I started small, visiting the same Spanish Harlem botanica for months, buying candles and herbs recommended by the proprietor and becoming friends. Eventually I told her about my novel and after much scrutiny (that I was portraying Santeria in a good light) she set up a meeting with a local santera, also an espiritista, someone slightly higher up on the Santerian spiritual food chain. The espiritista came up with a prescription for me: a ritual cleansing known as a limpia, the cost $40 (like psychotherapy, you just don’t get well if you do not pay for your treatment).

I showed up for the cleansing in a new white shirt (recommended and soon to be removed), stood in the back room of the botanica shivering (nerves or the bare chest or both), lit candles and repeated Spanish incantations, When I complained of a headache the espiritista dappled my forehead with blue-colored water – and it worked! After that she poured a mixture of egg yolks and herbs over my bare neck and shoulders (more shivering), and crushed gladioli into my chest (a slight burning sensation). I was told to stop eating red meat (how she knew I had just eaten a hamburger I have no idea), that I should wear white beads or link-chains around my wrist (I now do), and to avoid casual sex (no comment).

At the end of the ceremony I was told to roll up my white shirt (purchased specifically for the occasion at Banana Republic), wipe the egg goo and gladioli off my chest and throw the shirt away as it had now absorbed the evil spirits, which I did. With my lightweight jacket drawn around my naked torso I shivered all the way home from Spanish Harlem. But I used the experience – almost exactly – in Anatomy of Fear, and frankly I’d do it again (this time with a prepared list of ailments and desires).

Spending time and money on research just goes with the territory. I own way too many books on forensics, true crime, crime scene photos and serial killers, which I needed for my first two novels, The Death Artist and Color Blind; books on the art the insane (Color Blind); hate crime (Anatomy of Fear), Gulf War Syndrome and human experimentation (The Murder Notebook). I often wonder if someone is keeping track of the books I buy online (The Evil That Men Do, The Psychopathic Mind, Faces of Evil, to name just a few) and worry that one day this library of horrors will come back to haunt me.

In the name of research I have walked the back streets of Harlem and perused the last rotting docks along the Hudson River late at night (The Death Artist); flown to Houston to see the Rothko Chapel (The Killing Art); contacted and befriended officials in the U.S. Army and the FBI (The Murder Notebook); and tried my best to think like a woman for my first three novels featuring ex-cop Kate McKinnon which meant a day perusing Barneys upscale women’s clothes and even trying to imagine myself in the uh, woman’s role during sex (please note that I said imagine).

Six days on the road? I would say closer to 60 and still counting. But right I am looking forward to hearing my fellow panelists recount some of their best – and worst – days.

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