The guy lifted the box, but leaned over to peek at the drawing at the same time. “Wow,” he said. “That’s really good.”
    “Thanks so much for your expert opinion,” said Schmid, who aimed a finger at the door.
    The guy narrowed his eyes at her, then sighed and left, balancing the carton in one hand like a waiter with a tray.
    Terri cleared her throat.
    Schmid acknowledged her with a slight turn of her head and another look of annoyance.
    “That sketch,” Terri asked. “Who made it?”

    Schmid sighed as if Terri had asked her to donate a kidney, but handed it over before going back to her suspect.
    Terri flipped it over, noted the date, time, name of the witness, and the sketch artist, Nathan Rodriguez. She looked back and forth between the sketch and its living embodiment cuffed to the chair, the resemblance dead-on. Rodriguez had a gift, no question.
    How did he do it? She could not imagine. But then, all Rodriguez had needed was one look at her unsub’s drawings to know they were made by the same man, one