By Jonathan Santlofer
Nate Rodriguez is a police comic strip artist for the NYPD, and his good fortune fee is excessive, with one out of 3 of his drawings resulting in an arrest. but if he's confronted with an surprisingly gifted killer, he realizes that he could have met his fit. For this killer is a guy greatly like himself–a guy who sees and thinks in photos. A killer who leaves drawings on the crime scenes depicting his murders in chilling, gory–and prescient–detail.
As Nate's photos develop into an increasing number of actual photos of the madman–the killer reveals how to thieve Nate's pics after which imitate Nate's personal hand. The conflicting proof leads the police to suspect that Nate himself may be the killer and pushes Nate right into a scary cat and mouse chase for his quarry. lifestyles and loss of life, artwork and artifice have by no means been so vividly certain jointly.
Jonathan Santlofer pushes the bounds of the mystery to new heights with this masterful mixture of paintings and suspense. With sequential sketches that exchange through the text–first the killer's, then Nate's–Santlofer teases us with impossible to resist clues and mental info brought in a hugely unique way.
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Extra info for Anatomy of Fear: A Novel of Visual Suspense
That didn’t make sense. The Brooklyn detective’s eyes did a slow dance over Terri’s breasts beneath her tight jean jacket, then back up to her face, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail that made her look about eighteen, though she’d be thirty-one in a week. He handed her the dead man’s wallet. “African American male, shot between six and six-thirty,” he said, stiﬂing a yawn. “Couple of witnesses conﬁrmed the attack, heard the shots, but didn’t see the shooter. ” He pointed to a four-story brownstone.
Pubic . . hair. ” “Funny,” said Denton. He locked his hand on to her shoulder and kneaded it through her jacket. She slid out of his grip, her shoulder throbbing. It was the exact spot where she’d been shot. Had Denton realized that? She knew the answer. It hadn’t taken her long to discover the man was a sadist. ” It had been almost a year and she had no intention of changing her mind. I’d rather swim, she thought. “Got my car,” she said, trying to keep the attitude out of her voice. She had to be careful.
What’s bad? ” “No, neno. ” She raised a jeweled hand to stop me from talking. “There is a man in the room—or the spirit of a man. Chango has sent a warning. I cannot see him, but . . ” My grandmother looked at me as if believing I could, but lifted a ﬁnger to my lips. “Escucha,” she said. I stopped talking and did as she asked, listened. “Hay más,” she said, and explained it. I went back to the drawing and tried to capture what she described. “It looks like hell,” I said. “Your vision. ” I laughed, but my grandmother did not.
Anatomy of Fear: A Novel of Visual Suspense by Jonathan Santlofer