By Jonathan Santlofer
Nate Rodriguez is a police caricature artist for the NYPD, and his luck fee is excessive, with one out of 3 of his drawings resulting in an arrest. but if he's confronted with an strangely proficient killer, he realizes that he can have met his fit. For this killer is a guy greatly like himself–a guy who sees and thinks in photographs. A killer who leaves drawings on the crime scenes depicting his murders in chilling, gory–and prescient–detail.
As Nate's photographs turn into a growing number of actual photos of the madman–the killer unearths how to scouse borrow Nate's images 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 dying, artwork and artifice have by no means been so vividly sure jointly.
Jonathan Santlofer pushes the bounds of the mystery to new heights with this masterful mixture of artwork and suspense. With sequential sketches that trade during the text–first the killer's, then Nate's–Santlofer teases us with impossible to resist clues and mental information introduced in a hugely unique way.
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Extra resources for Anatomy of Fear: A Novel of Visual Suspense
What can I say? ” “I don’t know. It’s something I could always do, draw from memory. ” Something about her question made me start back on a cuticle. “Right, but those are faces you’d be familiar with, that you’d seen. ” “It’s mostly the training, but . . ” I glanced at my cuticle. It was bleeding. I shoved my hand into my pocket. “I don’t know, not exactly. It’s some sort of . . ” “Like between a shrink and a patient—you know, the Freudian thing? But maybe that’s the wrong word. ” I looked at Terri Russo, her good bone structure, smooth skin across her frontal eminence, the beautifully arched brows over her supraorbital, the nice sharp angle of her mandible, and smiled.
Good-looking but tough, at least that’s how she’d seemed when I’d handed over the police sketch I’d done for her, which had led to her capturing a perp, which in turn led to her promotion, or so I’d heard. She never told me. It wasn’t like I was expecting a gift-wrapped thank-you, but a call wouldn’t have killed her. The door was ajar and Russo was pacing back and forth. I caught a few glimpses of her tight jeans and black tee. She was letting her hair down, combing her ﬁngers through it, and it reminded me of 30 JONATHAN SANTLOFER a pastel by Degas, one of the artist’s Bathers.
About a week after the attack I read a piece in the New York Times by a psychiatrist who said denial was a necessary part of human existence and I took refuge in that, and understood what he meant because I’d practiced it from a fairly early age and had, apparently, become very good at it. So now I focused on a handful of crocuses that had bravely pushed up through a light dusting of snow in the center of the walkway, and took them as a hopeful sign that spring would come and that all was right with the world, that Inle had gone to work healing, as my grandmother would say.