‘How pronounced is Michael’s Farren’s condition?’
‘I haven’t seen him in twenty years, but because there is no cure for this, no drug therapy, I’d say it’s as pronounced as anyone suffering from the syndrome.’
‘Is this something that can get progressively worse?’
‘Yes, it can.’
Sheldon turned off the computer.
‘I don’t get many visits from the homicide division and the DA’s office,’ he said. ‘I know you’re bound by confidentiality, so I won’t ask. But obviously this is something serious.’
‘It is,’ Byrne said.
Sheldon turned away for a moment, looked out the window, at the people passing by his office. He turned back. ‘I’ve seen thousands of patients in my thirty years of practice. Some had very minor issues, some had conditions that required a lifetime of in-patient therapy. I’d like to think I remember them all. I remember Michael Farren. I hoped that he would learn to cope with his condition, but I was not optimistic.’ He crossed his hands in his lap. ‘If ever I get the opportunity to see him again, I will start over.’
They stood on the sidewalk, leaned against the car. The heat was rising. Byrne loosened his tie.
While they were waiting, two more patients entered Sheldon’s office. Life goes on, Jessica thought.
‘Face blindness,’ she said.
‘I have to admit, I’d never heard of it.’
‘It’s why the victims were dressed the way they were dressed.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Farren has to have them dressed in a certain way before he knows he has the right person.’
Byrne just nodded.
‘But where does he know them from?’
There was still no direct link between the Rousseau family, Edwin Channing and Robert Kilgore. The only connection seemed to be their violent deaths, and a cryptic message painted in blood on a fine linen handkerchief.
Josh Bontrager stood in the small lobby of an eight-suite apartment building in Germantown. He was as pale as Jessica had ever seen him. She’d never known him blanch at a crime scene.
Around him walked a flurry of crime-scene technicians.
Byrne and Jessica had gotten the call after leaving Dr Sheldon’s office.
There had been a double murder.
In the center of the small living room sat the victim. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape. There was a single entry wound to the center of her chest. The rug beneath her, as well as the white leather loveseat behind her, was splattered with blood.
The woman was barefoot. It appeared she was wearing a knee-length red skirt and a dark blue Robert Morris University sweatshirt.
There was little doubt that Michael Farren had made her put on the sweatshirt, confirming that she was the intended victim.
Her name was Danielle Spencer. Like Edwin Channing, Robert Kilgore and Laura Rousseau, the Farrens had peeled away her face.
After the investigator for the medical examiner made his pronouncement, and finished taking pictures, the crime-scene officers began processing the scene.
Jessica and Byrne stayed out of the way, standing on the other side of the dining room table, a silent understanding passing between them. They had both dealt with serial murder, with multiple murder, but they now knew that this rampage was as bad as anything they had ever experienced, and that predicting where the Farrens would strike next would become a priority for every law enforcement officer in the county.
As Josh Bontrager stepped in to begin his investigation, Jessica looked at the victim on the floor by the door. He wore the grey uniform of an armored car security service. The revolver on his hip was still strapped in, and looked to have not been drawn. The two holes in his forehead, in a very tight pattern, explained why he did not get the chance.
The crime-scene officer taking photographs moved closer to the dead man. Jessica returned to the dining room, saw the handkerchief on the table, unfurled on a large piece of glossy white paper.
AREPO.
Josh Bontrager stepped into the dining room.
‘Where was it?’ Jessica asked.
‘She has one of those AeroGardens.’
‘Not sure what that is,’ Jessica said.
Bontrager led them to the kitchen. On the counter was an indoor garden, a plastic receptacle with white lights over a hydroponic base. It was thick with basil, parsley, cherry tomatoes, peppers.
Bontrager took out a pencil, lifted one of the large basil leaves. ‘It was tied right there.’
‘Same twine?’ Byrne asked.
‘Looks like it.’
Byrne gestured to the papers strewn around the living room. He pointed to a folder titled ‘Legal’.
‘Did you find the victim’s birth certificate?’
‘No birth certificate,’ Bontrager said. ‘Everything but.’
Bontrager’s phone rang. He answered, stepped away, spoke for a few moments.
‘Can you send it to me?’ he asked. He then gave his email address, said: ‘Thanks very much.’
He turned back to Jessica and Byrne. ‘That was the security firm that handles this building. There’s a camera in the lobby, as well as the parking lot and the rear delivery door. There’s also one in the elevator. The cameras feed to a cloud.’
‘Do they have something?’ Byrne asked.
‘I’m going to say they do. The guy I just spoke to made a clip of the lobby camera from earlier today. He sounded pretty shaken up.’
Bontrager’s phone beeped. He looked at it.
‘We have it.’
They stood in the back hallway, near the delivery entrance. Bontrager propped his phone on the table used by the delivery services. He launched the file from the security company.
The recording was a high-angle shot of the front hallway. A few seconds in, a woman walked down the hallway, stopped in front of apartment 102. It was the victim, Danielle Spencer. Jessica felt a chill run up her spine. This woman had been alive just a few hours ago.
The woman dug around in her purse, extracted her keys. After a few moments she looked up, towards the lobby. A figure approached her, a man with hair to his shoulders, wearing a leather jacket.
The man was Michael Farren. It was the same coat he’d been wearing in the other surveillance video, taken from the Sadik Food King.
Farren and Danielle appeared to talk briefly.
A few seconds later, the door to 102 opened. A man stepped out. He was the victim on the floor near the door. He kissed Danielle, then turned his attention to Michael Farren. They exchanged a few words. Farren turned away from the man and unbuttoned his coat. The man put a hand on Farren’s shoulder. The scene seemed to freeze for a long moment, then Farren pivoted and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, pushing him back into the apartment.
Then, with lightning speed, Farren drew a silenced weapon and fired two shots into the apartment.
They gathered in the lobby as CSU geared up for another long day. They watched the activity in silence, as they had many times before. Finally Bontrager spoke.
‘I’ve never taken the life of another person,’ he said. ‘It is something I have been trained to do, and will do, if necessary, to save my life or the life of a citizen of this city. But beyond this, I have never wished death upon anyone, no matter how evil their acts. Not once.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Until today. Today I wished death upon the people who did this terrible thing, and at some point I am going to stand before God and explain myself.’
Jessica and Byrne said nothing.
Bontrager pointed at the crime scene. ‘I have to get back in there. I’ll keep you posted. Be safe.’
‘You too, Josh,’ Jessica said, but he had already turned on his heels and was walking down the hallway.
Jessica and Byrne stood on the sidewalk in front of the building. Jessica could not get the video out of her mind. She looked at the steps, the door, the lobby, the hallway. Rare was the instance when she had arrived at the scene of a clearly premeditated murder so soon after.
‘How do we stop them?’ Jessica asked.
Byrne took a moment. ‘If the Sator Square is their pathology for these killings, they are going to stop themselves, if we don’t find them first. Then it becomes a matter of hunting them down.’
His phone rang. He looked at it. ‘I don’t recognize this number.’ He hesitated a few moments as it rang again. He decided to answer. He put it on speakerphone.
‘This is Byrne.’
‘Detective Byrne, this is Joe Sadik.’
‘Yes, Mr Sadik. What can I do for you?’
‘The two men. The two men that were on the surveillance video. The one you made the print out of.’
‘What about them?’
‘I just got back from the bank. Those men are in the U-Cash-It right now.’
Dennis LoConti sat on a chair in the middle of the office. His hands were taped behind him.
Billy watched from the doorway.
Yellow shirt. Blue jeans. Sleeve and neck tattoos.
A man stood behind LoConti.
Sean
.
Sean took another hit of the meth. His eyes were red glass.
‘Let me see if I can make this a little clearer for you,’ he said. ‘You are going to open the safe. You are going to take out everything in there. You are going to give it to us.’
‘I
paid
you for this month, man.’
Sean put the M&P to the man’s head. ‘Are you really this fucking stupid? Are you really going to argue with me?’
LoConti said nothing.
‘Here’s how it works. I’m going to untie you. You’re going to stand up, walk over to that safe and open it. If you take too long, or make a move I don’t like, I will empty this mag into your lowlife, white-trash, skank-tat fucking head. Do you understand?’
LoConti nodded.
Sean took out his razor, cut the man loose. LoConti stood up on shaky legs, crossed the room slowly, knelt down. He reached out to the electronic keypad.
‘Wait,’ Sean said. ‘Billy.’
Billy crossed the room, stood just behind Dennis LoConti. He leveled his weapon, pointing it at the man’s head.
‘You don’t have a gun in there, do you, Denny boy?’ Sean asked. He hit his vial, shook it off.
‘No,’ LoConti said. ‘There’s no gun.’
‘There better not be. Let’s go. Open it.’
Due to his trembling hands, it took Dennis LoConti a few attempts to open the safe. On the second blown attempt, Sean began to pace. Finally the tumblers fell and LoConti gently turned the handle.
‘Stop,’ Sean said.
LoConti did.
‘Get up – slowly – and get back over here.’
LoConti obeyed. Sean tossed Billy the duct tape. Billy again secured LoConti to the chair. Sean grabbed his duffel bag, opened the safe fully, peered inside.
‘Holy
shit
,’ he said. ‘Look, Billy.’
Billy looked. Inside the safe was what appeared to be fifteen thousand in cash, all banded hundreds. There were also some clear plastic bags containing gold watches, bracelets, necklaces. Sean made short work of shoveling it all into the duffel bag. Before he zipped it, he saw something else in the safe.
‘Oh
no
,’ he said. ‘Denny, Denny,
Denny
.’
Sean reached into the safe, extracted a revolver. It looked to be a .38 Police Special. He put his M&P in his waistband, got up, crossed the room. He tapped LoConti’s lips.
‘Wrap him,’ he said.
Billy wrapped the duct tape around the man’s head, gagging him.
Sean knelt in front of LoConti. ‘You lied to me, Denny. That’s the lowest thing a man can do. You lied to me, and it hurts my feelings.’
He stood. He pointed at the camera staring down at them.
‘Is the camera on?’
Dennis LoConti nodded.
‘Recording?’
Another nod.
‘Good.’ Sean walked up to the camera, stared into it for a few moments.
‘This is what happens to liars,’ he said.
He walked back to where Dennis LoConti was seated, put the gun to the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The force of the point-blank explosion sent LoConti onto his side on the floor. Blood and fragments of his skull streaked the garish yellow walls.
‘What about
now
, asshole? What about
now
? Got some fucking smartass response now?’
Sean emptied the revolver into LoConti’s chest, then tossed the gun aside.
‘Billy.’
Billy looked at the man.
Sean
.
Sean reached into Billy’s coat, took out his picture, put it in Billy’s hand. ‘I told you to keep the fucking picture
out
. Keep it in your hand.’
Billy stared at the photo. There was not much left of Sean.
‘You have to say you know who I am.’
‘Sean,’ Billy said.
‘Go around back, get the van, drive around to the front. I’m going to light this place up.’
‘Okay.’
Sean ran to the front of the store, leapt over the counter, just as sirens rose in the distance. It sounded as if every police car in the city was on the way. And they were getting closer.
Billy looked at the photograph in his hand, and the man at the front of the store.
Sean
.
‘We have to split up, Billy.’
Billy remained silent.
‘You know where to meet me, right?’
The sirens drew nearer.
‘You know where to meet me, right? We have to split up.’
‘I know,’ Billy said. ‘By the Trolley Works. I know.’
Sean looked at his watch. ‘Midnight.’
‘Okay.’
Billy watched the man run out the back door, down the alley, and vault the fence at the end. He looked at the photograph.
Sean.
Midnight.
Billy parked near the old warehouse at the end of Reed Street, far from the nearest street lamp, just fifty or so feet from the entrance to the Philadelphia Trolley Works. Every so often a police car drove by.
Billy watched for Sean. It was past midnight, and Sean had not shown. Something was wrong.
He stepped into the darkened doorway of the warehouse, pulled the Makarov from his holster, held it at his side. He listened for footfalls, the rapid panting of a K-9 dog coming up the street, but heard neither. He had once been attacked by a German Shepherd with silver eyes when he’d boosted a pair of candlesticks from a house in Torresdale. That had been when he was nine or so, before his dream, and he remembered every detail, every creak of a stairway tread, even the way the dog smelled.
He looked around the building. There were two policemen by the white van, lights flashing. Billy slipped the suppressor from his jeans pocket, threaded it onto the barrel. He chanced another glance as a second patrol car arrived.
He looked to his right, at the block of row houses on Earp Street. He knew that there was an alley behind them, an alley that emptied onto South 36th Street. Beyond that, a block or so away, at Wharton, he would be able to catch a SEPTA bus.
Billy closed his eyes, tried to organize his thoughts. He’d spent much time around this area when he was small, following the tracks. He once spray-painted his name on this warehouse. He wondered if it was still there. Maybe if he saw it, it would take him back.
He opened his eyes, peered down the length of the building. Somehow, Emily was standing on the corner, just beneath the street light. She wore a powder-blue dress and a thin strand of pearls. When she turned to look at him, Billy raised a hand to wave. He saw then that the right side of her head was missing.
It wasn’t Emily. It was the girl from The Jade Kettle. The dead girl.
It was shadows.
Billy took a deep breath, arranged the weight of his bag on his shoulder. Before he could take a step, he saw a shadow pool on his left. The man was less than five feet away. Billy had not heard him approach. His footfalls were masked by the sound of a siren.
‘Police!’ the man yelled.
Billy spun, his weapon out and leveled. He squeezed off a single round.
The bullet entered the police officer’s right eye and exited the back of his skull in a violent gout of scarlet blood. The policeman slumped onto his right side, rolled onto his back. Billy put the barrel of the weapon over the man’s heart and once again pulled the trigger. The force of the blast caused the man’s body to lift slightly from the ground.
Billy stepped back, looked at the man, saw the ravel of red thread over the pocket, now soaked in blood. He holstered his weapon as a police car turned the corner, just twenty yards away. He looked inside his coat, at the photograph.
The man on the ground wasn’t a policeman.
It was Sean Farren. His brother.
Sean was not saying that he was police. He was trying to warn him.
Billy watched as Sean’s spirit began to rise. He saw their mother, Deena Farren, so thin in her hospital bed, purple bruises on her arms, her skin the color of bones. He saw his brother standing in front of their father, taking the beating that put the scar over his eye. He saw the broken teacup on the floor. He saw his brother standing over him that Christmas Eve on Carpenter Street. He saw himself being born into darkness.
Billy removed Sean’s picture from his coat. In it he could suddenly see everything. Every feature on Sean’s face. He placed the photograph on his brother’s body. Then he reached into Sean’s pocket, removed the straight razor. It would be up to him to draw the final line now.
ROTAS
.
Billy knew the way.
Billy ran.