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?”
A micro-expression of anxiety, eyelids and lips ticking, rattled his composed face, but didn’t last.
“That’s okay, Swift. Would you prefer I call you that?”
Karff didn’t answer, his facial muscles under control, mask back in place.
“So, your comings and goings,” said Schteir. “For starters, we know where you go when you get into your Ford station wagon late at night, after your daughter is tucked into bed and you have kissed your wife good night.”
Karff’s jaw tightened.
“But let’s wait with that. Tell me, Mr. Karff, are you a Christian?”
“Most Christians have abandoned God and their race.” He squinted at her name tag. “Schteir? Not a Christian name, is it?”
“It’s a Jewish name, Mr. Karff. Does that offend you?”
“Your people have been part of a plot to upgrade the blacks and pull down the white race.”
“And no doubt you and your fellow World Church members have a plan to deal with that.”
“A very simple one.” Karff raised his chin and the hint of more tattoos on either side of his neck poked out of his shirt collar.
“What’s that on his neck?” asked Richardson.
“Lightning-bolt tattoos,” I said. “Like the ones on Nazi soldiers’ uniforms.”
“The blacks will be shipped back to Africa where they belong,” said Karff. “The Jews driven from power, and as for the Christian traitors, they will be hanged in public squares.”
Anthropologists make the case that humanity has evolved, and if you’re talking about ape to upright man, I guess that’s true, but at the moment I didn’t think the species had evolved much at all.
Terri stopped pacing and leaned into Karff’s face. “Oh, someone will be hanging in those public squares, Carl, you can be sure of that.”
Karff pulled back, but Terri trailed him like a magnet.
Schteir let her stay there a minute, then tapped her arm. “Let the man breathe, detective.”
“For now,” said Terri, backing up.
Archer looked ready to pummel Karff, his hands knotted into fists, and Schteir made sure he noticed. She touched the agent’s fists, whispered, “Relax, you’ll get your turn.”
Without discussing it, they’d all assumed roles: Terri’s bad cop to Schteir’s good one; Archer the brute enforcer, just barely under control. I was itching to join the act, maybe play my sketch-artist card, do a drawing of the guy to add to his discomfort, and I suggested it to Collins.
“You kidding?” she said, without turning around.
I got the point. If she couldn’t be in there, no way she was letting me in.